Anastasia POV

The tires crunched heavily over the gravel of the Johnson Estate.

To my younger self, this place had once resembled a castle. Now, with its looming stone turrets and imposing iron gates, it looked more like a mausoleum.

Courtland didn't drive to the front entrance. Instead, he swerved sharply to the left, forcing the car onto the narrow service road that wound toward the back courtyard.

My stomach dropped.

The back courtyard wasn't for guests. It wasn't for family.

It was for the dogs.

He slammed on the brakes. "Get out."

I fumbled with the door handle, stumbling out onto the loose gravel. The sun was setting, casting long, blood-red shadows that stretched across the stones like grasping fingers.

Guards were already waiting. These were not the men I used to know. These were new faces—younger, harder, mercenary types. They looked at me with open disgust.

Two of them grabbed my arms. Their grip was bruising, fingers digging into my flesh like talons.

"Courtland, please," I gasped, trying to dig my heels into the shifting rocks. "I didn't do it. You know I didn't—"

He didn't even turn around. He simply walked toward the shadows where the iron kennels stood, a silhouette of indifference.

The guards dragged me. My shoes scraped uselessly against the ground.

We reached the cages. The heavy scent of musk, wet fur, and raw meat assaulted my senses. Inside the largest run, three Dobermans paced. They were massive beasts, muscles rippling like coiled steel under sleek black coats. They threw themselves against the chain-link fence, snarling, teeth snapping at the air.

"Open it," Courtland ordered.

One of the guards unlocked the gate.

"No," I whimpered, panic seizing my throat. "Courtland, please! They don't know me!"

"That's the point," he said softly. He finally turned to face me. "You are an intruder here, Anastasia. A parasite."

He nodded to the guards.

They shoved me inside.

I hit the concrete floor hard, the rough surface shredding the skin off my palms. The gate clanged shut behind me. The lock clicked.

I scrambled backward, pressing my spine against the cold iron bars.

The dogs stopped barking. They lowered their heads, a low, vibrating growl building in their throats. They began to circle.

I curled into a ball, hiding my face in my knees. My trembling fingers sought the only anchor I had left: the small, smooth surface of a lapis lazuli bead hidden in my pocket. It was the only thing I had left of the truth. The bead I had placed in his hand the day I saved him. The bead Kinsley stole credit for.

*I saved you,* I screamed silently. *I was your eyes when you were blind.*

But I couldn't say it. The *Omertà*—the code of silence Kinsley had trapped me in—meant that speaking the truth would trigger a kill switch on Aspen.

So I stayed silent.

A snarl erupted right next to my ear. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the teeth.

"Down!"

Courtland’s voice cracked like a whip.

The dogs instantly dropped to their bellies, whining submissively. They were trained to kill, but they were trained to obey him more.

I opened my eyes. Courtland was standing on the other side of the fence, watching me tremble. He looked disappointed that I hadn't fought back.

"Pathetic," he muttered.

The world tilted violently on its axis. Black spots danced in my vision. The adrenaline crash, combined with five years of severe malnutrition, was finally too much.

I slumped sideways, the cold concrete rushing up to meet me.

*

Consciousness returned with the sharp sting of a slap.

My head snapped to the side. My cheek burned.

I was indoors. The air was cool and thick with the scent of lilies—funeral flowers.

I pushed myself up. I was on the polished marble floor of the West Wing. Specifically, the Kinsley Memorial Room.

A massive portrait of Kinsley hung above the fireplace. She looked angelic, painted in soft pastels that lied beautifully about the rot in her soul.

Standing over me was Eleanor Johnson, Courtland’s mother. The Dowager.

"Get up, you filth," she spat.

I struggled to my knees. "Eleanor..."

She slapped me again. Harder. My lip split, and the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth.

"Do not speak my name. You are not family. You are the reason my sweet Kinsley is dead."

Courtland stood in the corner, leaning against a heavy oak table. He swirled a glass of amber liquid, watching the scene with a bored, cruel detachment.

"She needs to learn her place, Mother," he said.

"One hundred times," Eleanor commanded, pointing to the floor beneath the portrait. "Bow to her. Apologize to her. Beg her forgiveness."

Two maids stepped forward. I recognized them—enforcers in aprons. They grabbed my hair and forced my head down.

*Thud.*

My forehead hit the marble.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, the lie tasting like ash on my tongue.

"Louder!" Eleanor shrieked.

The maids yanked my hair up and slammed my head down again.

*Thud.*

"I'm sorry, Kinsley."

*Thud.*

"Forgive me."

By the fiftieth time, the room was spinning. A warm trickle of blood ran down my nose, dripping onto the pristine white floor.

By the hundredth time, I couldn't lift my head. I lay there, panting, my blood mixing with the wax polish of the floor.

Courtland walked over. I saw his expensive shoes stop inches from my face.

He crouched down.

"Do you want to see your brother?" he asked.

I tried to nod, but my neck wouldn't support the movement. "Yes," I croaked.

He pulled a small glass vial from his jacket pocket. The liquid inside was dark, viscous.

"Drink this," he said.

I looked at it. "What is it?"

"Insurance," he said coldly. "I won't risk a rat like you carrying my heir. If you want to see the boy, you ensure my bloodline stays pure."

An abortifacient. He wanted to sterilize me. He wanted to hollow me out so I could never be anything more than a vessel for his hate.

I looked at the vial. Then I looked at the door, imagining Aspen on the other side.

I didn't hesitate.

I took the vial from his hand, uncorked it, and swallowed the bitter poison in one gulp.

Anastasia POV

Agony erupted in my stomach and clawed its way up my throat.

It wasn't a slow burn. It was an incineration.

I dropped the empty vial. It shattered on the marble, the sharp crack echoing like a gunshot in the silent room.

I clutched my abdomen, curling into a fetal position. A guttural sound ripped from my throat—half scream, half sob. It felt like my insides were being twisted by rusted pliers.

Courtland stood up. He took a step back, watching me writhe.

"It works fast," he observed, his voice devoid of emotion.

I couldn't answer. I retched, my body trying to expel the poison, but nothing came up except bile and blood.

Red splattered onto the white marble, mixing with the cold sweat dripping from my forehead.

Courtland frowned. He took a step closer, his shoe nudging my shoulder. "Anastasia?"

I gasped for air, but my lungs felt like they were filled with concrete. My vision tunneled. The pain was blinding, a white-hot agony that erased everything else.

"Doctor!"

Courtland’s voice sounded far away. There was a hint of panic in it now. Not concern—panic. Like a child who realizes he’s broken his favorite toy too soon.

"Get Manning! Now!"

I squeezed my eyes shut. *Let me die,* I prayed. *Let this be the end.*

But the Johnsons didn't let you die until they were done with you.

*

Consciousness returned to the sound of a machine humming.

My throat felt raw, like I had swallowed razor blades. There was a tube in my nose.

I blinked open my eyes. I wasn't in a hospital. I was in the servant’s quarters.

The room was small, windowless, and damp. The walls were bare concrete. A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows.

Dr. Manning was packing a bag by the door. He was the Family doctor—which meant he knew how to keep people alive just enough to be tortured again.

"She's awake," he said.

Courtland stepped into the light. He was still wearing his suit, immaculate as ever.

"Did it work?" he asked.

"Her stomach is pumped," Manning said, his tone clinical. "But the damage to her reproductive system is... extensive. It is unlikely she will ever conceive."

Courtland nodded. He looked satisfied.

"Good. Leave us."

Manning left, closing the heavy door behind him. The lock clicked.

Courtland threw a bundle of fabric onto the narrow cot.

"Put it on."

I sat up, fighting the wave of dizziness. I touched the fabric. It was black lace. Sheer. Tiny.

"What is this?" I rasped.

"Dinner attire," he said. "We have a guest. Mr. Harrison. He’s crucial to our West Coast expansion. He likes... broken things."

My blood ran cold. "No."

"No?" Courtland laughed. It was a dark, terrifying sound. "You think you have a choice? You are my wife in name only, Anastasia. In practice, you are an asset. A bargaining chip."

"I am a human being!" I shouted, my voice cracking.

He crossed the room in two strides, grabbing my jaw. His fingers dug into my skin.

"You are a murderer," he hissed. "Human beings have souls. You sold yours the day you killed Kinsley."

He shoved me back onto the cot.

"Get dressed. If you aren't in the dining room in ten minutes, I send a finger of Aspen’s to your grandmother."

He slammed the door.

I sat there, shaking. Tears blurred my vision, hot and angry.

I stood up, my legs trembling. I stripped off my soiled clothes and pulled on the black dress.

The cold air hit my skin. It was humiliating. The lace clung to my emaciated frame, highlighting every rib, every bruise. It barely covered my thighs. The neckline plunged to my navel.

I walked to the small, cracked mirror on the wall.

The woman staring back wasn't me. She was a ghost. Pale skin, hollow eyes, bruised lips.

But beneath the terror, I saw something else. A flicker of rage.

I wasn't just a victim. I was the girl who had saved the blind boy in the garden. I was the girl who had kept a secret for five years to save her brother.

I wiped the tears from my cheeks.

I walked out of the room.

The private dining room was dim, lit only by candles. Courtland sat at the head of the table. To his right sat Mr. Harrison—a greasy, overweight man with eyes that stripped me bare the moment I walked in.

"My," Harrison leered, licking his lips. "You didn't tell me she was this... fragile. I like them fragile."

Courtland swirled his wine. He didn't look at me.

"She is yours for the evening, Harrison. Provided the contracts are signed."

Harrison stood up, his chair scraping against the floor. He walked toward me, his hands reaching out.

"Come here, little bird," he cooed.

I stood my ground. I didn't run.

I looked at Courtland. I wanted him to see this. I wanted him to watch.

Harrison’s hand closed around my upper arm. His touch made my skin crawl. He pulled me close, his breath smelling of stale cigars and lust.

"Courtland," I said, my voice steady.

He finally looked up.

"What?"

"I hate you," I whispered. "More than I ever loved you."

Then I did the only thing I could do.

I opened my mouth and bit down hard on my own tongue.

Anastasia POV

The metallic tang of copper assaulted my mouth instantly.

I didn't hesitate. I bit down harder.

Pain exploded in my jaw, sharp and blinding. I tasted the warmth of my own blood as it welled up, spilling over my lips and dripping onto the delicate black lace of my dress.

Harrison recoiled, his face twisting in revulsion. "What the hell? She's crazy!"

I didn't stop. I locked my eyes on Courtland’s.

*See me,* I screamed silently. *See what you made me.*

Desperation clawed at my chest. I grabbed a heavy silver steak knife from the sideboard.

Harrison lunged for me, but I was faster. I pressed the serrated edge against the pulse point of my neck.

"Don't touch me," I choked out, blood spraying with the words.

Courtland was out of his chair before the knife even broke the skin.

The chair clattered to the floor.

"Anastasia!"

Harrison tried to grab the knife. "You stupid bitch—"

Courtland hit him.

It wasn't a warning tap. It was a brutal execution of force.

His fist connected with Harrison’s jaw with a sickening crunch. The heavy man crumbled to the floor, unconscious.

Courtland didn't look at him. He spun on me, his chest heaving. His eyes were wild, the pupils dilated with a rage so dark it eclipsed everything else.

He grabbed my wrist, twisting it until my fingers went numb and the knife clattered to the floor.

"Are you insane?" he roared.

He gripped my face, his thumbs wiping away the blood that was pouring from my mouth.

"You do not get to die!" he shouted, shaking me. "You do not get to leave me! You belong to me!"

It wasn't love. It was possession. It was a child screaming because someone tried to break his favorite toy.

I spat blood onto his pristine white shirt.

"Let me go," I choked out, my tongue swelling. "Divorce me. Let me take Aspen and leave. I’ll disappear. You’ll never see me again."

He froze.

The air in the room turned to ice.

"Divorce?" he whispered. The word sounded foreign on his tongue.

He looked down at me, his expression hardening into something terrifying.

"No one leaves the Family, Anastasia. The only way out is in a box."

He shoved me away. I stumbled, hitting my hip against the heavy oak table.

"Clean her up," he barked at the empty room, knowing the guards were listening. "And get Harrison out of here. The deal is off."

*

I spent three days in the hospital wing of the Estate.

Dr. Manning told me my kidneys were failing. Malnutrition, stress, the poison—my body was shutting down.

"You're dying, Mrs. Johnson," he said, adjusting my IV with clinical detachment. "Slowly. But surely."

I didn't care. Dying meant leaving.

When I was discharged, Courtland didn't send me back to the servant’s quarters. He put me to work.

"Idle hands make for devil's work," Eleanor had said.

So I was on my knees in the main hallway, scrubbing the grout with a toothbrush. It was the same punishment I had endured in rehab. Courtland lacked imagination.

My hands were raw, the skin peeling from the harsh chemicals.

Two maids were dusting the vases nearby. They didn't see me crouching behind the pedestal.

"Is it true?" one whispered.

"Yes," the other replied, checking over her shoulder. "The Don received the call this morning. She's landing tomorrow."

"I thought she was dead. For five years, we thought she was dead."

"It was a cover. Witness protection or something. But she's coming back."

My heart stopped.

"Who?" the first maid asked.

"Kinsley," the second one whispered. "Kinsley Alexander is alive."

The toothbrush slipped from my fingers.

The world went silent.

Kinsley.

Alive.

Five years.

Five years of torture. Five years of being branded a murderer. Five years of losing my mind, my body, my soul.

For a murder that never happened.

She wasn't dead. She had faked it. She had framed me. She had let Courtland destroy me while she watched from somewhere safe.

A scream built in my chest, so large it threatened to shatter my ribs.

I stood up. The bucket of soapy water tipped over, soaking my shoes.

The maids turned, their eyes widening in horror when they saw me.

"Mrs. Johnson..."

I didn't hear them.

I ran.

I ran for the heavy front doors. I pushed them open and stumbled out into the pouring rain.

I didn't know where I was going. I just knew I had to find him. I had to find Courtland.

I had to tell him.

I ran toward the family cemetery at the edge of the estate. The rain lashed against my face, mixing with the tears I didn't know I was crying.

I saw them through the mist.

Two figures standing by the empty grave.

One was Courtland, his black umbrella shielding him from the storm.

The other was a woman.

She turned as I approached, hearing my footsteps splashing in the mud.

Blonde hair. Perfect skin. Blue eyes that held a malice so deep it felt like drowning.

Kinsley.

She smiled.

"Hello, sister," she said.

My legs gave out. I collapsed into the mud, the rain pounding against my back.

She was real.

And Courtland was standing right next to her, his hand resting protectively on the small of her back.