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.

Anastasia POV

The mud was not just cold; it was a living, freezing thing that seeped through my clothes, chilling the marrow of my bones. But the glacial hollow inside my chest was worse.

I looked up at Courtland. Rain cascaded from the brim of his umbrella, a gray curtain masking his expression.

"You knew?" I whispered. My voice was a jagged shard, barely audible over the roar of the storm.

He didn't answer. He just looked at me—the woman groveling in the filth—and then at Kinsley, the resurrected saint.

"Oh, Ana," Kinsley cooed. She stepped out from under the umbrella, sacrificing her dryness for the performance. She let the rain dampen her perfect blonde hair, a calculated move to appear fragile, open. "Don't look so shocked. You should be happy. I forgave you."

"Forgave me?" I choked, coughing as water and bile rose in my throat. "I didn't do anything! You framed me! You stole five years of my life!"

I scrambled to my feet, swaying drunkenly. I lunged for her. I wanted to tear that serene smile off her face.

Courtland stepped in front of her. His hand shot out, catching my throat.

He didn't squeeze, but he held me there, pinned in the suffocating air.

"Enough," he growled.

"She's lying, Courtland!" I screamed, clawing at his wrist until my nails broke. "She faked it! She did this to us!"

"She did it to protect herself from *you*," Courtland said, his voice hard as steel. "She told me everything. How you threatened her. How you were jealous of us. She had to disappear to stay alive."

My jaw dropped. The audacity of the lie was breathtaking.

"I saved you!" I shrieked, the truth finally bursting out. "In the garden! It was me! I was the one who fed you! I gave you the bead!"

Courtland’s eyes narrowed. For a second, just a second, a fracture of doubt appeared in his stoic mask.

"What bead?" Kinsley asked sharply.

I reached into my pocket, my fingers brushing the smooth stone.

"This one," I sobbed, pulling out the lapis lazuli.

Courtland stared at it, his gaze locking onto the blue stone.

Kinsley laughed. It was a light, tinkling sound, like glass breaking. "Oh, Ana. You stole that from my jewelry box years ago. I wondered where it went."

The doubt in Courtland’s eyes vanished, snuffed out like a candle in a gale. It was replaced by disgust.

He released my throat. I fell back into the mud with a wet thud.

"Get her out of my sight," he ordered the guards who had appeared behind us.

"Wait," Kinsley said. She placed a delicate hand on Courtland’s arm. "She's sick, Courtland. Look at her. She needs... care. Let me look after her. It’s the Christian thing to do."

Courtland looked at her with blind adoration. "You are too good for this world, Kinsley."

He nodded. "She is yours."

*

Being Kinsley’s "patient" was worse than the kennels.

She moved me to the basement storage room. No bed. Just a pile of mildewed rugs.

She cut my hair while I slept. I woke up with jagged clumps missing, my scalp raw.

She told the staff I was contagious, so no one spoke to me. I was a ghost in my own hell.

But tonight was different.

A guard came to fetch me. "Dining room. Now."

I walked up the stairs, my legs heavy as lead. I was starving. I hadn't eaten in two days.

The formal dining room was set for a feast. Roast beef, potatoes, wine. The rich aroma made my stomach cramp violently.

Kinsley sat at the head of the table. Courtland was gone—business in the city.

She pointed to the floor.

There, on the expensive Persian rug, was a dog bowl.

It was filled with scraps. Gristle, congealed fat, and something that looked like wet dog food.

"Eat," Kinsley said, sipping her wine.

I stared at her. "No."

"Eat," she repeated, smiling over the rim of her glass. "Or I make a call to the West Wing. I hear Aspen is afraid of the dark. I can have the power cut to his room."

My blood ran cold.

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

I looked at the bowl. Then I looked at her.

Slowly, my knees bent. I lowered myself to the floor.

I crawled toward the bowl.

The smell was revolting, rancid meat and stale grease.

"Good dog," Kinsley whispered.

I leaned down. I had to do this. For Aspen.

Just as my face neared the food, the double doors creaked open.

"Ana?"

The voice was small. Trembling.

I froze.

I lifted my head.

Standing in the doorway, clutching a worn teddy bear, was Aspen.

He looked older. Thinner. But his eyes were the same.

He was staring at me. His big sister. His hero.

On her hands and knees. Eating out of a dog bowl.

Kinsley clapped her hands in delight.

"Oh, look, Aspen! Your sister is having dinner. Doesn't she look hungry?"

Aspen’s lip trembled. Tears filled his eyes.

"Ana?" he whispered again. "Why?"

The sound of my name on his lips broke whatever was left of my heart.

I stood up. I didn't care about Kinsley. I didn't care about Courtland.

I wiped my mouth.

"Run, Aspen," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "Run."