The November wind slashed across the Manhattan streets like a razor. Giana pulled the oversized coat tight around her chest and pushed through the glass doors of a 24-hour CVS pharmacy.

She walked straight past the makeup aisles. She ignored the cashier's stare. She stopped at the family planning section, grabbed a box of Plan B, and walked to the register.

She paid with a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. As soon as she stepped back onto the sidewalk, she ripped the cardboard box open. She popped the pill out of the foil, tossed it into her mouth, and swallowed it dry.

The pill scratched the back of her throat. She coughed, but a massive weight lifted off her chest. She was done with him.

Across the street, parked in the shadows, a black armored SUV sat idling.

Dave Ortiz lowered his camera lens. He pressed the button on his encrypted earpiece.

Inside the glass-walled boardroom at the top of Stark Tower, Cornel sat at the head of a massive oak table. A senior VP was sweating through a presentation on quarterly margins.

Cornel's phone vibrated against the wood.

He glanced at the screen. Dave.

Cornel held up one hand. The VP stopped talking instantly. Cornel answered the call.

"Boss," Dave's voice came through the speaker. "She went into a pharmacy. Bought Plan B. Swallowed it on the sidewalk."

Cornel's fingers tightened around his custom fountain pen. The metal casing snapped. The sharp edge sliced into his palm, and black ink bled all over the financial reports in front of him.

A violent, blinding rage ripped through his chest. It felt like someone had poured gasoline on his lungs and lit a match.

He stood up so fast his heavy leather chair screeched backward across the floor.

"Meeting canceled," he said.

The executives stared at him in terrified silence. Cornel walked out of the room without looking back.

Twenty minutes later, Cornel sat in the back of his Maybach. His stomach cramped. His jaw ached from grinding his teeth.

He ripped his tie off and threw it on the floorboard. "Take me to Nightingale," he told the driver.

Inside the VIP room of Manhattan's most exclusive club, the manager lined up five top-tier models.

Cornel sat on the leather sofa, holding a glass of whiskey. He stared at the women. They were beautiful. They meant absolutely nothing to him.

A blonde woman in a tight red dress stepped forward. A heavy wave of Chanel No. 5 hit Cornel's nose.

"Mr. Stark..." she purred. She reached out, placing her hand with long red nails onto his thigh.

The second her skin touched his pants, Cornel's stomach violently heaved. A wave of pure, physical nausea shot up his throat.

"Get off me!" he roared.

He swung his arm out, striking her shoulder. The woman flew backward, crashing into the glass coffee table. The table shattered. Whiskey and glass exploded across the floor. The other women screamed and backed against the wall.

Cornel clamped a hand over his mouth. He stumbled out of the room and kicked open the door to the private restroom.

He turned on the faucet and splashed freezing water onto his face. He gripped the edges of the sink, breathing hard. He looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot.

He couldn't stand the touch of another woman. His body was physically rejecting them. He was completely addicted to the girl who had just swallowed a pill to erase him.

He pulled his fist back and punched the mirror.

The glass spider-webbed outward. Blood dripped from his knuckles into the white porcelain sink.

The bathroom door opened. Dave walked in and stopped. He looked at the broken glass and the blood.

"Boss..." Dave held out a clean towel.

Cornel ignored the towel. He let his blood drip. His gray eyes were dead and focused.

"Did you get a name?" Cornel asked. His voice was terrifyingly calm.

"Yes. Giana Caldwell. The adopted daughter of the Caldwell family."

Cornel repeated the name in his head. A dark, twisted smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.

"Tell the team," Cornel said. "I am taking over every aspect of her life."

Giana pushed open the heavy oak door of the Caldwell mansion in Long Island. The hinges groaned, echoing through the massive foyer.

She stepped inside. Delilah was sitting on the Victorian sofa, holding a bone china teacup.

Delilah's eyes darted to Giana's messy hair and the oversized men's coat. A spark of malicious joy flashed in Delilah's eyes.

"Oh my god, Giana!" Delilah slammed the teacup down on the saucer. She jumped up and ran forward, her voice pitched loud enough to wake the dead. "Where have you been all night?"

The noise worked. Angele Caldwell hurried out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. Her face was tight with worry.

Delilah reached out, trying to grab Giana's arm to pull her into the light, wanting Angele to see the state she was in.

Giana's eyes went cold. She shifted her weight and stepped back. Delilah's hands grabbed empty air, and she stumbled forward awkwardly.

"Why are you screaming, Delilah?" Giana asked. Her voice was flat and steady. "Are you trying to make sure the neighbors know I wasn't home?"

Delilah froze. Her face flushed. She quickly put her hand over her chest and widened her eyes.

"I... I was just so worried! You drank so much at the party last night and then you vanished..." Delilah looked at Angele, making sure the word 'drank' landed.

Angele's expression hardened. "Giana, where exactly were you?"

In her past life, Giana would have screamed and thrown a tantrum. But screaming had gotten her absolutely nothing. She clenched her fists at her sides, digging her nails so deeply into her palms that the skin nearly broke. The sharp, grounding pain cleared the lingering fog in her head. It was time to play an entirely different game. She thought of every betrayal she had suffered, letting the genuine agony morph into a mask of vulnerability. She took a deep, shuddering breath, forced tears to well up in her eyes, and walked straight to Angele.

She threw her arms around her mother's neck and buried her face in her shoulder.

"Mom, I'm so sorry. I was so scared," Giana whispered. Her voice shook perfectly.

Angele stiffened. She wasn't used to Giana hugging her. The anger melted out of her posture. She awkwardly patted Giana's back.

"I went outside to get some air," Giana lied, her voice muffled against Angele's sweater. "Some drunk guys started following me. They cornered me."

"What? !" Angele gasped, pulling Giana back to inspect her face. "Did they hurt you?"

"No. A nice man saw what was happening and chased them off. He let me sleep in his guest room because I was too shaken up to drive. He lent me his coat." Giana pulled the oversized lapels tighter around her neck.

Delilah stared at Giana, her mouth slightly open. She had personally spiked Giana's drink. She had paid the waiter to take her to that old man's room. Hero? Guest room?

"Are you sure he was just being nice?" Delilah stepped closer, her eyes narrowing. "That coat..."

Giana snapped her head toward Delilah. Her eyes were like daggers. "You sound disappointed that I didn't get hurt, Delilah."

Delilah physically recoiled. Her face went pale. "No! I just..."

Angele frowned at Delilah. "That's enough, Delilah. Giana is safe. Stop asking questions."

Delilah bit her lip. Her fingernails dug into her palms. "Yes, Aunt Angele."

Giana leaned her head against Angele's shoulder. "Mom, I'm so tired. Can I just take a hot shower?"

"Of course, sweetie. Go upstairs. I'll have the kitchen make you some soup." Angele kissed her forehead.

Giana turned and walked toward the grand staircase. As she passed Delilah, she let a slow, mocking smirk spread across her face.

Delilah's stomach twisted with rage. She watched Giana walk up the stairs. She needed to know what actually happened last night.

She waited until Angele went back into the kitchen. Then, she slipped off her heels and crept silently up the stairs, following Giana's shadow.

Giana pushed open her bedroom door. The bright pink walls and fluffy white rugs made her stomach turn. It was the room of a stupid, easily manipulated girl.

She shrugged off Cornel's heavy coat and tossed it onto the chaise lounge.

The bedroom door creaked open. Delilah slipped inside like a rat.

Giana saw her reflection in the vanity mirror. Her jaw tightened, but she quickly wiped the anger from her face. She turned around and let out an exhausted sigh.

"You're supposed to knock before entering someone's room, Delilah." Giana's voice was cold and sharp.

Delilah stopped in her tracks. She forced a fake, sweet smile. "Sorry. I just wanted to make sure you didn't have any bruises."

Delilah took a step toward the chaise lounge. Her eyes were glued to the men's coat. She wanted to check the pockets. She wanted to find a name.

Giana saw her target. She walked fast, grabbed the coat by the collar, and shoved it deep into the wicker laundry hamper.

"It's just dirty laundry," Giana said. She crossed her arms and stared down at Delilah.

Delilah gritted her teeth. She dropped the sweet act. "Who was the guy, Giana? Did you sleep with some random trash from the club?"

Giana laughed. It was a dry, hollow sound. "You should write movies, Delilah. Your imagination is wild."

Giana took a step forward, backing Delilah toward the door. "If you're so curious about last night, why don't we call the police? We can ask them to pull the security footage from the party. We can see exactly who put something in my drink."

Delilah's pupils shrank to pinpricks. The blood drained from her face. She took a step back, her heel hitting the doorframe.

"I... I don't know what you're talking about," Delilah stammered. Sweat broke out on her forehead.

Giana watched the panic consume her. She smiled. "Relax. I'm just joking. You look like you're going to pass out."

Delilah let out a shaky breath. She needed to change the subject immediately. She pulled her trump card.

"Gary was looking for you all night," Delilah said softly. "He was going crazy."

In her past life, hearing Gary's name would make Giana melt. Now, a wave of pure nausea hit her stomach.

Giana walked to her vanity and picked up a cotton pad. She started wiping the smeared mascara from under her eyes. "Oh? If he was so worried, why didn't he come here to wait for me?"

Delilah stared at Giana's back. This wasn't the reaction she expected.

"He was exhausted. He went home to sleep," Delilah said, trying to plant a seed of guilt. "You can't blame him. You disappeared."

"I don't care if he sleeps in a ditch," Giana threw the dirty cotton pad into the trash can. It hit the plastic with a sharp thud.

Giana turned around. "You seem to care a lot about my fiancé's sleeping habits, Delilah."

Delilah's face turned bright red. "You're misunderstanding me! I'm just trying to help your relationship!"

"If you want to help, get out of my room. I'm taking a shower." Giana pointed at the door.

Delilah's chest heaved. She turned around and practically ran out of the room.

The door clicked shut. Giana's shoulders dropped. She let out a long breath.

She walked to the full-length mirror and unbuttoned the white shirt. She stared at the dark purple bruises covering her ribs and collarbones. Cornel's violence was stamped all over her skin.

A loud engine roared in the driveway outside.

A few seconds later, the front door opened.

"Giana! Giana, where are you?" Gary's voice echoed up the stairs. It sounded desperate and full of fake love.

Giana's blood turned to ice. The memory of him stealing her inheritance and leaving her to die exploded in her brain. Her hands curled into tight fists.

She ripped the bedroom door open and marched toward the stairs.