Genevieve was thrown roughly onto a freezing stone floor.

The harsh, bone-rattling impact jolted her awake. The chemical stupor shattered. She gasped for air, her lungs burning. The damp, mildewed smell of an underground room filled her nose, making her violently nauseous.

She blinked against the dim light. A single, exposed bulb hung from a wire above. It cast long, eerie shadows over the face of the woman standing above her. It was Patsy Conway, one of the thugs Clinton kept on his payroll. Patsy sneered down at her, her arms crossed over her chest.

Genevieve tried to push herself up. Her bare palms scraped against the rough, dirty stone tiles. Before she could lift her shoulders, a blinding wave of agony ripped through her abdomen. It forced her flat onto her back.

"Please," Genevieve begged. Her voice cracked with raw terror. She felt a warm, terrifying dampness spreading across her inner thighs. "Call an ambulance. My baby is coming."

Patsy laughed. It was a harsh, grating sound. She stepped forward and kicked Genevieve's designer purse across the floor. It hit the wall with a dull thud, spilling makeup and keys into the dirt.

"Clinton gave strict orders," Patsy stated coldly. "No medical interference. You're on your own down here."

Genevieve clutched her swollen belly. Her fingernails dug deep into the fabric of her maternity dress. The physical pain of the contractions was unbearable, but the crushing psychological realization of her doom was worse. Clinton wanted her to die here. He wanted the baby to die here.

Patsy turned and walked up the rough wooden steps.

The heavy iron door of the cellar slammed shut. The deafening metallic clang echoed off the stone walls, vibrating in Genevieve's teeth.

The lock turned with a heavy, final click.

Genevieve was completely isolated. The underground chamber was freezing. She could see her own breath pluming in the dim light.

A massive contraction ripped through her body. Her spine arched violently off the freezing floor. She screamed into the empty darkness, the sound tearing her throat raw.

She rolled onto her side and dragged herself toward the wooden wine racks lining the wall. Her bloody fingers left smeared, dark trails on the dusty stone tiles.

She reached the bottom shelf and grabbed it. The old, rotting wood splinters dug deep into her skin. She didn't care. She used the rack to anchor herself as another agonizing wave of labor crashed over her.

The pain was so intense she began to hallucinate. Through the blurry tears, she saw her father's face in the shadows.

"Dad," she cried out, her voice a broken whisper. "Save me. Please."

But reality crashed back in. The freezing temperature of the cellar seeped into her bones. She began to shiver uncontrollably. Her teeth chattered so hard her jaw ached. The cold was rapidly draining her remaining energy.

She bit down hard on her own wrist to muffle her next scream. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. She would not let her child die in silence. She had to push.

Hours blurred into an endless, agonizing cycle of torture. The dim lightbulb flickered ominously overhead. It threatened to plunge her into total darkness at any second.

Then, Genevieve felt a sudden, catastrophic shift in her body. A sickening pressure signaled the end of the traumatic labor.

She pushed. She used the absolute last ounce of her strength. Her vision went completely white from the sheer magnitude of the physical trauma.

The child was delivered onto the cold stone.

Genevieve collapsed back onto the floor, panting heavily. She waited. She listened with every fiber of her being.

But the cellar remained hauntingly silent. There was no cry. There was no breathing.

Genevieve weakly reached out. Her trembling fingers brushed against the tiny, still form. Her heart stopped. It shattered into a million jagged pieces inside her chest.

She pulled the lifeless infant to her chest. Her tears flowed freely, mixing with the sweat and dirt coating her face. She rocked back and forth on the freezing stone, trapped in absolute, suffocating despair.

The sound of heavy footsteps echoed on the wooden stairs outside. The vibrations shook loose dust from the cellar ceiling.

The iron door unlocked. It swung open. A sudden influx of harsh flashlight beams blinded Genevieve momentarily. She squeezed her eyes shut, clutching her dead baby tighter.

Clinton stepped into the cellar. His immaculate, tailored suit contrasted sickeningly with the blood and horror covering the floor. He looked perfectly put together.

Genevieve looked up at him. Her eyes were completely hollowed out by grief. She held the stillborn child against her chest like a fragile shield against his cruelty.

Clinton pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and covered his nose. His face contorted in genuine disgust at the metallic smell of blood and sweat.

He stepped closer. His expensive leather shoes crunched on the gritty stone. He looked down at her, his expression devoid of any human empathy.

"Sign the final documents for the trust transfer," Clinton demanded, holding out the heavy legal folder she had brought to his study earlier, a sleek silver pen resting on top of the thick stack of papers.

Genevieve stared at his shoes. She felt the blood pooling in her mouth from where she had bitten her own wrist. She gathered every ounce of hatred left in her broken body.

She spit a mouthful of bloody saliva directly onto his expensive Italian shoes. It was a final act of utter defiance.

Clinton's eyes flashed with murderous rage. The polite, civilized facade dropped completely. He pulled his leg back and kicked her viciously in the ribs.

Genevieve collapsed sideways. The impact cracked her ribs and knocked the breath entirely from her lungs. But her arms remained locked tight. She refused to let go of her child.

Clinton bent down. His pristine hands reached out, aggressively prying at Genevieve's arms. He wanted to tear the lifeless infant from her desperate grip.

"Let go of it, you crazy bitch," Clinton hissed.

Genevieve lunged forward. She bit his hand like a wild animal. Her teeth sank deep into the flesh between his thumb and index finger. She was driven by pure, unadulterated maternal madness.

Clinton shouted in pain. He violently yanked his hand back, tearing his own skin against her teeth. He swung his other arm, delivering a brutal, closed-fist strike to the side of her head.

Genevieve's vision swam. The damp walls of the cellar spun wildly. Her grip loosened just enough.

Clinton snatched the stillborn child from her arms. He ruthlessly tossed the tiny body onto a pile of dirty rags in the far corner of the room.

Genevieve screamed. It was a raw, inhuman sound that tore her vocal cords. She scrambled on her hands and knees, trying to crawl toward the corner.

Clinton stepped heavily onto the center of her back. He pinned her flat against the freezing stone. His heavy weight crushed her already broken ribs, forcing a wet gasp from her lips.

He leaned down. His breath was hot against her ear.

"Your father will receive a fake ransom note tomorrow," Clinton whispered. "He'll drain the rest of your accounts trying to save you. And then, you'll just be a tragic memory."

Genevieve turned her head slightly, her cheek pressed against the dirt. "My family will hunt you," she cursed, her voice a ragged wheeze. "To the ends of the earth."

Clinton laughed dismissively. He stepped off her back, only to drop to his knees beside her. He wrapped his large hands around her throat. His thumbs pressed brutally into her windpipe, cutting off her air supply instantly.

Genevieve clawed frantically at his wrists. Her nails tore at his skin, drawing fresh blood. But her oxygen-starved muscles quickly lost power. Her movements grew sluggish.

The dim lightbulb above flickered one last time and died. The cellar was plunged into absolute darkness. Her lungs screamed for air that wouldn't come.

Her desperate thrashing slowed. The icy cold of the stone floor faded into a numb, consuming blackness. Her heart gave one final, weak flutter, and then stopped beating entirely.

A sudden, deafening blast of classical symphony music shattered the silence.

A violent shockwave tore through Genevieve's nervous system. She gasped. Her lungs expanded greedily, pulling in fresh, heavily perfumed air.

Her eyes snapped open in pure terror.

She was staring straight up at a massive crystal chandelier. The blinding light forced her to blink rapidly against the sudden glare. The freezing cellar was gone. The smell of blood was gone.

Genevieve touched her neck frantically. She expected to feel the deep, painful bruises from Clinton's thumbs. Her skin was perfectly smooth.

She dropped her hands to her stomach. Her pregnant belly was completely gone. Her stomach was flat.

She looked down at herself. She was wearing an emerald silk gown. It was the exact dress she had worn to the elite charity gala in Washington D. C. -an event that took place a month before she even announced her pregnancy.

The realization hit her like a speeding freight train. She had returned to the night of her originally planned kidnapping. This was the night the nightmare began. In her previous life, this gala was the true starting point of Clinton and Carolynn's conspiracy. When this initial kidnapping plot had ultimately failed to break her spirit or force the family to abandon her, they had resorted to the long, agonizing backup plan-keeping her trapped in that mansion until her pregnancy, only to murder her in the cellar.

Before she could process the impossibility of it, a heavy hand clamped down onto her bare shoulder. The rough texture of the grip sent a familiar, sickening chill straight down her spine.

Cletus Tucker. The hired kidnapper disguised as a valet. He leaned in close, his sour breath brushing her ear.

"Come quietly if you want to live, Miss Merritt," Cletus whispered.

In her past life, Genevieve had frozen in terror. She had let him lead her out the side door.

Not this time.

The trauma of her murder ignited into pure, explosive rage. The naive socialite was dead. Only the vicious instinct of a survivor remained.

Genevieve lifted her right foot and stomped her sharp stiletto heel down with all her might directly onto Cletus's foot.

Cletus grunted loudly in pain. His grip on her shoulder loosened just enough for the heavy fabric of the silk gown to slip through his fingers.

Genevieve spun around. A waiter was passing by with a tray of drinks. She grabbed a heavy crystal champagne flute from the tray. The glass felt cold and solid in her hand.

She didn't hesitate. She smashed the heavy base of the flute directly into Cletus's face.

The impact shattered his nose in a sudden spray of crimson. Cletus stumbled backward, blinded by pain and blood. He crashed hard into a table of hors d'oeuvres, sending plates and food clattering to the marble floor.

Gasps and screams erupted from the surrounding elite guests.

Genevieve didn't look back. She kicked off her restrictive high heels. The cold marble floor shocked her bare feet.

She reached down and grabbed the hem of her emerald gown. She tore the restrictive side slit higher, ripping the expensive silk to free her legs for a dead sprint.

She pushed past confused socialites and bewildered security guards. She burst through the grand exit doors of the ballroom, hitting the push-bar with both hands.

The cool night air of Washington D. C. hit her flushed face. She ran into the darkness, her bare feet slapping against the pavement. Her heart pounded with the terrifying, intoxicating thrill of a second chance.

Genevieve ducked into a narrow, dimly lit alleyway. The rough brick wall scraped her bare shoulder as she pressed herself flat against it, hiding from the main street.

She pressed her hand against her chest. Her heart hammered wildly. The adrenaline of the escape was slowly mixing with the freezing night air, making her limbs shake.

The sound of screeching tires echoed nearby. Genevieve peeked around the edge of a rusted dumpster. A black SUV was slowly patrolling the street. Cletus's men were already searching for her.

She shrank back into the shadows. The damp, gritty asphalt chilled her bare feet. She couldn't just run home. Clinton was waiting there. Carolynn was waiting there. She had no proof of their crimes, only memories of a future that hadn't happened yet. She needed power. She needed a shield.

Genevieve closed her eyes. She forced her panicked mind to sort through the timeline of her past life. She desperately sought a point of leverage.

A specific memory flashed in her mind. The news headlines from this exact night in her previous life. They had dominated every network for weeks.

The assassination attempt on Senator Ardath Harrington.

It had occurred at a political fundraiser just three blocks from her current location. Genevieve remembered the details vividly. The Senator survived the gunshot but was left in a permanent coma. It severely weakened the political faction that opposed the Reynolds' corporate expansion.

More importantly, she remembered Colten Dawson. The White House Chief of Staff. The Senator's adopted son. Colten spent years hunting the assassins, tearing Washington apart to find whoever hurt his mother.

A bold, incredibly dangerous plan formed in her mind. If she saved the Senator tonight, she would secure the ultimate political shield against Clinton and her family. Colten Dawson would owe her a life debt.

Genevieve checked her immediate surroundings. She spotted an oversized trench coat wrapped tightly around a sleeping vagrant huddled under a fire escape. It was a massive risk, but she had no other choice. She crept forward, her bare feet silent on the damp asphalt. Holding her breath, she carefully slipped a hundred-dollar bill from her concealed thigh purse-a habit from her socialite days-and tucked it into the man's grimy palm. With agonizing slowness, she tugged the coat free. He grunted but didn't wake.

She grabbed the grimy coat and quickly threw it over her conspicuous emerald silk gown. The heavy, dirty fabric hid her identity and provided much-needed warmth against the biting wind.

Stepping out of the alley, she moved with calculated purpose. She avoided the bright main streetlights, sticking close to the shadows of the historic D. C. buildings.

The distant sound of police sirens wailed in the night. It added a layer of suffocating tension as she navigated the grid toward the historic Mayflower Hotel.

Genevieve spotted the hotel's grand entrance from a block away. It was heavily guarded by private security and men with earpieces-Secret Service agents.

She analyzed the perimeter. She couldn't walk through the front door looking like a barefoot vagrant in a filthy trench coat.

She slipped down the service alley beside the hotel. The heavy smell of culinary exhaust and frying oil filled the air. She searched for a secondary entrance.

A catering staff member propped open a heavy metal side door for a smoke break. Warm, bright light spilled out onto the wet pavement.

Genevieve waited in the dark. The moment the worker turned his back to cup his hands and light a cigarette, she darted past him. She slipped silently into the bustling hotel kitchen.

The chaotic noise of clattering pans and shouting chefs masked her entry. She grabbed a discarded white catering apron from a counter. She tied it rapidly over her trench coat to blend in with the staff.

She grabbed a large silver tray loaded with empty water glasses. She held it up slightly, using it to shield the lower half of her face. She marched confidently toward the swinging doors and pushed through into the main event hall.

The political fundraiser was in full swing. It was a sea of dark tailored suits and expensive evening gowns. The air was thick with political chatter and heavy perfume.

Genevieve scanned the massive room. Her eyes darted past lobbyists and congressmen. Finally, she spotted Senator Ardath Harrington standing near the main podium at the front of the room.

The Senator was smiling, shaking hands with a wealthy donor. She was completely unaware of the historical tragedy about to unfold in mere minutes.

Genevieve began moving through the crowd. Her bare feet were completely silent on the thick hotel carpet. Her eyes scanned the upper balconies, searching for the shooter.

She remembered the news report. The shooter fired from the lighting catwalk above the left side of the stage.

Her gaze snaps upward, piercing the shadows of the heavy rigging. She caught the faint, unmistakable glint of a rifle scope catching the light from the chandelier.

A tiny red laser dot appeared on the Senator's chest. It danced slightly as the sniper adjusted his final aim.

Genevieve dropped the silver tray.

The heavy metal and breaking glass crashed against the floor. The sharp noise drew the immediate attention of the nearby crowd and the security detail.

Ignoring the screams of the startled guests, Genevieve broke into a dead sprint toward the podium. Her eyes were locked entirely on that dancing red dot.