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.

Genevieve covered the final ten yards in a blur. Her bare feet slipped slightly on the polished marble step of the podium, but she forced her momentum forward, driving her legs hard.

Senator Harrington turned her head toward the sound of the crashing tray. Her elegant expression shifted to pure confusion as she saw the disheveled woman charging directly at her.

Agent Foster, the lead security detail standing beside the podium, reacted instantly to the sudden movement. His hand flew to his holstered weapon as he stepped aggressively into Genevieve's path to intercept her.

Genevieve knew she couldn't outmaneuver a trained professional with brute force. Without breaking stride, she snatched the Senator’s water glass from the podium and smashed it against the marble. She hurled the shards and water directly at Foster's face. The agent instinctively raised his arms and turned his head to protect his eyes from the flying shards. Capitalizing on that single, crucial split-second of distraction, Genevieve ducked hard. She dropped her center of gravity, slipping right under Foster's outstretched arm. It was a desperate, ungraceful maneuver, but it bypassed the trained agent.

She lunged directly at the Senator. Her hands grasped the older woman's shoulders with surprising, adrenaline-fueled strength.

Genevieve shoved Senator Harrington violently to the right. The force sent them both tumbling off balance, crashing toward the heavy velvet curtains behind the stage.

A suppressed gunshot echoed through the cavernous ballroom. It wasn't a loud bang, but a sharp, deadly thwip that cut cleanly through the ambient noise of the crowd.

The bullet, intended for the Senator's heart, tore through the empty space they had just vacated. It found a new target in the chaos.

Genevieve felt a massive, concussive impact high on her left shoulder. The kinetic force spun her body around like a discarded ragdoll.

A searing, blinding heat erupted in her chest. The pain was so absolute and sudden that it instantly knocked the breath completely from her lungs.

She crashed hard onto the wooden stage floor. The heavy trench coat tangled around her legs. The world tilted violently on its axis, the chandelier lights blurring into streaks of white.

Senator Harrington fell beside her. The older woman was shaken but completely unharmed. Her eyes widened in absolute horror as she looked at Genevieve. A dark, wet stain of blood was rapidly blooming across the shoulder of the grimy trench coat.

Panic erupted in the ballroom. Guests screamed in terror. Men and women dove under banquet tables. Multiple security agents drew their weapons simultaneously, scanning the upper catwalks.

"Shooter on the catwalk!" Agent Foster bellowed into his wrist microphone. He threw his own body over Senator Harrington, pinning her to the floor to provide secondary cover.

Genevieve pressed her trembling right hand against her left shoulder. Her fingers sank into the torn fabric and came away slick with hot, sticky blood.

The pain was a living thing, threatening to drag her into unconsciousness. She bit her lower lip hard. She used the sharp sting of her teeth cutting into her own flesh to anchor her fading mind.

The heavy double doors at the back of the ballroom burst open. A highly tactical, heavily armed extraction team flooded the room. They moved with terrifying, silent precision.

Rick Sullivan, Colten Dawson's personal aide and chief of security, led the tactical team straight to the podium. His face was a mask of cold, ruthless efficiency.

Rick assessed the situation in a fraction of a second. He confirmed the Senator was safe under Foster. Then his sharp gaze landed on the bleeding woman in the trench coat.

He barked orders into his comms, directing a sniper team to the roof to hunt the assassin. Simultaneously, he called for immediate medical evac.

Senator Harrington grabbed Rick's sleeve. Her voice trembled, but it remained authoritative. "Save her, Rick. She took the bullet for me."

Rick knelt beside Genevieve. His gloved hands grabbed the collar of the trench coat and tore it open to assess the entry wound on her shoulder.

Genevieve flinched violently away from the rough contact. Her survival instincts flared, screaming at her to fight. But Rick pinned her good shoulder down firmly against the floor. He applied a thick trauma dressing directly to the bullet hole with brutal efficiency.

"Hold still, or you'll bleed out before we hit the doors," Rick ordered. His voice was completely devoid of emotion. He pressed down hard, applying agonizing pressure to the wound.

Genevieve gasped. Her vision narrowed to a dark tunnel as the rapid blood loss began to critically drop her blood pressure.

Two tactical medics arrived with a collapsible canvas stretcher. They swiftly transferred Genevieve onto it with practiced, synchronized movements.

As they lifted her, the trench coat fell open further. The ruined, blood-soaked emerald silk gown was exposed beneath it. Rick Sullivan frowned, his eyes narrowing at the expensive fabric hidden under the trash.

Genevieve was rushed through the service corridors. The fluorescent lights overhead strobed like a nightmare. The medics shouted her dropping vitals back and forth.

She heard the deep roar of an armored medical transport waiting in the loading dock. The heavy back doors were flung wide open.

As the medics slid her stretcher into the back of the transport, Genevieve finally allowed her eyes to close. She sank into a dark, pain-filled void. Her shoulder was on fire, but a small, grim smile touched her lips. Her gamble had paid off.