I woke to the sharp sting of antiseptic and the low rumble of hushed voices.

My arm throbbed violently where the needle had been shoved in.

I felt hollowed out, lightheaded, as if my bones had been replaced with fragile glass.

"She's awake," Alaric's voice cut through the haze.

He was standing at the foot of my bed, methodically peeling an orange. The citrus scent clashed nauseatingly with the sterile air.

Darrius was leaning against the door, checking the slide of his gun.

"How is the patient?" Darrius asked, his tone dripping with mockery. "Did we save the precious mistress?"

"Azalea is fine. She needed a transfusion for 'shock'," Alaric laughed, tossing a piece of peel onto the floor. "Boss just wanted to teach the Princess a lesson. Remind her who owns the blood in her veins."

"It's a waste," Darrius muttered, holstering his weapon. "We should just marry her off to Alexander and be done with it. Once he secures the territory, we can stage an overdose. She's worth more as a tragedy than a wife."

I lay perfectly still, my eyes closed to slits.

They thought I was asleep.

They thought I was broken.

*Investment.*

*Tragedy.*

*Overdose.*

The words floated in the air, toxic and heavy, settling into my lungs like smoke.

They weren't just bad men; they were vultures waiting for me to stop twitching.

I waited until Alaric turned to throw the rest of the orange peel in the trash.

Then, I sat up.

The world tilted, grey spots dancing wildly in my vision, but I forced myself to focus.

I yanked the IV line out of my hand.

Blood welled up instantly, dripping hot and red onto the white sheets.

"Whoa, easy there," Alaric said, spinning around. "You're not discharged, Princess. Alexander said you stay until you learn some manners."

I swung my legs over the side of the bed.

My bare feet hit the cold floor, sending a shock up my spine.

I stood up.

I swayed, grabbing the IV pole white-knuckled for support.

"Get out of my way," I rasped.

"Or what?" Darrius chuckled, stepping forward to block the door. "You gonna slap me too?"

"I'm leaving," I said, my voice gaining steel. "And if you touch me, I will scream loud enough to bring the nurses, the police, and the press down here. Alexander doesn't want a scene right now. He wants the transition to be smooth."

I was bluffing about the police—Alexander owned them—but the press was a wildcard even he couldn't control yet.

Darrius hesitated.

I used that fraction of a second.

I pushed past him, my shoulder colliding with his chest.

It hurt me more than him—like hitting a brick wall—but I didn't stop.

I walked into the hallway, my hospital gown fluttering like a broken wing.

"You're making a mistake, Azalea!" Alaric called after me, his voice echoing down the corridor. "There's nowhere to go. The Kidd family is *us*. You leave, you're nothing."

I didn't turn around.

I walked to the elevator, pressing the button with a bloody finger.

The doors slid open.

I stepped inside and watched their faces disappear as the doors sealed me in.

"I am not the Kidd family anymore," I whispered to my pale reflection in the metal doors. "I am the reckoning."

I didn't make it far.

Two days later, they found me at a safe house my father had built off the books.

I had thought I was clever.

I had thought I had time.

But Jefferey, the third snake, had tracked my phone.

They didn't take me back to the city.

"You need fresh air," Alexander had said over the phone, his voice dripping with false concern. "We're going to the ranch. A little family getaway to heal the rift."

The ranch was tucked away in upstate New York.

It was beautiful.

Rolling hills, autumn leaves turning blood-red and gold, and stables full of thoroughbreds.

It used to be my sanctuary.

Now, it was a prison without walls.

I was walking near the paddock, watching a stallion named Thunder pace nervously.

Alaric and Jefferey were leaning on the fence, smoking, watching me like hawks.

"Go for a ride, Azalea," Jefferey called out. "Like old times. Thunder misses you."

I loved that horse.

I opened the gate and stepped inside.

Thunder nickered, nuzzling my hand.

For a second, I felt peace.

The smell of hay and horse sweat grounded me.

Then, a gunshot cracked through the valley.

It came from the woods.

Close.

Too close.

Thunder spooked.

Twelve hundred pounds of muscle turned into a panicked weapon.

He reared up, his hooves flashing in the sunlight.

I tried to dodge, but the mud was slippery under my boots.

I fell.

A hoof the size of a dinner plate came crashing down.

*Crunch.*

It connected squarely with my thigh.

The sound of the bone breaking was louder than the gunshot.

Pain, white and blinding, exploded up my leg.

I screamed.

Thunder bolted, his back hoof clipping my ribs as he fled.

I lay in the mud, gasping, staring up at the blue sky.

My leg was twisted at a sickening angle.

Alaric and Jefferey didn't run to help.

They walked.

Slowly.

Jefferey was calmly sliding a silencer-equipped pistol back into his jacket.

They stood over me, blocking out the sun.

"Nasty accident," Jefferey said, lighting a cigarette. "Horses are dangerous animals."

"Alexander isn't going to like the damage," Alaric noted, looking at my leg with the detachment of a mechanic looking at a dented fender. "She won't be able to walk down the aisle properly."

"He doesn't need her to walk," Jefferey shrugged. "He just needs her to say 'I do'. Or sign the papers. Being crippled might make her more... manageable."

I gritted my teeth against the agony, tears leaking from my eyes.

They didn't want to kill me yet.

Dead, I was a martyr.

Alive and broken, I was property.

"Call the ambulance," Alaric sighed, pulling out his phone. "Tell them the heiress had a tragic fall. Poor clumsy girl."

As the darkness of shock began to pull me under, I realized the truth.

There was no bottom to their cruelty.

There was no line they wouldn't cross.

And if I wanted to survive, I had to stop being a human being.

I had to become something worse than them.

I had to become a Golden.

The cast encasing my leg felt less like medical aid and more like a heavy, plaster shackle.

It was a constant, itching weight that throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache, synchronizing perfectly with the sluggish beating of my heart.

I lay there, staring up at the hospital ceiling.

White tiles.

Countless little dots, swimming in my vision.

I had counted them four times already, losing myself in the monotony.

Then, the door opened.

I didn't bother to look.

I knew that cadence—the sharp, deliberate strike of expensive heels against linoleum.

Isolde.

She breezed in, clutching a bouquet of white lilies.

Funeral flowers.

She placed them on the bedside table, dangerously close to the morphine drip I had stubbornly refused to press.

"You look terrible, Azalea," she purred.

Her voice was cloying, like syrup poured over broken glass.

She sank into the chair beside me, crossing her legs with an elegant sweep.

That’s when I saw them.

She was wearing my earrings.

The diamond studs my father had given me for my sixteenth birthday glinted mockingly from her lobes.

"They fit me better," she said, catching the direction of my glare. "You don't have the complexion for diamonds anymore. You look... grey."

"Get out," I rasped.

My voice was a rusty hinge, unused and scraping against my throat.

"Alexander is worried about you," she continued, breezing past my command. "He's worried you're becoming a liability. A crippled bride isn't exactly the image of strength the Kidd family needs right now."

She reached out, tapping a perfectly manicured fingernail against the hard shell of my cast.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The vibration sent a spike of white-hot fire shooting up my thigh.

I gritted my teeth to keep from screaming.

"You should have just drowned," she whispered, leaning in until I could smell her perfume. "It would have been so much easier for everyone. Alexander wouldn't have to deal with your temper. I wouldn't have to pretend to like you."

Before I could retort, the door opened again.

The air in the room shifted instantly.

It became heavier.

Colder.

Alexander walked in.

He didn't look at me.

Instead, his attention was fixed on the medical chart hanging at the foot of the bed.

"Femur fracture," he read aloud, his tone clinical. "Spiral. Nasty. Six weeks in a cast. Months of physical therapy."

He finally lifted his gaze to meet mine.

His eyes were empty voids.

There was no love.

There was no hate.

There was only cold, hard calculation.

"You're damaging my investment, Azalea."

"I'm not an investment," I spat, forcing the words out. "I'm the Don's daughter."

"Your father is dead," Alexander stated flatly, stripping the words of any empathy. "And you are a woman with a broken leg and a documented history of hysteria. Who do you think the Commission will believe? The loyal Capo who stepped up to save the family, or the suicidal girl who throws herself into pools and under horses?"

He moved to the side of the bed.

He placed a hand on my shoulder.

It felt like a branding iron.

"Here is the deal," he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. "The Gala is in three weeks. You will heal. You will smile. You will stand by my side and announce our engagement. You will tell everyone that you are grateful for my protection."

"And if I don't?"

He squeezed my shoulder.

Hard.

My collarbone groaned under the immense pressure.

"Then the next accident won't be a broken leg," he said softly.

"It will be a closed casket."

He released me abruptly.

He smoothed the lapels of his suit jacket, as if touching me had soiled him.

"Isolde, come. We have a dinner reservation."

Isolde stood up, a smirk playing on her lips.

She blew me a mocking kiss.

They walked out together, leaving the door open just enough for me to see the two large men standing guard in the hallway.

They weren't looking outward, scanning for threats to protect me.

They were looking inward.

At me.

They were jailers.