Coretta stumbled forward, chest hitting nothing but warm California breeze. Her arms remained locked in a ridiculous, empty circle. Her teeth clicked together as her jaw snapped shut. For one agonizing heartbeat, she teetered off-balance in front of the entire staff.

Ginny straightened, her hand dropping from the dress strap. She looked at Coretta's awkward, frozen posture with cold, dead eyes.

Coretta dropped her arms. A mottled flush of humiliated red crawled up her neck and bloomed across her cheeks. She forced a high, breathy laugh and reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear with trembling fingers.

"Oh, look at you," Coretta said, her voice stretched tight. "Your skin is so... bare. Didn't you like the makeup artist I sent? I just wanted you to look your best."

Ginny didn't answer. She just stared, letting the silence thicken and press down on Coretta's shoulders like a physical weight.

Up on the marble landing, Anjanette released the maid's arm. She took a shaky step forward, her eyes fixed on Ginny, her lips moving soundlessly.

"My baby," Anjanette whispered. Her voice cracked like dry paper. She took another step.

Suddenly, Anjanette stopped. Her thin hands flew to her chest, clawing at the silk of her blouse. Her knuckles whitened. Her already-pale face rapidly drained to a terrifying, purplish-blue. Her mouth stretched open, gasping for air like a fish thrown onto dry ground. No sound came.

Anjanette's knees buckled. She pitched forward, falling straight toward the hard marble floor.

The maids screamed.

Ginny moved before anyone else could even process the fall. She sprinted up the steps, cheap heels clacking in rapid staccato. She hit the marble landing and slid onto her knees, skidding the last two feet on her shins.

Her arms shot out and caught Anjanette's upper body inches before her skull cracked against the stone.

Ginny laid her mother flat on her back. Anjanette's chest heaved in rapid, shallow spasms. Her eyes were rolling back, showing white.

Ginny's hands flew to Anjanette's collar. She fisted the silk and ripped it open, buttons scattering across the marble. Airway clear.

"Inhaler! Now!" Ginny roared at the paralyzed maids.

Nobody moved. They stood frozen, mouths hanging open.

Ginny didn't waste another second. She pressed her right thumb hard into the hollow at the base of Anjanette's throat. Her left thumb drove into the center of her mother's chest, directly on the sternum. She applied deep, calculated pressure to the acupressure points, forcing the spasming airway muscles to unlock.

"Breathe with me," Ginny commanded, her voice sharp as a whip crack. "In. Out."

The heavy, rhythmic thump of wood striking marble echoed from the dark hallway inside the mansion.

Matilda, the matriarch of the Steele family, stalked out onto the porch. She leaned heavily on a solid gold-headed cane. Her face was a roadmap of deep, disapproving wrinkles and permanent scowls. Her hooded, reptilian eyes swept over the chaotic scene and locked onto Ginny kneeling over her daughter-in-law.

Matilda's face contorted into a mask of absolute disgust. She raised her cane and pointed the gold tip directly at Ginny's face.

"Get your filthy hands off her!" Matilda barked, her voice like grinding stones. "You just walked through the door, and already you're trying to kill her. You clumsy, cursed child."

Iris, Matilda's personal maid, slithered out from behind the old woman. She leaned close to Matilda's ear, her thin lips barely moving.

"The psychic warned us, Madam," Iris whispered, pitched loud enough for every servant to hear. "He said the girl born on that day would bring a dark cloud over this house. A jinx."

Matilda's breath caught. A sharp, sudden pain stabbed through her chest. Her hand trembled on the cane. For one splintered moment, the girl's cold, bottomless gaze locked onto hers, and the fine hairs on the old woman's arms stood rigid. It wasn't fear—not quite—but a primal, deeply unsettling sense of something incredibly dangerous standing entirely out of place in her carefully controlled domain. The shock curdled instantly into pure, unadulterated fury. She would not step back.

"I knew it. I knew I shouldn't have let my son bring this trash back." She turned her head, jaw tight. "Thomas! Get this jinx away from Anjanette!"

The head butler, a broad-shouldered slab of a man, stepped forward. He reached down and clamped his massive hand onto Ginny's shoulder, thick fingers digging painfully into her collarbone.

"Come along, miss," Thomas grunted, hauling upward.

Ginny didn't look up. Her right hand shot from Anjanette's chest and locked onto Thomas's thick wrist. Her thumb found the nerve cluster between the bones. She squeezed with brutal, surgical precision and twisted her body weight against the joint.

Thomas let out a strangled yell. His knees buckled, and he stumbled backward, clutching his wrist to his chest, face twisted in shock.

Ginny looked down. Anjanette's chest was rising and falling in steadier rhythms. The purple hue was fading from her lips. The acupressure had bought her time.

Ginny rose slowly to her feet. She wiped her hands on the cheap pink sequins of her dress.

She turned and looked directly into Matilda's eyes.

She didn't say a word. She just stared. Her dark eyes were bottomless, radiating the cold, lethal intent she'd honed over a decade of annihilating her enemies.

The wail of an ambulance siren cut through the tension. The estate's private medical team surged up the steps, carrying a stretcher and an oxygen tank. They pushed past Ginny and clamped the mask over Anjanette's face.

Matilda slammed her cane against the marble to cover the tremble in her hand.

"Get her out of my sight!" Matilda screeched, pointing a shaking, bony finger at Ginny. "Thomas, take her to the top floor. I don't want to see her face again today!"

Thomas cradled his throbbing wrist against his chest, his face a mottled mask of humiliation and rage. He shot Ginny a venomous glare, then spun sharply on his heel.

"Follow me," he spat.

Ginny didn't glance at the medical team loading her mother onto the stretcher. She didn't look at Coretta, who stood frozen on the steps, watching her with narrowed, calculating eyes. Ginny turned and followed Thomas into the grand foyer.

They walked past the sweeping double staircases, past glittering crystal chandeliers dripping with light, down a long hallway lined with expensive oil paintings of dead Steele ancestors sneering from their gilt frames. Thomas didn't lead her to the guest wing. He took her to a narrow, uncarpeted wooden staircase hidden at the very back of the house, a servant's passage long forgotten.

They climbed three flights. The air thickened with each step, growing warmer, staler, heavy with dust. They reached the top floor—a cramped, low-ceilinged hallway. Thomas stopped in front of a heavy, scratched wooden door at the very end. He grabbed the brass knob and shoved it open. The hinges screamed.

"This is your room," Thomas said, a cruel smirk twisting his thick lips. "Fitting. For someone who brings bad luck."

He didn't wait for a response. He turned and retreated, his heavy footsteps fading down the wooden stairs.

Ginny stepped inside. It was an attic storage space, barely a room. The air was thick with dust and the stale, sweet smell of old paper and mothballs. A single narrow bed with a thin, lumpy mattress was pushed against the far wall. A rickety wooden wardrobe leaned next to a small, grime-smeared window. Cobwebs draped the corners like tattered lace.

Ginny walked to the bed and sat. The springs groaned loudly under her weight.

She didn't feel anger. She felt a profound, cooling wave of relief. The air in the grand halls below was suffocating—thick with lies, hidden cameras, and constant surveillance. Up here, in this forgotten box beneath the rafters, she was invisible. She was safe to plan.

She closed her eyes and began mapping the timeline of tomorrow night's birthday banquet, every variable slotting into place like pieces on a chessboard.

The sharp, rapid click of designer heels on the wooden floorboards shattered her concentration.

The heavy door was shoved open. It banged against the wall.

Coretta swept in. Iris followed close behind, laden with three massive, glossy shopping bags emblazoned with high-end designer logos. Coretta immediately pressed a lace handkerchief over her nose and mouth, waving her other hand in front of her face with theatrical delicacy.

"Oh, my god," Coretta said, voice muffled by the lace. "This dust. How can Grandmother make you sleep in this filth? It's inhumane."

Ginny opened her eyes. She looked at Coretta. The fake sympathy dripping from her voice was entirely betrayed by the gleam of absolute, glittering triumph in her eyes. Coretta was drinking this in, savoring every moment of Ginny in the squalor.

Coretta lowered the handkerchief and snapped her fingers at Iris. "Put them on the bed."

Iris dumped the heavy shopping bags onto the thin mattress beside Ginny.

"I couldn't bear the thought of you not having anything nice to wear to Grandmother's birthday banquet tomorrow," Coretta said, her voice dripping saccharine sweetness. "So I picked out a dress for you. It's the latest trend. Very exclusive."

Ginny sat perfectly still. She didn't look at the bags. She kept her eyes locked on Coretta's face.

Coretta reached into the largest bag, grabbed a fistful of fabric, and yanked it out.

The dress was a monstrosity. Cheap synthetic material covered entirely in garish neon-green sequins. The neckline plunged practically to the navel. The hemline was barely long enough to cover a pair of underwear. It looked like a costume for a low-rent nightclub dancer.

"Isn't it stunning?" Coretta held the dress up against her own body, striking a mock-model pose. "You're going to be the center of attention tomorrow night. Everyone will be looking at you."

Coretta smiled, waiting. She was waiting for the country girl to gasp in awe at the designer tags. She was waiting for Ginny to thank her profusely for the hideous garment that would make her the laughingstock of Silicon Valley.

The attic was dead silent. The only sound was the faint rustle of the neon sequins as Coretta held the dress aloft.

Ginny slowly stood up from the bed.

The corners of her mouth twitched upward, forming a slow, chilling smile. It didn't touch her eyes. Her eyes were black voids.

Ginny took a step forward.

Coretta's smile faltered. The air in the cramped room suddenly felt thick, oppressive, difficult to pull into the lungs.

Ginny took another step. Her posture shifted. The slight, uncertain slump of the country girl vanished, replaced by a fluid, predatory grace. She moved like a blade sliding from its sheath.

Coretta's chest seized. Every instinct in her body screamed at her to move. She took a stumbling step backward.

Ginny kept walking. Slow. Deliberate. Inexorable.

Coretta stepped back again, her heel catching on the uneven floorboards. She stumbled, her back slamming against the rough wooden wall of the attic. Trapped.

Ginny stopped less than a foot away. The physical proximity was suffocating.

Coretta's breathing hitched, rapid and shallow. She clutched the neon-green monstrosity to her chest like a shield. Her perfectly glossed lips trembled.

"What..." Coretta's voice cracked, then died. She swallowed and forced it out again, barely a squeak. "What are you doing?"

Ginny raised her right arm. She placed her palm flat against the rough wooden planks of the wall, right beside Coretta's ear. She leaned in, her body caging Coretta completely against the splintered wood.

Ginny tilted her head. Her dark, bottomless eyes bored into Coretta's, stripping away every layer of fake poise, digging straight down to the raw, ugly terror squirming underneath.

Her lips parted. She didn't yell. She didn't threaten. She spoke in a whisper so soft it barely stirred the dust motes floating in the stale air.

"Aspirin."

The single word hung between them like a live grenade.

Coretta's pupils blew so wide the brown of her irises nearly vanished. Every drop of blood drained from her face, leaving her skin a sickly, waxen gray. Her fingers went nerveless. The neon-green dress slithered from her grasp and pooled on the filthy floor.

Coretta's entire body began to shake. Her knees knocked audibly. Her teeth chattered. She stared at Ginny as though she were staring at a ghost that had clawed its way straight out of hell.

Behind them, Iris took a hesitant step forward. "Miss Coretta...?" the maid whispered, her voice trembling—and instantly froze, pressing her spine hard against the doorframe when Ginny flicked a single, razor-sharp warning glance in her direction.

"What..." Coretta stammered, her voice a pathetic, reedy squeak. "What are you talking about?"

Ginny held the stare for three more brutal seconds, letting the terror marinate deep in Coretta's bones.

Then she pushed off the wall. She took a large, casual step backward, shattering the suffocating tension in an instant. The cold, predatory mask vanished from her face. She tilted her head and offered a sweet, innocent smile.

"Nothing," Ginny said brightly. "You just look a little pale, sister. Like you have a headache. I thought maybe you needed some medicine."

Coretta swallowed so hard her throat clicked. A thick, greasy sheen of cold sweat glazed her forehead. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a jackhammer on overdrive.

Aspirin.

It was the exact medication Coretta had been secretly grinding into fine powder and mixing into Anjanette's daily vitamin capsules for months. A severe, life-threatening trigger for Anjanette's asthma. A slow, quiet, untraceable murder. And this trailer-park trash knew.

Coretta couldn't breathe. The attic walls seemed to warp and close in, squeezing the oxygen from the air. She lunged sideways, shoving Iris so brutally that the maid crashed against the doorframe with a yelp. Coretta bolted for the door, her designer heels clattering wildly against the wooden floorboards. She practically hurled herself down the narrow staircase, Iris scrambling in blind confusion at her heels.

Ginny stood in the center of the room, listening to the frantic, ungraceful footsteps fade into silence. A low, cold scoff escaped her lips.

She looked down at the heap of neon-green sequins on the floor. She bent, picked the dress up with two fingers as though it were contaminated, and walked to the small plastic trash can in the corner. She dropped it in.

She crossed to the heavy wooden door, pushed it shut, and slid the rusty iron deadbolt into place with a solid, final clack.

Three floors below, Coretta burst into her vast, lavishly decorated bedroom. She slammed the heavy double doors and hit the electronic lock with a shaking, frantic finger. She ran across the plush white carpet, chest heaving, and threw herself into the velvet chair before her vanity mirror.

Her hands shook so violently she nearly missed the keypad. She punched in the four-digit code. The bottom drawer clicked open. She shoved past velvet jewelry boxes and snatched a small, unmarked white plastic bottle.

She gripped it so hard the plastic dented. She pushed herself out of the chair, stumbled into her en-suite marble bathroom, and slammed the toilet lid up. She unscrewed the cap. Dozens of small white pills splashed into the water.

Coretta hit the silver flush handle and stood there, gripping the cold marble sink, watching the water churn and swirl. She didn't look away until every single pill was sucked down into the pipes.

She raised her head and stared at her reflection in the massive gilded mirror. Her hair was a wreck. Her mascara had smeared into dark hollows under her wild eyes. She looked terrified. She looked unhinged.

Coretta's hands curled into white-knuckled fists. Her manicured nails bit into her palms. The terror curdling in her chest began to transform, hardening into a hot, toxic, all-consuming rage.

Ginny knew. Coretta didn't understand how, but she knew.

The country girl couldn't be allowed to exist. She had to be obliterated. Tomorrow night, at the banquet, Coretta would make absolutely certain Ginny was ruined beyond any possible repair.