Gravity vanished.

Felicity felt a violent yank upward. She looked down and gasped.

She was floating near the ceiling of the cabin. Below her, Collins was rocking back and forth, clutching her dead body, his face buried in her neck.

"Collins!" she screamed.

No sound came out. She had no vocal cords. She watched in absolute horror as the most powerful man in New York broke down into a sobbing, broken mess.

Suddenly, a terrifying vacuum force grabbed her ethereal form. The snowy cabin dissolved into a blur of blinding light and rushing colors.

She was pulled across thousands of miles in a fraction of a second.

Her feet hit a solid surface. She stumbled forward, instinctively shielding her eyes from the blinding crystal chandeliers.

She was standing in the center of her own living room in her Bel Air mansion.

Brandt stood by the massive marble fireplace. He held a crystal champagne flute, his face flushed with triumph. There was no grief in his eyes.

Brinley was draped over his arm. She was wearing Felicity's custom-made, limited-edition Dior gown.

"To the Klein trust fund," Brandt smirked, raising his glass. "God, she was so stupid. Believed every word I said."

Brinley giggled, a sharp, grating sound that made Felicity's ghostly stomach churn. "Hollywood is finally mine. No more living in her shadow."

Brandt grabbed Brinley's waist and pulled her into a deep, filthy kiss right in the middle of Felicity's living room.

Felicity's soul vibrated with a rage so intense it felt like nuclear fission. She lunged forward, swinging her hand to slap Brandt across his smug face.

Her hand phased right through his jaw.

She stared at her translucent fingers. A suffocating wave of helplessness crashed over her. She was a ghost. A spectator to her own desecration.

On the massive flat-screen TV, a TMZ breaking news banner flashed red: FELICITY KLEIN MISSING? FLEEING SCANDAL?

Brandt pulled away from Brinley and smirked at the TV. He pulled out his phone. "Time to call the PR team. Let's make sure she's remembered as a homewrecker who ran away."

Before his thumb could hit the screen, a deafening screech of tires tore through the quiet Bel Air night.

The heavy, custom-built mahogany double doors of the mansion exploded inward.

An armored, matte-black SUV smashed through the entrance, sending massive chunks of wood and shattered glass flying across the marble foyer.

Brandt and Brinley screamed. The champagne flute slipped from Brandt's hand, shattering on the floor.

The SUV's high beams flooded the living room, blinding them. The engine roared like a mechanical beast.

The driver's side door was kicked open.

Collins Saunders stepped out. He wore a black trench coat soaked in melted snow and dark blood. He looked like a demon crawling out of hell.

A dozen heavily armed men in tactical gear swarmed into the house behind him, instantly securing every exit and cutting the phone lines.

Collins held a heavy Glock 19 in his right hand. The sharp, metallic smell of gunpowder instantly filled the room.

He locked his dead, bloodshot eyes onto Brandt. The temperature in the room seemed to drop twenty degrees.

"What the hell is this?!" Brandt stammered, his voice cracking. He stumbled backward, his knees knocking together.

Brinley shrieked and dove behind the white leather sofa. She frantically tapped her phone, but the screen showed zero signal.

Collins didn't say a word. He stalked forward. His heavy boots crushed the broken champagne glass into fine powder.

He stopped two feet away from Brandt. He raised his left hand and violently whipped something directly into Brandt's face.

It was a diamond necklace, heavily coated in dark, dried blood. It sliced a thin cut across Brandt's cheek.

Brandt looked down at the floor. He recognized Felicity's lucky charm. His pupils shrank to pinpricks.

"She's dead," Collins rasped. His voice was a terrifying, hollow scrape of metal on metal.

"No... I didn't..." Brandt babbled, holding his hands up in surrender.

Felicity hovered in the air, staring at Collins. The sheer magnitude of his violence, all for her, sent shockwaves through her ghostly form.

Collins slowly raised the Glock. He pressed the cold steel barrel directly against the center of Brandt's forehead.

His finger curled around the trigger.

Time stopped in the Bel Air mansion. The slaughter was about to begin.

Collins shifted his wrist downward in a blur of motion.

He pulled the trigger.

The deafening crack of the gunshot echoed off the high ceilings. The bullet tore straight through Brandt's right kneecap.

Brandt let out a high-pitched, agonizing squeal. His leg buckled, and he collapsed onto the Persian rug, clutching his shattered knee as blood pumped through his fingers.

Behind the sofa, Brinley screamed in pure terror. She scrambled on her hands and knees toward the back patio doors.

Two massive bodyguards grabbed her by the hair and dragged her back, throwing her onto the floor next to Brandt.

Collins stared down at Brandt with dead, empty eyes. He lifted his heavy leather boot and stomped directly onto the bullet wound, grinding his heel into the shattered bone.

Brandt howled, his face turning purple. "Please! Please! It was her idea!" He pointed a shaking, bloody finger at Brinley. "She hacked the plane! She hired the kidnappers!"

Brinley's eyes bulged. "You lying piece of trash! You paid them!" she shrieked, spitting at him.

Felicity floated above them, nausea rolling through her phantom body. They were pathetic, rabid dogs turning on each other to survive.

Collins didn't care about their confessions. He raised two fingers.

The bodyguards stepped forward, carrying heavy steel jerrycans.

The sharp, toxic stench of high-octane gasoline flooded the room. The men poured the fuel over the custom leather sofas, the drapes, and the expensive rugs.

Brandt smelled the fumes. His eyes rolled back in panic. He dragged his bleeding body across the floor, leaving a thick red smear, trying to reach Collins' boots.

Collins kicked him in the jaw, sending him sprawling.

He reached into his trench coat and pulled out a small, velvet jewelry box. It was frozen solid.

He ran his thumb over the velvet. The psychotic rage in his eyes instantly melted into a hollow, devastating tenderness.

"Get out. Lock the doors," Collins ordered his men.

The bodyguards didn't hesitate. They marched out, pulling the heavy shattered doors shut behind them, sealing the mansion.

Brandt and Brinley realized what was happening. They scrambled toward the reinforced, bulletproof windows, pounding on the glass and screaming for help.

Felicity's soul dropped to the floor. She rushed to Collins, waving her transparent hands frantically in front of his face. "No! Collins, don't do this!"

Her phantom tears fell, evaporating before they hit the ground.

Collins paused. He slowly lifted his head, looking directly at the empty space where Felicity was standing.

A faint, broken smile touched his lips.

He pulled a lit silver Zippo lighter from his pocket, the blue flame already dancing steadily in his palm. Lighting it in this gasoline-heavy air would have blown them all to hell prematurely. He stared at the dancing fire for a fraction of a second.

Then, without a moment of hesitation, he opened his fingers and let it drop.

The second the flame touched the rug, a massive wall of fire erupted. The heat wave blasted across the room, consuming the furniture in seconds.

The crystal chandelier above them superheated and exploded, raining shards of glass into the inferno.

Brandt and Brinley were swallowed by the flames. Their clothes caught fire, and their screams turned into inhuman, gargling shrieks.

Collins stood perfectly still in the center of the blaze. The fire licked up his trench coat. He didn't flinch.

He clutched the velvet box to his heart and closed his eyes.

The intense, blinding light of the fire pierced Felicity's soul. The heat couldn't burn her, but the spiritual pressure tore at her consciousness.

The massive marble pillars of the mansion cracked under the extreme temperature. The ceiling groaned and collapsed, burying Collins under tons of burning rubble.

Felicity let out a silent, agonizing scream.

The space around her began to fracture like a broken mirror.

A massive, cosmic force slammed into her chest. The fire, the smoke, and the ruins were swallowed by a blinding, absolute white light.

She felt a violent sensation of falling backward through time.

In the final millisecond before her consciousness faded, she made a vow to the universe: If I get a second chance, I will burn them all to the ground.

Felicity's eyes snapped open.

She gasped violently, her lungs expanding as if she had just breached the surface of the ocean. She shot up from the sofa.

She coughed, hacking as if the thick black smoke of the Bel Air fire was still trapped in her throat. Her hands gripped the soft velvet cushions beneath her.

She blinked rapidly, the blinding reflection of a vanity mirror stinging her eyes.

She was sitting in a luxurious, brightly lit VIP dressing room.

There was no smell of gasoline. No blood. Just the heavy, expensive scent of Tom Ford Black Orchid perfume.

Her hands shook violently as she grabbed the smartphone resting on the makeup counter. She failed the fingerprint unlock three times before typing in her passcode.

The date on the screen glared back at her.

Four years ago.

A high-pitched ringing echoed in her ears. She looked down at her body. She was wearing the custom midnight-blue, star-gradient gown.

The dress she wore the night she won the Academy Award for Best Actress.

The memories of freezing to death in Aspen and watching Collins burn alive crashed into her brain. Her blood turned to ice, then instantly boiled into pure, unadulterated rage.

She was back.

The brass doorknob clicked. The door swung open.

Brandt walked in, wearing a perfectly tailored tuxedo, a sickeningly handsome, fake smile plastered across his face.

Brinley trailed right behind him, dressed in an innocent white tulle gown, holding a glass of warm water.

"Ten minutes to showtime, Felicity," Brinley said, her voice dripping with fake sweetness.

Seeing their faces, Felicity's stomach violently convulsed. She clenched her jaw so hard her teeth ground together.

Brandt stepped forward, opening his arms to hug her. "You look stunning, babe. Ready to take home the gold?"

As his hands reached for her waist, Felicity violently twisted her body sideways.

Brandt's hands grasped empty air. He stumbled slightly, his smile dropping into a frown of annoyance.

Brinley immediately stepped up, reaching out to grab Felicity's forearm. "Felicity? Are you okay? You look pale."

Felicity didn't think. Her body reacted on pure instinct.

She swung her arm and shoved Brinley backward with terrifying force.

Brinley shrieked as her stilettos twisted. She stumbled backward and slammed hard into the wooden doorframe.

Tears instantly pooled in Brinley's eyes. She looked at Brandt, her lip trembling. "Brandt... I was just trying to help."

Brandt's face flushed with anger. He stepped between them, glaring at Felicity. "What the hell is wrong with you? Stop acting like a diva backstage!"

Felicity let out a dark, humorless laugh. She stepped forward, her heels sinking into the carpet.

She grabbed the lapels of Brandt's custom tuxedo, her knuckles turning white. She yanked him down to her eye level.

"We are done," she spat, her voice a low, lethal whisper.

Brandt blinked, stunned for a second, before a mocking smirk crawled onto his face. He lowered his voice. "Is this about the new contract? Fine, I'll give you a higher cut. Stop throwing a tantrum."

Felicity stared at his smug face. She gathered the saliva in her mouth and spat directly onto his cheek.

Brandt gasped, stumbling backward until his spine slammed into the wall sconce. He wiped his face, his eyes widening in pure fury. He raised his hand.

"Touch me," Felicity hissed, her eyes dead and cold. "And I will walk out there and tell the press to have their forensic accountants take a very close look at the Klein trust fund and your recent investments."

The words hit the room like a bomb.

Brandt's raised hand froze in mid-air. The color drained completely from his face. Brinley stopped crying, her mouth hanging open in shock.

Felicity didn't waste another second on the garbage in front of her.

She grabbed the heavy skirts of her star-gradient gown and marched toward the door.

She burst into the chaotic backstage hallway. Stage managers were screaming into headsets.

The massive monitor on the wall showed the countdown for the Best Actress presentation.

A security guard stepped in her path. "Ma'am, you need to wait for the cue-"

Felicity shoved past him, triggering the metal detector alarm.

She broke into a run. Her high heels clicked frantically against the marble floor. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

She slammed her hands against the heavy, soundproof double doors of the inner auditorium, desperate to find the man who had died for her.