Karen lunged toward the roaring red woodchipper.

Two massive security guards stepped in front of her. They grabbed her arms, their grips like iron vices, pinning her in place.

Karen thrashed against them. She kicked at the mud. She watched in horror as the final section of the Dogwood trunk was shoved into the machine's metal teeth.

A horrific grinding noise filled the air. Wood chips spewed out of the exhaust pipe like dirty snow, scattering across the ruined lawn.

Karen's legs gave out. She dropped to her knees in the wet dirt, her fingers digging frantically into the mud.

Her hands shook violently as she pulled her phone from the pocket of her silk robe. She dialed Israel's private number.

It rang for a long time. Finally, the line connected. The smooth, quiet sound of jazz music playing inside the Maybach drifted through the speaker.

"Why?" Karen choked out, her voice raw and shredded. "Why did you destroy it? It was all I had left."

A low, cruel laugh came through the phone.

"I know exactly what that tree was, Karen," Israel sneered. His voice dripped with jealousy and contempt. "Dr. Blair Moran gave you that little token of affection, didn't he?"

Karen stopped breathing.

"I will not allow the proof of your emotional infidelity to grow in my backyard," Israel stated.

Karen's brain short-circuited. Blair. He thought the tree was from Blair.

She opened her mouth to scream the truth. She wanted to tell him that buried beneath those roots was the urn containing the ashes of their unborn child. The baby she lost. The baby he never knew about.

But her throat locked up. The years of his coldness, his absolute refusal to ever listen to her, formed a lump of glass in her airway. She couldn't make a sound.

Her silence only fueled his anger.

"Pour the concrete," Israel ordered coldly.

The line went dead. The dial tone hammered into her skull.

Behind her, the heavy engine of a cement mixer roared to life. Thick, gray sludge began to pour from the metal chute.

The wet concrete spilled into the deep crater, burying the mud, burying the wood chips, burying her baby.

"No!" Karen shrieked.

She ripped herself out of the guards' grasp and threw herself at the pit. She plunged her bare hands into the wet, heavy concrete. She clawed at the thick gray sludge, trying to dig down to the small urn.

The coarse gravel sliced into her cuticles. Blood welled up from her fingertips, swirling into the gray cement.

The foreman marched over. He grabbed her by the shoulders and hauled her up from the ground.

"Don't interfere with Mr. Fernandez's landscaping plans, lady," he warned.

Karen stared blankly at the smoothing surface of the concrete. The last physical trace of her child had been erased from the world. By its own father.

A black Range Rover pulled into the driveway. Arthur Coleman, Israel's Chief Executive Assistant, stepped out.

Arthur walked across the ruined grass, holding a black umbrella. He stopped in front of Karen and held out a crisp white envelope.

"You have two hours to vacate the premises," Arthur said. His voice was entirely professional. "Mr. Fernandez has instructed that the property be prepared for Ms. Conley's arrival."

Karen looked at Arthur's blank face. A hollow, terrifying laugh spilled from her bleeding lips.

She didn't take the envelope. She turned around. Her hands were coated in blood and gray sludge. She dragged her feet across the patio, walking back into the empty mansion like a corpse. She looked down numbly, watching thin lines of dark blood welling up on the soles of her bare feet. The sharp, splintered edges of the wood chips had sliced deep into her tender skin with every frantic step she took, leaving a trail of red behind her, but the agonizing numbness in her chest ensured she felt absolutely nothing.

Three days later.

Karen pulled the collar of her cheap black trench coat tighter around her neck. She walked down the marble hallway of an exclusive private club in Beverly Hills.

She had just finished a brief meeting with an independent film producer. She needed a job. She needed to survive.

She turned the corner toward the restrooms.

A woman in a pristine white Chanel haute couture suit blocked her path.

Ayla Conley.

Ayla turned around. The delicate, fragile smile on her face vanished the second she saw Karen. She handed her Birkin bag to her assistant, S. Page, and waved her away.

They were alone in the hallway. Ayla's eyes turned venomous.

She stepped forward, her red-soled heels clicking against the marble. She looked Karen up and down, taking in the cheap coat. She let out a sharp scoff.

"Look at you," Ayla whispered, her voice dripping with malice. "Just a cheap warming pan, thrown out with the trash."

Karen clenched her fists inside her pockets. "Keep your man on a tighter leash, Ayla. And stay out of my way."

Ayla's eyes gleamed. "Oh, Israel tells me everything. He even told me about that ugly tree in the backyard."

Karen's stomach twisted.

Ayla covered her mouth and giggled. "He said he shredded it just to make me smile. To clear out the garbage."

The string holding Karen's sanity together snapped.

She stepped forward, her eyes burning red. "Shut your mouth. Don't you ever talk about that tree."

Ayla's gaze suddenly shifted. She looked past Karen, staring at the reflection in the glass doors at the end of the hall.

A tall, broad-shouldered figure was approaching.

Ayla's lips curled into a wicked smirk. Suddenly, she threw herself backward.

Karen instinctively raised her hand to brace herself, her fingers miles away from touching Ayla's clothes.

Ayla let out a blood-curdling scream. She collapsed onto the marble floor.

The heavy oak doors burst open. Israel stormed into the hallway, the air temperature dropping the second he appeared.

Ayla lay on the floor, clutching her chest. She gasped for air, her face twisting in fake agony.

Israel's eyes widened in panic. He sprinted forward and dropped to his knees, pulling Ayla's fragile body into his arms.

"She pushed me," Ayla sobbed weakly, burying her face in his chest. "Israel, my heart..."

Israel snapped his head up. The look he gave Karen was pure, unfiltered hatred.

"I didn't touch her," Karen said, shaking her head and taking a step back.

Israel didn't listen. He didn't care. To protect the woman dying in his arms, he shot his arm out and shoved Karen out of the way.

The force of his push was brutal. Karen lost her footing.

She tumbled backward, falling down the three marble steps at the end of the corridor.

Her knee slammed into the sharp edge of the stone. A sharp, tearing pain shot violently through her ankle, radiating a burning agony all the way up her calf. Her elbow scraped raw against the floor.

She curled into a ball at the bottom of the stairs, gasping through the blinding pain.

Israel stood at the top of the steps, looking down at her like she was an insect.

"If anything happens to her heart," Israel snarled, "I will bankrupt your entire family."

He tightened his grip on Ayla. "I will have my legal team blacklist you from every studio in Hollywood. You will pay for this jealousy."

He scooped Ayla up into his arms and walked away, leaving Karen shivering on the freezing marble floor.

Karen dragged her swollen, purple ankle across the threshold of the cramped apartment in Koreatown.

The air inside smelled heavily of mildew and old cooking oil. It was a violent contrast to the sterile luxury of Beverly Hills.

She collapsed onto the lumpy fabric sofa. She pulled a small plastic first-aid kit from the coffee table and took out a bottle of iodine.

She bit down hard on her bottom lip as she pressed the iodine-soaked cotton swab into the raw, bleeding scrape on her arm. She hissed as the pain flared.

Her phone vibrated on the table. The screen lit up with a name: Brenda McCoy (Mother).

Karen stared at the screen. A wave of exhaustion washed over her. Her finger hovered over the red reject button.

The phone kept buzzing. It wouldn't stop. She finally slid her finger across the green icon.

"Listen to me," Brenda's shrill, slurred voice blasted through the speaker before Karen could even say hello. "I need you to wire five hundred thousand dollars to a casino account in Vegas right now."

Karen closed her eyes. "Mom. I don't have it. Israel kicked me out. I have nothing."

"Bullshit!" Brenda screamed. "You useless piece of trash! You couldn't even keep a billionaire's legs wrapped around you? What good are you?"

Karen's chest hollowed out. The toxic blood of her family burned in her veins.

"I should have aborted you," Brenda spat.

The words felt like a physical knife twisting in Karen's gut. She gripped the phone so hard the plastic creaked.

"I am not paying your gambling debts anymore," Karen said. Her voice was dead. Cold.

"I'll go to the press!" Brenda threatened. "I'll tell them what an ungrateful bitch you are! I'll ruin you!"

Karen let out a dry, broken laugh. "Go ahead. I'm already ruined."

She ended the call. She went into her contacts and blocked Brenda's number.

The adrenaline left her body all at once. Karen curled into a tight ball on the sofa. A violent cough ripped through her chest.

The rain, the physical trauma, and the sheer psychological exhaustion hit her immune system like a freight train. Her skin grew burning hot. She slipped into a feverish darkness.

The next morning, a frantic pounding on the door jolted her awake.

Karen forced herself up. Her head spun. She leaned heavily against the peeling wallpaper and dragged herself to the door. She looked through the peephole.

It was Eleanor Fletcher, her agent.

Karen unlocked the door. Eleanor took one look at Karen's pale, bruised face and gasped.

Eleanor practically carried her back to the bed. She pulled a bottle of Tylenol and a thermos of hot soup from her tote bag. She forced Karen to swallow the pills.

Eleanor didn't ask questions. She just held Karen's hand until the shivering stopped.

Once Karen's eyes focused, Eleanor unzipped her leather briefcase. She pulled out a thick, slightly wrinkled script.

"Julian Carmichael watched your audition tape," Eleanor said, her voice shaking with excitement. "He fought off the investors. He wants you as the lead in Midnight in Malibu."

Karen stared at the paper. The name printed in bold letters on the cover was Karen Walsh-the stage name she had legally and permanently adopted years ago, a desperate attempt to completely sever her ties and bury the toxic Kowalski bloodline she was unfortunately born into.

"The pay is garbage," Eleanor continued, "but it's an Oscar-bait role, Karen. This is how you stand back up."

Karen reached out. Her fingers trembled as they brushed the cover of the script.

A hot tear slipped down her cheek and splashed onto the title page. She pulled the script against her chest and held it like a life raft.