Aspen slid the brass key into the lock. It clicked. She pulled the metal door open.

Inside hung a black oversized hoodie and a pair of faded, ripped jeans. She stripped off the thin hospital gown, letting it drop to the floor. She pulled the jeans up over her hips and slid the heavy cotton hoodie over her head. She gathered her long, tangled black hair and tied it into a tight, practical ponytail.

She reached into the bottom of the locker and found a black medical mask and a blue Los Angeles Dodgers baseball cap. She put them both on, pulling the brim low over her eyes.

She did not look back at Brenda, who was still dry-heaving on the floor. Aspen walked out the door.

She slipped into the hallway. Fifty feet away, two security guards were laughing by the elevator bank. Aspen turned her back to them and pushed open the heavy fire door leading to the stairwell.

Her muscle memory took over. She moved down the concrete steps without making a single sound. Four flights down.

She exited through the hospital's rear loading dock, slipping past a stack of wooden pallets. She pushed open the chain-link gate and stepped out onto the humid Los Angeles street.

A group of nurses in scrubs walked past her. Aspen merged into their group, matching their pace for two blocks until they reached Sunset Boulevard.

She stepped off the curb and raised her hand. A yellow cab slammed on its brakes, pulling over.

Aspen opened the back door and slid onto the cracked leather seat. She kept her head down. "Beverly Hills. The Estates," she said.

She pulled her phone out. She popped off the plastic case. Folded neatly against the back of the phone was a crisp fifty-dollar bill. She handed it over the plastic divider to the driver. As she stared out the window at the passing city lights, the fragmented pieces of her stolen life finally locked into place. The foreign presence that had taken over her body finally had a name, pulled from the depths of her hijacked consciousness. Lucy Stone. A crazed, obsessive fan. Lucy had orchestrated the crash on the Pacific Coast Highway, a desperate, psychotic bid to merge their lives. And it had worked, temporarily. Lucy had worn Aspen's skin like a cheap suit, destroying everything Aspen had built. But Lucy was gone now, her weak spirit shattered by the sheer willpower of Aspen's return.

Thirty minutes later, the cab idled outside the massive stone walls of the Beverly Hills gated community.

Aspen stepped out. The night air was cool. She walked along the perimeter, staying in the shadows of the thick landscaping bushes until she reached a blind spot between two security cameras.

She looked up. The wrought-iron fence was ten feet tall, topped with sharp, anti-climb spikes.

She took two steps back. She sprinted forward, planting the toe of her sneaker against the brick pillar. She pushed off with explosive force.

She pulled her body weight up. Her shoulders screamed in protest, the underused tendons stretching dangerously close to their breaking point, but she forced her body to obey, swinging her legs over the top in one fluid, silent motion. She dropped down, bending her knees to absorb the impact. She landed on the manicured grass without a sound, though a sharp ache radiated up her shins.

She hugged the shadows, avoiding the sweeping red lines of the infrared motion sensors. She crept around to the back patio of the massive, modern mansion.

She approached the heavy glass kitchen door. She crouched down and lifted a fake decorative rock from a potted plant. Underneath was a digital keypad.

She punched in a six-digit override code she had programmed into the motherboard three years ago. The lock clicked green.

Aspen pushed the door open and stepped into the dark kitchen.

The air felt wrong. It smelled different.

She looked down. Sitting on her custom Italian rug in the hallway was a pair of men's leather dress shoes.

She inhaled slowly. The scent of expensive cedarwood cologne hung in the air. Beneath it, her trained nose picked up the faint, metallic tang of fresh blood.

From the second floor, she heard the muffled sound of a shower running.

The new owner was home. And based on the blood, he was not having a normal night.

Aspen walked silently to the massive marble kitchen island. She stared at the wooden knife block.

She slid out a black ceramic boning knife. The blade was razor-sharp. She flipped the knife, holding it in a reverse grip, hiding the blade flush against her forearm inside the sleeve of her hoodie.

She walked toward the grand staircase, her bare feet making no sound on the marble steps.

Aspen stepped off the top stair. The thick wool carpet of the master hallway absorbed her footsteps.

She walked past a discarded, custom-tailored suit jacket on the floor. A torn silk tie lay next to it.

The frosted glass door of the master bathroom was cracked open. Thick, hot steam poured out into the hallway.

She slipped through the gap. Through the heavy condensation, she saw a massive, shadowy figure standing under the rainfall showerhead.

Suddenly, the shadow moved.

He lunged through the water with terrifying speed. A large, heavily calloused hand shot out of the steam, aiming straight for her throat.

Aspen's pupils contracted. She raised her right arm, bringing the ceramic knife up to slash his forearm.

The man's hand shifted mid-air. He grabbed her wrist with bone-crushing force.

Before she could pivot, he shoved her backward. Aspen's spine slammed hard against the freezing bathroom tiles. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs.

The ceramic knife slipped from her numb fingers. It clattered onto the wet floor.

Aspen looked up. She stared into a pair of dark, bloodshot eyes. The man's jaw was clenched tight, his chest heaving. His skin was flushed a deep, unnatural red.

The heat radiating off his massive body was suffocating. His breathing was ragged, animalistic. Aspen recognized the symptoms instantly. He was pumped full of a military-grade aphrodisiac.

His control was breaking. He lowered his head, his hot breath ghosting over the sensitive skin of her neck.

Aspen's eyes went cold. She brought her right knee up and drove it violently into his stomach.

The man grunted. The pain caused his grip on her wrist to loosen for a fraction of a second.

Aspen seized the opening. She grabbed his broad shoulders, using his own body weight to pull herself up. She wrapped both of her legs tightly around his thick neck. Her inner thighs cramped instantly, the dormant muscles tearing under the sudden, explosive demand.

She twisted her hips violently, using the centrifugal force of a perfect scissor kick, praying her joints wouldn't dislocate from the strain.

The massive man lost his footing on the wet tiles. He crashed hard onto his back, sending water splashing across the room.

Aspen rolled with the momentum. She ended up straddling his chest, pressing her knee down hard on his sternum to pin him. Her lungs burned, her atrophied muscles trembling violently from the exertion of the takedown. She didn't have the strength to hold down a man of his size for long. She had to shut down his nervous system. She raised her right hand, stiffening her index and middle fingers into a rigid spear. With brutal precision, she struck the bundle of nerves just below his collarbone, then immediately drove her knuckles into the vagus nerve on the side of his neck. Kasey gasped, his eyes flying wide open as a shockwave of localized paralysis short-circuited his brain's frantic signals. Aspen didn't stop there. She reached up, grabbed the heavy chrome handle of the showerhead, and wrenched it to the coldest setting. A blast of freezing, icy water pounded directly onto his face and chest. The extreme thermal shock, combined with the nerve strikes, forced his body into a massive reset.

His entire body convulsed under her.

Within seconds, the unnatural red flush drained from his skin. The wild, predatory glaze in his eyes shattered, replaced by sharp, calculating clarity.

His chest stopped heaving. He lay perfectly still on the wet floor, staring up at the woman sitting on his chest.

He did not yell. He did not attack. Instead, the corner of his mouth slowly curled into a dark, dangerous smirk.

Aspen stared down at his smirk. Her expression remained completely blank. She swung her leg over his body and stood up, smoothing down the front of her wet hoodie.

Kasey Dominguez wiped the water from his eyes. He sat up slowly, his muscles flexing under his wet skin.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked. His voice was a deep, gravelly baritone.

"I am the owner of this house," Aspen said, her voice dripping with ice.

Kasey paused. He tilted his head, studying her face under the harsh bathroom lights. He let out a low, amused chuckle. "Aspen Blair. The bankrupt actress. I bought this house from the bank three days ago."

Aspen ignored the mockery in his eyes. "Put some clothes on. Follow me."

She turned her back to him and walked out of the bathroom.

Kasey grabbed a dark grey silk robe off a hook. He tied it loosely around his waist and followed her, his bare feet padding softly against the carpet.

Aspen walked down the stairs, bypassing the kitchen, and opened the heavy oak door leading to the basement wine cellar.

She walked past rows of dusty vintage bottles until she reached the back wall. She pressed her palm flat against a specific wooden panel on the third shelf.

A mechanical hum vibrated through the floorboards. The entire wine rack slid smoothly to the left, revealing a steel panel with a biometric scanner.

Aspen leaned forward. A green laser swept across her right retina.

A heavy blast door hissed and lifted toward the ceiling. Blinding white LED lights flickered on, illuminating a cavernous underground garage.

Kasey narrowed his eyes. Sitting perfectly spaced on the polished concrete floor were ten limited-edition supercars. A black Bugatti Veyron. A red Ferrari LaFerrari. A silver Koenigsegg.

He looked at the cars, then back at the woman. The media said she was penniless. These cars were worth over a hundred million dollars.

Aspen turned to face him. She pointed at the fleet. "I will give you the titles to all ten cars. You sign the deed of this house back to me tonight."

Kasey walked slowly toward the black Bugatti. He ran his long fingers over the smooth carbon fiber hood. He didn't even look at the other cars.

"No," he said simply.

Aspen frowned. "How much cash do you want?"

Kasey turned around. In three long strides, he crossed the distance between them. He crowded into her personal space, forcing her to step backward until her spine hit the cold metal door of the Bugatti.

He planted both hands on the roof of the car, trapping her between his arms. He leaned down, his face inches from hers. She could smell the minty incense and his natural musk.

"I don't want your cars," Kasey murmured, his voice dropping an octave. His eyes dragged slowly down her body. "If you want to stay in my house, you can pay rent with your body."

Aspen's eyes turned lethal. She brought both hands up and planted them flat against his solid chest.

She channeled a burst of kinetic energy through her palms and shoved him hard.

Kasey stumbled back two steps, surprised by the sheer physical force hidden in her small frame.

Aspen stood straight. "Dream on," she spat, her voice laced with pure disgust.