Aileen stepped into the massive bedroom and immediately slammed the door shut behind her.

She reached out with shaking fingers and twisted the deadbolt. The heavy click echoed in the quiet room, locking the danger out.

She walked toward the center of the room. Her legs felt like they were made of lead. When the backs of her knees hit the edge of the velvet mattress, she let herself fall.

She sat on the edge of the bed, burying her face in her hands.

Oracle, she called out in her mind.

A translucent blue system panel projected directly onto her retinas, hovering seamlessly within her field of vision.

Aileen swiped her finger through the empty air, scrolling through the detailed plot summary of The Caged Bird of High Society.

She read the words on the glowing screen. The original owner of this body, a woman who shared her exact name, had locked Jadyn in a freezing panic room in the middle of winter. She had done it just to force her husband to come home from a business trip.

Aileen's stomach dropped. A wave of intense nausea hit her. She slapped a hand over her mouth and dry heaved, her throat throbbing with a dull, muffled ache from the lingering bruises. The phantom burning sensation lingered at the edges of her awareness, a cruel reminder of what had just happened.

She forced herself to keep reading. The original Aileen had constantly used the most vile, degrading words to humiliate Archer about his background, stepping on every single boundary he had.

Aileen's heart rate spiked. Her palms grew slick with cold sweat. The sheer magnitude of the original owner's death wish was terrifying.

She reached out and tried to tap the 'Exit' button on the top right corner of the screen. She wanted out. She wanted to wake up from this nightmare.

Request denied, Oracle's robotic voice chimed.

A bright red countdown timer appeared in the corner of the panel, ticking down the seconds of her life.

Aileen's eyes were dragged back to the text. She scrolled down to the original owner's final ending.

Archer, finally pushed past his breaking point, had her thrown into an illegal, underground psychiatric facility.

The text described the daily electroshock therapy. The physical abuse. The isolation. It ended with the original Aileen taking her own life in a padded cell.

Aileen started to shake. Her fingers dug into the silk bedsheets, gripping the fabric so hard her knuckles turned white.

She jumped up from the bed. She paced the length of the massive bedroom, her bare feet sinking into the plush carpet.

She stopped in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The glittering skyline of Manhattan stretched out below her, the pale morning light washing over the steel and glass towers. The city was waking up—a distant hum of traffic, the glint of sunlight on windows—while she stood trapped in a nightmare.

She pressed her palm flat against the glass. The freezing temperature of the window seeped into her skin, a harsh physical reminder that none of this was a dream.

Aileen turned away from the window and walked into the walk-in closet. She stood in front of the full-length mirror.

She stared at the woman in the reflection.

It was her face. The exact same face she had in her previous life. But the eyes were sunken, surrounded by dark, bruised circles. Her skin was sickly pale. She looked like a ghost.

She raised a trembling hand. Her fingertips brushed against the cold glass of the mirror, tracing the hollow contours of her own cheek.

The image of Jadyn holding that box cutter flashed in her mind. The pure, murderous intent in a six-year-old's eyes.

A heavy, suffocating wave of helplessness crashed over her. She couldn't breathe. Her chest felt tight, restricted by an invisible weight.

Aileen suddenly raised her right hand. She slapped herself hard across the cheek.

The sharp smack echoed in the closet.

The stinging pain flared across her skin, forcing the rising panic back down into her stomach. She had to stay rational.

She walked quickly back to the bed. Oracle, she demanded in her mind. "Is there a beginner's protection period? Anything?"

The system remained silent for two agonizing seconds.

"Compensation granted: A ten percent reduction in physical pain perception."

A cold numbness spread across her throat, dulling the sharp edge of the pain. The ache was still there—a persistent throb beneath the surface—but it was bearable now. She swallowed, testing the sensation. Ten percent. A joke of a compensation, but better than nothing.

Aileen ground her teeth together. Her jaw ached from the pressure. She curled her hands into tight fists at her sides. Ten percent was a joke.

She stared at the red numbers ticking away on her retina. She was not going to end up in a padded cell. She was not going to let that man break her.

Aileen let her body fall backward. She hit the soft mattress like a dead weight.

She closed her eyes, letting the darkness of the room swallow her whole.

Aileen woke with a start. The room was still dark, the morning light barely creeping through the gaps in the curtains. She had only slept for an hour—maybe two—but her mind was already racing.

Oracle, she thought, her internal voice cold and steady. "Show me the exact mission metrics."

A row of data popped up on the blue screen. Two progress bars appeared. One for Archer, one for Jadyn. Both were glowing a toxic, bright red. The hatred meters were at one hundred percent. The goal was zero.

Aileen let out a harsh breath. She cursed under her breath. It was an impossible task.

Before she could form another thought, Oracle initiated the memory transfer sequence without warning.

It felt like someone had shoved a handful of shattered glass directly into her brain.

Aileen screamed. The sound tore through her bruised throat. She curled into a tight ball on the velvet mattress, thrashing against the sheets as the pain ripped through her skull.

Images flashed behind her eyelids.

She was in a dark room. A dirty blindfold was tied tight over her eyes. She could smell damp concrete and stale sweat. She was heavily pregnant, her hands bound behind her back. The sheer, suffocating terror of the kidnapping flooded her veins, making her heart race so fast she thought it would explode.

The scene violently shifted.

She was standing in a brightly lit nursery. A baby was screaming in a crib. She was holding a heavy wooden toy. She smashed it against the wall. She smashed it against the changing table. The uncontrollable rage, the deep, agonizing despair, the feeling of her mind literally splitting into two separate pieces—it all crashed into Aileen's consciousness.

The transfer abruptly stopped.

Aileen lay on her stomach, her face pressed into the mattress. She gasped for air, her lungs burning. Her silk pajamas were completely soaked in cold sweat, clinging to her skin.

She pushed herself up on trembling arms. Her modern medical knowledge tried to piece the chaotic fragments together. The original owner wasn't just born evil. She was suffering from some form of severe, untreated trauma, a deep psychological fracturing that was tearing her mind apart.

Oracle, Aileen demanded, her mental voice shaking with anger. "Confirm her medical history. She was sick."

"Affirmative," the robotic voice replied. "The host body's mental state is highly unstable and severely fractured. The system only monitors mission progress. Medical treatment is not provided."

Aileen dragged herself up and leaned back against the tufted headboard. Her brain was working overtime.

If she woke up tomorrow and suddenly started acting like a loving mother, Archer wouldn't buy it. He would think it was a trap. He would probably lock her up faster.

She had to play the long game. She had to keep wearing the mask of the villain.

She threw the heavy duvet off her legs and stepped onto the floor. Her bare feet padded silently across the carpet toward the walnut liquor cabinet in the corner of the room.

She grabbed a heavy crystal glass and a bottle of expensive Bourbon. She poured a generous amount of the amber liquid.

Aileen tipped her head back and downed the liquor in one swallow.

The alcohol burned a fiery trail down her throat and hit her stomach, chasing away the lingering nausea from the memory transfer.

She gripped the empty glass, her knuckles turning white. She started running through scenarios in her head, practicing the exact facial expressions and tone of voice she would need to use tomorrow.

A faint sound interrupted her thoughts.

It was the soft friction of leather shoes against the hallway carpet, right outside her door.

Aileen set the glass down on the cabinet without making a sound. She moved toward the door with light, careful steps.

She pressed her ear flat against the cold wood of the door panel. She held her breath.

"Mr. Riggs has cleared his morning schedule," the butler's low, hushed voice filtered through the wood. "He will be working from home."

Aileen's stomach tightened. Archer was going to be here today. The first real battle was starting in a few hours.

She stood up straight. The fear in her eyes was gone, replaced by the hardened resolve of an actress preparing for the role of a lifetime.

She walked quietly back to the bed and climbed under the covers.

Aileen pulled the heavy down comforter all the way up, covering her head completely.

She lay in the dark, stuffy cocoon, forcing her muscles to relax. She needed sleep. She needed energy for the war today.

The heavy dose of Bourbon finally kicked in, dragging her down into a restless, uneasy sleep.

Aileen woke to pale sunlight filtering through the curtains. The alcohol had done its job—her head was pounding, but her mind was sharp.

Morning light spilled across the massive dining room.

Aileen walked through the archway. She had showered and changed into a simple silk slip dress.

Archer was sitting at the far end of the long mahogany table. He was wearing a dark, custom-tailored dress shirt. He was reading the financial section of the newspaper.

Aileen's steps slowed down. Her heart started a heavy, rhythmic thumping against her ribs.

Archer heard her heels clicking against the marble floor. He didn't look up. He didn't even shift his gaze. He completely ignored her existence.

Aileen pulled out a heavy dining chair at the opposite end of the table, putting as much physical distance between them as possible. She sat down.

The butler appeared silently at her side. He placed a cup of black coffee and a plate of dry toast in front of her.

Aileen looked up. "Thank you—"

A blaring, red warning siren exploded in her brain. Warning! Out of Character behavior detected!

Aileen snapped her mouth shut. She forced the polite smile off her face, replacing it with a mask of pure ice.

She raised her right hand and shoved the bone china coffee cup away from her.

She pushed it hard. The dark brown coffee sloshed over the rim, splashing violently across the pristine white French tablecloth.

The loud clatter of the cup hitting the saucer echoed in the quiet room.

Archer finally lowered his newspaper.

His gray-blue eyes locked onto her. They were freezing cold, filled with a heavy, calculating scrutiny.

Aileen dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands under the table. She forced her eyebrows to pull together in a deep scowl.

"It's too hot." she snapped, making sure her voice sounded shrill and demanding.

Archer's lips curled into a slow, mocking sneer. "What pathetic game are you playing today for attention?"

Aileen's palms were slick with sweat. She kept her chin tilted up, maintaining the arrogant posture.

"The service in this house is a joke," she fired back, her tone dripping with condescension. "I've seen third-rate Hollywood sets with better catering."

The mention of Hollywood changed the air in the room. The disgust in Archer's eyes deepened, turning into something dark and volatile.

He stood up abruptly. He slammed the newspaper down onto the table.

He ripped the linen napkin from his collar and tossed it onto the coffee-stained tablecloth like it was garbage.

Archer walked toward her. His long legs covered the distance in seconds. The physical presence of the man was suffocating.

Aileen's body screamed at her to lean back, to run, but she locked her ankles around the legs of her chair and stayed put.

Archer stopped right beside her. He placed both hands on the back of her chair and leaned down, trapping her in his shadow.

He lowered his head until his mouth was inches from her ear. "If you ever throw another tantrum in front of my son," he whispered, his voice dropping to a lethal, quiet register, "I will drag you to the asylum myself."

Aileen bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste copper. She tilted her head up, meeting his furious gaze without blinking.

"I carried him for nine months," she spat back. "He's my son."

Archer let out a harsh, breathy laugh that held absolutely no humor. He pushed off her chair, standing up straight.

He didn't look at her again. He turned and walked out of the dining room, his strides long and angry. As he crossed the threshold, the sneer vanished from his face, replaced by a dark, calculating frown. He couldn't figure out what new angle she was playing, but he made a mental note to have his security team tighten their surveillance; the Riggs family reputation could not afford another one of her public, unhinged scandals.

Aileen watched his broad back disappear down the hallway. The moment he was out of sight, her shoulders slumped.

She opened her hands under the table. Her palms were covered in sweat, and four deep, red crescent moons were dug into her skin.

She stared down at the ruined white tablecloth. A heavy wave of exhaustion washed over her.

She took a deep breath, straightened her spine, and looked up at the terrified butler.

"Pour me another cup." she ordered coldly.