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.

Aileen finished her second cup of coffee and left the suffocating atmosphere of the dining room. She walked straight to her private study.

She walked in, shut the heavy mahogany door, and twisted the lock. She walked over to the massive desk and flipped open the silver laptop.

She opened a browser and typed her full name into the search bar.

Thousands of results populated instantly. The headlines were brutal. They called her a gold-digger, a washed-up crazy woman, a disgrace.

She clicked on a long-form investigative article about her sudden fall from grace in Hollywood.

The article detailed how the original Aileen had been a desperate, untalented actress who relied entirely on her face to secure minor roles. Any mention of her early indie film work was buried under mountains of scandalous clickbait and suppressed by powerful PR firms.

Aileen stared at the photo attached to the article. The girl in the picture was standing on a low-budget red carpet, clutching a cheap promotional prop. She was smiling, her eyes bright and full of life, like California sunshine.

Aileen reached up and touched her own cheek. The physical difference between the girl in the photo and the hollow, dead-eyed woman in the mirror was staggering.

She opened a new tab and started digging into the Riggs family's business dealings around the time of the wedding.

She found the financial reports. The original owner's family business had been on the verge of total bankruptcy.

Aileen leaned back in her leather chair. The picture was clear now. This marriage was just a business transaction for Archer, but for the original Aileen, it was a forced sale of her freedom.

She needed more leverage. She minimized the browser and clicked on an encrypted cloud drive icon on the desktop.

A fragmented memory surfaced in her mind. She typed a long, complex string of numbers and letters into the password field.

The drive unlocked.

Aileen's breath hitched. The screen was filled with thousands of thumbnail images. They were all pictures of Jadyn. From the day he was born to a few weeks ago.

She clicked on the first folder.

The photos were taken from bizarre angles. Through a cracked door. From behind a curtain. From a second-story window looking down at the garden.

In every single picture, Jadyn was alone. He was playing by himself on the massive lawn, his small back looking incredibly lonely.

Aileen scrolled through the images. She could physically feel the original owner's emotions bleeding into her chest. It was a twisted, agonizing mix of desperate, suffocating love and paralyzing fear. She wanted to hold him, but she was terrified of her own hands.

A sharp ache bloomed in Aileen's throat. Her vision blurred.

A hot tear spilled over her eyelashes and tracked down her cheek.

She grabbed a tissue from the box on the desk and wiped the moisture away roughly.

A faint clinking sound reached her ears. It was the sound of glass tapping against something hard, coming from right outside the study door. Then, a maid's hushed, trembling voice filtered through the wood. "Young master, please take this water to Madam. I... I don't want to go in there."

"Okay," a tiny voice whispered back.

Aileen's muscles tensed. She reached out and slammed the laptop shut.

She stood up, her bare feet making no sound on the rug. She walked toward the door, moving with the cautious grace of a predator.

She grabbed the handle and yanked the heavy door open.

Jadyn was standing in the middle of the hallway carpet. He was holding a glass of water in both hands.

When the door flew open, the boy jumped. His small shoulders jerked up, and he instinctively took a large step backward.

Aileen looked down at him. She saw the raw, unfiltered terror flash in his dark eyes.

Her chest tightened. It felt like someone had driven a needle straight into her ribs.

She wanted to drop to her knees and pull into a hug. Her arms twitched at her sides, but she forced her hands to curl into tight fists.

She couldn't break character. Not yet.

Aileen smoothed her features into a mask of cold annoyance.

She narrowed her eyes, looking down at the boy with a gaze full of critical disgust, preparing to speak.