Ford didn't invite her to sit. He pointed down the hall toward the guest suite.

"Go wash. There are clothes on the bed." He checked his Rolex. "We leave in forty minutes."

He turned and walked into the master bedroom, closing the door firmly.

Imogen walked into the guest bathroom and locked the door. Her legs gave out, and she slid down the marble wall until she hit the heated tile floor.

The luxury was overwhelming. The gold fixtures, the plush towels, the scent of lavender soap.

It was a violent contrast to the stainless steel toilet and concrete floor she had known for 1,095 days. She took a steadying breath, reminding herself this was just a different kind of prison, with softer walls.

She stood up on shaking legs and peeled off the trench coat. It fell to the floor in a heap. She pulled off the gray thermal shirt she had been released in.

She stood before the floor-to-ceiling mirror.

Imogen gasped.

She hadn't seen her full back in three years.

It was a map of pain. A jagged, pink scar ran from her left shoulder blade down to her ribs-a gift from a broken bed frame spring wielded by an inmate who wanted Ford's money.

Cigarette burns dotted her lower back like constellations.

Her right knee was swollen, a grotesque lump of bone and fluid.

She turned on the shower. She made it hot. Scalding.

She stepped in, biting back a scream as the water hit her raw skin. She grabbed a loofah and scrubbed.

She scrubbed until her skin turned angry red. She scrubbed to get the prison off. She scrubbed to get Ford's money off.

She stepped out, dripping, and wrapped herself in a towel. She walked into the bedroom.

Lying on the bed was a dress.

It was silver silk. Floor-length. Halter neck.

Imogen picked it up. The fabric was light as water. She held it up.

It was backless. Completely backless. The cut dipped dangerously low, exposing everything from the neck to the dimples of the lower back.

Imogen let out a dry, humorless laugh.

Bella. This was Bella's choice. She knew. She didn't know the extent of the scars, perhaps, but she knew Imogen had been hurt. This was a humiliation tactic. Show the world the damaged goods.

Imogen looked around. There were no other clothes. Her prison clothes were in a pile of filth in the bathroom.

She had no choice.

She dropped the towel and stepped into the dress. The silk felt like ice against her heated skin. She pulled it up and tied the halter behind her neck.

She turned to the mirror.

It was worse than she thought. The silver fabric shimmered, making the jagged, raised scars on her back look even more violent, more grotesque. Her short, choppy hair exposed her neck completely. There was nowhere to hide.

Imogen stared at herself. Fear rose in her throat, choking her. Then, slowly, it receded.

You already died, she told her reflection. You died in that cell. This is just the ghost. And ghosts have nothing to fear.

She found a tube of red lipstick on the vanity. It was old, dried out, but she scraped some onto her finger and pressed it to her lips. The crimson slash made her pale skin look porcelain, not sickly.

She looked like a warrior who had already lost the war but refused to lie down.

Footsteps echoed in the hall. Heavy. Impatient.

"Imogen!" Ford barked.

She took a deep breath. She opened the door.

Steam billowed out around her as she stepped into the hallway.

Ford was adjusting his cufflinks. He looked up, annoyance etched on his face. "About ti-"

His voice died in his throat.

His eyes went wide. He stared at her. First at the dress, clinging to her emaciated frame. Then, as she turned slightly to close the door, his gaze locked onto her back.

He saw the map. The burns. The jagged lines.

For a second, the mask slipped. Horror. Pure, unadulterated horror flashed in his eyes.

Ford swallowed hard. His Adam's apple bobbed.

He took an involuntary step forward, his hand reaching out as if to trace the long, pink scar that bisected her shoulder blade.

"What..." he started, his voice rough.

Imogen flinched. She slammed her back against the wall, her eyes wide and feral, like a cornered animal.

"Don't," she hissed.

Ford stopped. His hand hovered in the air for a second before he snatched it back, shoving it into his pocket.

The horror in his eyes hardened instantly into something colder. Defense. Denial.

"Looks like you played rough in there," he sneered, his voice dripping with disdain to cover his discomfort. "Is that your badge of honor?"

Imogen felt a sharp pain in her chest, but it wasn't her heart. It was the death of the last illusion.

"That," she said, her voice steady, "is the receipt for every 'risk mitigation expense' you signed, Ford."

Ford's face darkened，A flush of anger crept up his neck.

He stepped in close, invading her space, looming over her. He smelled of expensive scotch and aggression.

"Don't try to manipulate me," he growled, leaning down so his face was inches from hers. "Don't try to leverage this with a sob story or... whatever this is. I don't deal with damaged goods."

"Leverage this?" Imogen looked him dead in the eye. "I just want to stay away from you."

He grabbed her chin, his fingers digging into her jaw. "Remember who you are. You're here to atone. You're not a victim. You're a criminal."

Imogen jerked her face away from his grip. "I served three years. If that's not enough atonement, what do you want? My blood?"

They stared at each other. The air crackled with hatred.

Ford's phone buzzed again. He broke eye contact, checking the screen.

"Bella is waiting," he said, his voice instantly losing its edge. He walked to a hallway closet and pulled out a heavy, white faux-fur stole.

He tossed it at her. It hit her in the chest.

"Put it on," he ordered. "Cover that up. Don't scare the guests."

Imogen caught the fur. It was soft. Warm. It was a muzzle.

She draped it over her shoulders, pulling it tight. The scars disappeared. The warrior disappeared. She looked small again.

"Let's go," Ford said, turning his back on her. "And remember: stay away from Bella. Don't touch her."

Imogen followed him to the elevator. She watched his broad back. She felt nothing. No love. No hate. Just a cold, empty void. Inside, she ran through her checklist. Her son, Leo. Was he safe? The last coded message from her contact inside said he was. She had to trust that for now.

The car ride to the estate was in a stretch limo this time. Ford poured himself a glass of champagne and didn't offer her one.

"If you behave tonight," he said, looking out the window at the passing trees of the estate driveway, "I might consider a monthly allowance. Enough for a studio apartment in Queens."

Imogen didn't look at him. "I don't want your money. I want an independent audit of the Willis Trust."

Ford laughed. It was a sharp, barking sound. "An audit? You think the board will let a felon anywhere near the books? You're delusional."

"The bylaws state my shares grant me that right," she said simply.

"We'll see."

The limo slowed. Through the tinted windows, Imogen saw the flashes. Hundreds of them. The paparazzi were swarming the gates of the Willis estate like locusts.

"Showtime," Ford muttered. "Don't trip."

The door opened.

The world exploded into white light.

"Imogen! Imogen over here!"

"Did you do it?"

"How was prison, Imogen?"

"Is it true you're suing your sister?"

The shouts were a physical assault. Imogen blinked, blinded. She felt a wave of dizziness.

Ford stepped out first. He buttoned his jacket, flashed a perfect, practiced smile at the cameras, and then turned to offer her his arm.

It was a performance. The dutiful fiancé standing by the fallen woman. The perfect image for the stability clause.

Imogen hesitated. If she refused him, the headlines would be about her arrogance. If she took it, she was complicit in the lie.

She took his arm. His muscles were tense, hard as rock under the wool suit.

They walked the red carpet. Imogen focused on her feet. Step. Drag. Step. Drag. She tried to hide the limp, but the heels made it impossible.

They reached the massive double doors of the ballroom. The noise inside was a dull roar of conversation and clinking glass.

They stepped in.

Silence rippled through the room. It started at the door and spread outward like a wave, until five hundred people stopped talking and turned to look.

The judgment was heavy in the air. It tasted like expensive perfume and hypocrisy.

Ford immediately unhooked his arm from hers.

"Find a corner," he whispered, barely moving his lips. "Stay there."

He walked away without looking back, heading straight for the center of the room where a cluster of people stood.

In the middle was Bella.

She was wearing white. Pure, angelic white. A ballgown that took up space, demanding attention. She was laughing, holding court with Imogen's parents.

Imogen stood alone at the entrance. She felt exposed, naked despite the fur stole.

She lowered her head and moved toward the periphery, aiming for the shadows behind a massive floral arrangement of hydrangeas and white roses.

She passed a group of young women-debutantes she used to go to school with. They didn't lower their voices.

"God, she actually showed up?" one whispered loudly. "If I were her, I'd have jumped off a bridge."

"I heard she joined a gang inside," another giggled. "Look at her hair. So... butch."

Imogen gripped her empty hands together. Her nails dug into her palms. Keep walking.

She reached the safety of the flowers. She leaned against the wall, trying to slow her breathing.

On the other side of the greenery, two older women were talking. They couldn't see her.

"Richard is losing his mind," one matron murmured. "Handing the foundation to Bella? The girl is charming, but she's not bright."

"Shh," the other hissed. "He has no choice. Imogen is ruined. Besides... you know the rumor about Bella?"

"What rumor?"

"She's not Claudia's. Not biologically."

Imogen froze. Her breath hitched.

"No!"

"Yes. Adopted. A distant cousin or something. That's why Claudia spoils her so much. Guilt money. Or hush money."

Imogen's mind raced. Bella... adopted? But Richard, her father, treated Bella like the golden child. If she wasn't his blood... why? Why cast aside his own daughter for a stranger?

Unless... unless Bella knew something. Or was something else entirely.

A sudden impact jarred her shoulder.

"Oops!"

Imogen stumbled. A cold, wet sensation spread across her white fur stole.

A waiter stood there, holding an empty tray. Red wine dripped from the white fur, looking like a fresh wound.

"I am so sorry!" the waiter shouted. He wasn't sorry. His voice was projected, designed to draw attention. "I didn't see you there, Miss Willis!"

Heads turned. The whisper network ignited again.

Imogen looked at the red stain. It was ruined. The one shield she had against the world was destroyed.