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.

Imogen waved the waiter away.

She needed to get the stole off. She needed to clean up. But she couldn't do it here, not with five hundred pairs of eyes dissecting her reaction.

She turned and slipped out a side door that led to the east wing of the estate-the library and game rooms.

It was quieter here. The thick Persian carpets swallowed the uneven rhythm of her footsteps.

She headed for the guest powder room near the library.

As she passed the mahogany door of the Poker Room, she heard laughter. Male laughter. Smoke drifted out from under the door.

She intended to keep walking. But then she heard his voice.

"All in."

Ford.

Imogen stopped. She shouldn't listen. She knew that. But her feet were rooted to the floor. She stepped closer to the slightly ajar door.

"You're brave, man," a voice said. It was Lee, a hedge fund manager Ford had gone to prep school with. "Marrying the convict? The stock price is going to tank."

Imogen held her breath, waiting for Ford to defend her. To say something about loyalty, or the contract, or even just tell them to shut up.

There was the clatter of chips hitting the table.

"It's just a merger, Lee," Ford said. His voice was lazy. Relaxed. "Once the trust releases her voting shares to me, who cares where she is?"

"But..." another voice laughed. "I heard she got... used up in there. You gonna touch that?"

Imogen felt like she had been punched in the gut.

Ford paused. "Damaged goods," he said. The words hung in the air, heavy and toxic. "Doesn't matter. Once I have the shares, you guys can have her. I don't care."

The room erupted in laughter.

Imogen leaned back against the hallway wall. She slid down until she hit the floor.

Damaged goods.

You guys can have her.

The final thread snapped. The tiny, microscopic hope that maybe, just maybe, this was purely business-it vanished.

He wasn't just a monster. He was a pimp, and her shares were the price.

Imogen looked at her left hand.

She was wearing a simple silver band-a placeholder ring Ford had given her because the diamond engagement ring had been "put in the safe for protection" when she was arrested.

She pulled it off.

It felt light. Cheap.

She stood up. There was a large Ming vase on a pedestal next to the door.

She dropped the ring inside. It made a quiet clink as it hit the bottom.

Inside the room, Ford shouted, "Royal Flush! Read 'em and weep, boys!"

Imogen turned away. She didn't go to the bathroom. She didn't clean the wine stain.

She adjusted the ruined stole, letting it hang loose.

She walked back toward the ballroom. Her limp was still there, but her head was up. Her eyes were dry. They were no longer the eyes of a victim. They were the eyes of someone with nothing left to lose.

She turned the corner and nearly collided with a wall of black silk.

Claudia. Her stepmother.

Claudia looked at the wine stain and curled her lip. "What are you doing lurking in the hallways? Get back inside. Bella is about to make her speech."

Imogen looked at the woman who had raised her since she was ten. "I'm coming," she said. Her voice was ice. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Claudia gripped Imogen's elbow, her nails digging into the tender flesh. She marched her back into the ballroom like a warden escorting a prisoner.

"Smile," Claudia hissed. "Stop looking like a funeral."

They reached the edge of the crowd. The wine stain on Imogen's white fur drew eyes like a beacon.

Bella looked at her with pretended sympathy.

A man in a sharp suit-one of the family's lawyers, Mr. Davenport-approached them, holding a slim leather folio.

"Miss Imogen," Davenport said, his eyes cold and devoid of pity. "If I could have a moment. There are some documents that require your immediate attention."

Imogen stared at the folio. She knew this game.

"No thank you," Imogen said.

"Sign it," Claudia whispered harshly. "Don't make a scene. It's for your own protection."

"Protection from what?" Imogen asked loudly. "From my sister stealing my inheritance? Or from the hell you sent me to?"

Claudia's face went rigid. "Lower your voice."

People were turning. The circle of silence was forming again.

Suddenly, Davenport opened the folio with a theatrical flourish. He held up a document.

"This is a court order," he announced, his voice projecting across the silent room.

"A temporary restraining order, filed by Miss Bella Willis against you. And this," he produced another sheaf of papers, "is a petition for a conservatorship, citing your recent incarceration and documented... instability."

The word hit the room like a bomb.

Conservatorship.

A collective gasp sucked the air out of the room. They weren't just shaming her; they were trying to legally erase her.

Imogen stared at the lawyer. "What are you talking about?"

"It's for the best, dear," Claudia said, her face a mask of tragic concern. "You're not well. You need help. We're just trying to manage your affairs so you don't hurt yourself... or the family's stock value."

It was perfect. The final nail in the coffin. They were using her prison sentence not just as a mark of shame, but as a legal weapon to declare her mentally unfit. To seize control of her shares, her inheritance, her very life.

Imogen shook with rage. "You are lying."

She stepped toward Claudia.

Claudia threw herself backward, stumbling into a nearby table and knocking over a floral arrangement. Water and white roses spilled across the floor. "Don't touch me! Security! She's becoming violent!"

Ford pushed through the crowd. "What is going on?"

"She's out of control!" Claudia cried, pointing at Imogen. "Davenport was just trying to help her, and she attacked me!"

Ford looked at Imogen. His eyes were full of disgust. "A conservatorship? Is it true?"

Imogen looked at him. "If I said no, would you believe me?"

Ford didn't answer. That was the answer.

Imogen laughed. It was a jagged, broken sound.

She bent down. The crowd flinched.

She picked up a single, long-stemmed white rose from the floor.

"Ford!" Claudia screamed. "She's completely lost it!"

Ford stepped back, looking around for security.

Imogen didn't lunge at anyone. She held the rose up, twirling it between her fingers.

"A conservatorship is a fascinating legal tool," Imogen said, her voice calm. Terrifyingly calm. "It requires absolute proof of incompetence. But what if the person you're trying to silence is the only one who knows where the bodies are buried? Or, in our case, where the money is. Tell me, Father," she said, her eyes finding Richard Willis in the crowd, "how is the shell corporation in the Cayman Islands doing? The one registered under my mother's maiden name? Still profitable?"