5:50 PM.

Arla went to the stove, turned the gas dial. A hiss filled the small kitchen,but she didn't light it.

She took a thick towel, soaked it in water, and draped it over the burners, creating a pocket for the gas to accumulate.

She retreated to the bathroom, counting down the seconds.

5:59 PM. She heard footsteps on the gravel path.

Arla struck a match, she walked to the kitchen doorway.

The lock clicked, the door handle turned.

As the maid pushed the door open, Arla flicked the match toward the stove.

BOOM.

The pocket of gas ignited. It wasn't a massive explosion, but the force blew the wet towel across the room and set the curtains ablaze instantly.

The maid screamed, dropping the tray. She stumbled back, shielding her face.

Arla didn't hesitate, she lowered her shoulder and rammed into the woman, knocking her into the bushes.

She sprinted.

Before she cleared the doorway, she instinctively smeared a handful of soot from the charred frame across her cheeks and forehead, obscuring her features. The cool grass felt wet under her bare feet. She ran toward the tree line, away from the lights of the party.

Sirens began to wail, real ones this time.

In the main house, the music stopped.

Culver was on the terrace, a glass of champagne in his hand. He heard the boom, he saw the orange glow rising from the guest cottage.

"Sir!" The head of security spoke into his earpiece. "Target is running. North quadrant."

Culver slammed his glass down on a table. "Do not shoot," he snarled. "Bring her back, whole."

Arla's lungs were burning. She could hear the dogs barking.

She cleared a hedge, landing hard on her knees. Ahead of her lay the ornamental pond, it was her only barrier against the dogs.

She waded in, something hit her from behind.The Doberman clamped its jaws onto the hem of her robe, dragging her back.

Arla flailed, her hand closed around a smooth river stone. She swung it backward, smashing it into the dog's snout.

The dog yelped and let go.

But it was too late. Beams of light converged on her, four guards surrounded the pond, weapons drawn.

"Stay down!"

Arla stood in the waist-deep water, shivering violently. She looked like a drowned rat.

The crowd of guests had gathered on the lawn, whispering, pointing. Eleonore Joyce stood at the front, a smirk playing on her red lips as she glanced at the filthy, soot-streaked creature being dragged from the water. Just another piece of trash Culver was playing with. She didn't give its face a second thought.

Culver pushed through the line of guards. He had taken off his tuxedo jacket, his white shirt was stark against the darkness.

He waded into the water, didn't care about his Italian leather shoes.

He stopped a foot away from her, his face was a mask of fury.

"You would rather burn to death?" he asked softly.

Arla lifted her chin, she was shaking, but she looked him in the eye.

Culver laughed, it was a cold, sharp sound. He grabbed a handful of her wet hair and yanked her head back, forcing her to look at the smoldering cottage.

"I tried to be nice," he whispered.

He dragged her out of the water, didn't offer her his coat.

"The wine cellar," Culver ordered. "No food. No water. Not until I say so."

Two guards hauled her up.

Arla caught Eleonore's eye. The woman laughed, sipping her wine. "Good help is so hard to find these days."

They dragged Arla away into the darkness.

The wine cellar was a tomb.

There was no light, save for a thin strip of grey that filtered through a ventilation grate near the ceiling.

Arla sat in the corner, her knees pulled to her chest.

Time dissolved.

Was it day? Night?

Her throat was sandpaper. She crawled to the stone wall, licking the condensation that gathered on the rough bricks.

Upstairs, in the study, Culver watched the night-vision feed.

"Thirty-six hours, sir," Julian said. "She's dehydrated. She could go into shock."

Culver stared at the screen. Arla was huddled in the fetal position, but she wasn't rocking or thrashing, she was unnervingly still.

"She hasn't begged," Culver said.

He spun his pen between his fingers. But looking at her wasted frame, he felt a twinge of something that wasn't anger.

Day three.

Arla lay on the floor. She didn't have the energy to move.

A beam of light cut through the dark. Culver's face appeared, framed by the metal rectangle.

"Do you want to come out?" he asked.

Arla lifted her head, it took everything she had. She looked at him, her eyes glassy. She didn't nod.

Culver slammed his hand against the metal.He thought he would feel triumph, but he felt a sharp stab in his chest.

He slammed the slot shut and walked away.

Arla lay her cheek against the wet stone. A tear leaked out, not sadness, it's hate.

If I live, she thought, I will burn your world down.

Hours later, the door opened fully.

Culver stood there. He held a silver tray with a bowl of steaming broth.

He walked in. He crouched down beside her.

"Drink," he said. He lifted the spoon to her lips.

Arla looked at the spoon. Then at his hand.

She lunged.

She sank her teeth into the fleshy part of his palm, biting down with every ounce of strength she had left. She channeled the last dregs of her energy into that single, defiant act. The world swam in black spots the moment she let go, her body finally giving out completely.