The Maybach glided to a smooth halt in the underground garage.

Allie stepped out of the car. Her heart was beating a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Usually, she would flee straight to the guest room to avoid him. But tonight, he had spoken to her without malice. She had to seize this microscopic crack in his armor.

She followed the quiet hum of his wheelchair all the way to the massive double doors of his study.

Curtis parked behind his sprawling oak desk. He didn't yell at her to get out. Instead, he pulled a cigar from a humidor, clipped the end, and lit it. He watched her stand awkwardly in the doorway through a cloud of thick blue smoke.

Allie took a deep breath, forcing her lungs to expand. She stepped into the room, enduring the crushing weight of his stare.

"I need money," Allie said, her voice shaking but clear. "I need you to pay the monthly fee for my mother's private care facility."

Curtis let out a harsh, barking laugh.

"There it is," he sneered, his eyes turning to ice. "The fox finally shows its tail. The good behavior, the little stunt at dinner... it was all a transaction."

Allie didn't defend herself. She let the insult hit her, absorbing the pain.

"And," she continued, digging her nails into her palms, "I want my enrollment status reinstated at Parsons School of Design."

Curtis's eyes narrowed dangerously. He studied her face, trying to calculate the angle. Why would a useless, gold-digging illegitimate daughter want to go to a grueling design school?

"I don't want to be a complete waste of space in this house," Allie explained, a tiny spark of defiance bleeding into her tone. "I need to finish my degree."

Curtis crushed the lit cigar into the heavy crystal ashtray. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk.

"You have zero leverage in this room," he stated brutally. "You are an accessory. You don't make demands."

Allie lowered her head. She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

"I know," she whispered. "I know I am nothing. But if you agree to this... I will obey every single rule you have. I will do whatever you command."

Her absolute, dignity-stripping submission irritated him. He wanted her to fight back. He hated seeing her act like a lifeless puppet.

"Fine," Curtis snapped coldly. "The money goes directly to the facility. You don't see a dime. You can go to school, but you will have a strict curfew. And if you do anything-anything-to tarnish the Deleon name, I will lock you away."

A flash of pure, unadulterated joy lit up Allie's eyes. She had secured her mother's life.

"Yes. Thank you. I promise," she breathed out.

That look of relief stung Curtis's paranoid nerves. He pressed the intercom button.

"Vance," Curtis ordered. "Handle the billing for the Danae facility. And get her reinstated at Parsons." He released the button and waved his hand at Allie dismissively. "Get out."

Allie practically ran back to her freezing guest room. She locked the door, slid down the wall, and buried her face in her hands, crying silently into the dark. The crushing weight on her chest had finally lifted just a fraction.

The next morning, Allie woke up before dawn.

She dug through her battered suitcase and pulled out her old, scratched drawing board and a stack of faded design sketches. For the first time in months, there was light in her eyes.

When she walked out of the penthouse building, a massive black Cadillac SUV was idling by the curb. Vance stood by the rear door, his face an emotionless mask.

"Mr. Deleon arranged this vehicle for your commute," Vance stated flatly.

Allie climbed into the spacious backseat. As the SUV navigated the bustling Manhattan streets, she looked out the window. She felt like a caged bird granted a temporary yard pass.

The car pulled up to the iconic gates of Parsons School of Design. The familiar scent of coffee and oil paint in the air made Allie grip the straps of her canvas tote bag tightly.

"You must be back at this exact spot by 4:00 PM," the driver warned her through the rearview mirror. "Or I report directly to Mr. Deleon."

"I will be here," Allie promised.

She pushed the door open and stepped out into the crisp autumn wind. She practically floated toward the administration building.

The clerk at the registrar's office was shocked by her sudden, fully-funded return, but the Deleon Group's backing cleared all red tape in minutes.

Allie walked out of the building clutching her new student ID card. She pressed the plastic square against her chest. It was the only proof she had that she was a human being with a future, not just a breeding machine.

She headed toward the library to pull reference books for the new semester. As she reached the steps, she stopped dead in her tracks.

She frantically dug through her canvas bag. Her hands came up empty.

Her old tablet. The one holding all her original sketches for the upcoming Emerging Designer Competition. It was gone.

Panic seized her throat. She remembered fumbling with her bag when she got out of the car. She had left it on the backseat of the Cadillac.

Allie spun around and sprinted back toward the main gate, praying the driver hadn't left yet.

Meanwhile, at the towering Deleon Group headquarters in Midtown, Curtis sat at the head of the boardroom table. He was listening to a quarterly earnings report, looking supremely bored and irritated.

The boardroom doors opened quietly. Vance slipped in and walked briskly to Curtis's side.

He leaned down and whispered, "Sir, the driver found a tablet in the backseat of the car that took your wife to school."

Curtis frowned. "Bring it here."

Vance handed him the battered device. Curtis pressed the power button. The screen lit up.

There was no passcode. The screen unlocked directly to a high-resolution, incredibly complex vintage fashion design sketch. The lines were aggressive, the detailing masterful.

Curtis's breath hitched. His eyes locked onto the screen, completely captivated by the explosive talent staring back at him.

Allie sprinted to the edge of the street outside the main gates of Parsons, her chest heaving as she gasped for air. She scanned the busy avenue frantically, but the black Cadillac SUV was already gone.

She slapped a hand against her forehead. Her stomach twisted into a painful knot. That tablet didn't just have her competition sketches; it held a hidden folder containing her mother's real medical logs. If anyone in the Deleon household found it, she was dead.

She turned toward a nearby bench, reaching into her bag for her phone to call the driver.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in."

The shrill, venomous voice sliced through the air behind her.

Allie's spine went rigid. She slowly turned around.

Brittanie Copeland, her older half-sister, stood there draped in a seasonal Chanel haute couture jacket, flanked by three sneering girls from wealthy families.

Brittanie stepped right up to Allie, intentionally raising her voice so the passing students would hear.

"Look at you, dressed like a homeless person," Brittanie mocked, her eyes flashing with malice. "You're embarrassing the Copeland family, and you're definitely embarrassing the Deleons. Is the cripple not giving you an allowance?"

Several design students stopped on the sidewalk, pointing and whispering. Everyone knew the rumors about the brutal prenup and the gold-digging bride.

Allie felt the heat of humiliation creeping up her neck, but she refused to give Brittanie the satisfaction.

"My life is none of your business, Brittanie," Allie said coldly. She turned on her heel, trying to walk around the group.

Brittanie shot a look at one of her minions. The girl immediately stepped sideways, physically blocking Allie's path.

Before Allie could demand they move, a male voice called out from the edge of the crowd.

"Allie!"

Jerald Burke pushed his way through the whispering students. He was wearing a casual designer suit, his face etched with deep concern.

Jerald was a former suitor from her past. He was wealthy, healthy, and completely oblivious to the fact that Brittanie had anonymously texted him Allie's location just to use him as a weapon.

He rushed up to Allie, his eyes full of pain. "Why did you do it, Allie? Why did you sell yourself to a paralyzed tyrant for money? I would have given you anything!"

Allie's face drained of color.

"Shut up, Jerald," she hissed, her voice trembling with panic. "You don't know what you're talking about. Leave me alone. You are going to ruin me."

Her cold rejection triggered Jerald's bruised ego. His emotions spiraled out of control.

He lunged forward and grabbed Allie's wrist with a crushing grip, trying to physically drag her away from the crowd. "I'm getting you out of here!"

"Let go of me!" Allie screamed, thrashing wildly. Her cheap heels slipped on the cobblestone pavement. The pain in her wrist was blinding.

Standing a few feet away, Brittanie's lips curled into a wicked smile. She smoothly pulled her phone from her purse, aimed the high-definition camera at them, and held down the burst-capture button.

Seeing Allie resist so fiercely, Jerald yanked her arm hard.

Using his weight advantage, he pulled the off-balance Allie directly into his chest. For a split second, she was plastered against him.

From the angle of the bystanders, it looked exactly like a desperate, passionate embrace between two star-crossed lovers.

Brittanie's phone silently snapped dozens of perfect, highly deceptive photos.

Half a second later, Allie's survival instinct kicked in. She shoved both hands against Jerald's chest with every ounce of strength she had. Her fingernails dug in so hard they tore through the fabric of his expensive shirt.

She broke free, stumbling backward, her chest heaving.

"If you ever touch me again, I will call campus security!" she screamed, pointing a shaking finger directly at his face.

Jerald froze, stunned by the sheer violence of her rejection. He took a step back, looking hurt and betrayed. "You've changed," he muttered, before turning and walking away.

The surrounding crowd of rich kids erupted into cruel laughter. Someone yelled, "Mr. Deleon's head is glowing green!"

A wave of intense nausea hit Allie. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Brittanie lowering her phone.

The realization hit her like a freight train. It was a setup.

"Give me that phone! Delete those pictures!" Allie lunged at Brittanie.

Before she could reach her, two of Brittanie's minions shoved Allie hard in the chest.

Allie flew backward and crashed onto the rough pavement. The skin on her palms tore open, bleeding instantly, but she didn't feel the pain. She only felt a suffocating, paralyzing terror of what was coming.

Brittanie stood over her, looking down with pure triumph. She mouthed the words, You are dead, before turning and strutting away with her entourage.

The crowd slowly dispersed, leaving Allie sitting alone on the cold ground.

Her hands shook violently as she pulled out her phone to call Vance. She had to explain. She had to warn them.

She pressed the power button. The screen flashed the low battery icon and instantly went black. It was dead.

A low, vibrating hum of a massive engine echoed from the end of the street.

Allie slowly lifted her head. Her blood ran ice cold.

Parked in the shadows directly across the street, idling like a mechanical beast waiting to strike, was the familiar, terrifying shape of the armored Maybach.

Three minutes earlier.

The armored Maybach rolled silently down the street bordering the Parsons campus. Curtis sat in the cavernous back seat, the battered tablet resting on his paralyzed thighs.

He had come here driven by an intense, unfamiliar curiosity. The design sketch had shocked him. He wanted to hand the tablet back to her himself, to look into her eyes and figure out who the hell he had actually married.

Through the heavily tinted, bulletproof glass, Curtis's eyes locked onto the plaza steps. He spotted Allie immediately.

And he spotted the man walking toward her. Jerald Burke.

Because of the distance and the thick glass, Curtis couldn't hear a single word being spoken. He was entirely dependent on visual input.

He watched Jerald rush up to her. He saw Allie stepping back, but to his paranoid mind, she wasn't running away. She wasn't screaming for help.

Then, the fatal moment occurred.

Jerald lunged forward and yanked Allie hard against his chest.

From Curtis's physical vantage point across the street, Allie's back completely blocked her hands pushing against Jerald's chest. All Curtis saw was his wife melting into the arms of a healthy, able-bodied man. It looked like a desperate, passionate embrace.

The thin thread of rationality in Curtis's brain snapped. He could not reconcile the brilliant, explosive talent he had just witnessed on the tablet with the cheap, cheating woman throwing herself at another man right in front of his eyes. That massive, sickening contradiction twisted his fury into something far darker. Every ounce of trauma, every sneer he had endured since the accident, every deep-seated insecurity about his useless legs erupted into a volcanic, blinding rage. He looked at Jerald's strong, standing legs. The humiliation burned through his veins like acid.

Curtis's hand clamped down on the edge of the tablet. He squeezed.

A sickening crack echoed in the silent cabin. The glass screen of the tablet splintered into a massive spiderweb under the crushing pressure of his thumb.

In the front seat, Vance heard the noise. He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Curtis's face. It was the face of a demon. Vance instantly held his breath, terrified to make a sound.

Curtis stared out the window. He watched Allie push Jerald away and fall to the ground. To him, it looked like the tragic parting of two lovers tearing themselves away from each other.

"Bring that suicidal bitch back to the car," Curtis commanded. His voice wasn't loud. It was a dead, hollow whisper that sounded like it came straight from hell. "Now."

The Maybach jerked to a halt across the street.

The doors flew open. Two massive private security guards, built like brick walls, marched across the asphalt.

Allie was still sitting on the ground, staring in absolute horror at the Maybach. She tried to push herself up, her bleeding palms leaving red smears on the stone.

The guards reached her. They didn't speak. They simply grabbed her by the upper arms, one on each side, and hauled her up like a ragdoll.

Allie gasped in pain as their iron grips crushed her already bruised wrists. She didn't dare fight back.

The remaining students watched in shock as the Deleon security team dragged a woman through the street in broad daylight.

Allie's heels dragged across the asphalt. Her dignity was completely shredded, left behind on the pavement.

The rear door of the Maybach was yanked open. The guards shoved her inside with brutal force. Allie tumbled into the dark cabin, slamming hard against the leather seats.

The door slammed shut, sealing her in a tomb.

Allie scrambled to sit up, her chest heaving. She turned her head and met Curtis's eyes.

They were bloodshot, completely devoid of humanity, radiating a pure, murderous intent. Her heart skipped a beat.

"Curtis, please, you have to listen to me," she cried, her voice trembling violently. "It was a setup! Brittanie-"

Curtis didn't let her finish. He picked up the shattered tablet and hurled it violently at her feet. It bounced off her shin with a heavy thud.

Before she could react, his massive hand shot out and clamped around her throat.

He pinned her back against the bulletproof window.

"Do you think I'm a joke?" he roared, the sound vibrating in the small space. "Do you think because I sit in this chair, you can play me for a fool right in front of my face?!"

Allie's face turned a deep shade of red as her oxygen supply was cut off. She clawed weakly at his thick forearm, her lungs burning. Hot tears spilled over her cheeks, landing on his knuckles.

Curtis stared at her tears. They disgusted him. He saw nothing but the fake crying of a cheating whore.

He released her throat with a violent shove. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his fingers, as if touching her skin had contaminated him.

"Cancel all her privileges," Curtis ordered Vance through the intercom, his voice dripping with ice. "Confiscate her phone. We are going back to the penthouse."

The Maybach's engine roared like a beast. The car shot forward, tearing away from the Parsons campus.

Allie slumped into the corner of the seat, clutching her bruised throat and coughing violently. She stared at the floor. The tiny sliver of freedom she had just tasted was gone, replaced by a nightmare far worse than anything she had imagined.