Elenora woke up with a gasp. Her lungs heaved, searching for air that wasn't thick with the smell of rain and expensive cologne.

She was in a bed she didn't know. The sheets were too soft. The room was too quiet. Outside, thunder rumbled, a low growl that dragged her mind back to the nightmare she had just escaped.

But it wasn't a nightmare. It was a memory.

In her sleep, she had been back at the prep school. The sun had been shining that day, bright and blinding on the manicured green lawns. She was seventeen. She was wearing her custom-tailored blazer, the crest on the pocket stitched with gold thread.

She was holding the keys to a limited-edition convertible, tossing them in the air, catching them. The metal was cool against her palm.

Around her, the circle of sycophants laughed at something she said. She didn't remember the joke. It didn't matter. They always laughed.

Then she saw him.

Fitzgerald. He was younger then. Thinner. His clothes were second-hand, the cuffs fraying. He was near the trash cans behind the cafeteria, fishing out a textbook someone had thrown away as a prank.

One of the boys next to Elenora picked up a rock. He threw it.

It struck Fitzgerald on the temple. A thin line of red blood trickled down his pale skin. He didn't cry out. He didn't run. He just stood there, clutching the dirty book, his eyes burning with a silent, terrifying intensity.

Elenora felt a twist of boredom mixed with curiosity. She raised a hand, stopping the boy from throwing another.

She walked over to him. Her shadow fell over his face, blocking out the sun.

"Hey, stray," she said. She nudged his worn-out sneaker with the toe of her boot.

Fitzgerald looked up. He didn't look away. That annoyed her. Nobody looked her in the eye.

Elenora reached into her bag. She pulled out a wad of cash. It was her allowance for the week. More than his mother made in three months.

She threw it.

The bills fluttered down like green confetti. They landed on his shoulders, in his hair, in the dirt.

"Be my bodyguard," she said, smirking. "That should cover your sick mother's meds for a while."

Fitzgerald looked at the money. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. His knuckles turned white. He was shaking.

But he knelt.

He knelt in the dirt and picked up the bills, one by one.

The dream shifted. The scene changed.

The art studio. The smell of turpentine and oil paint. Fitzgerald was standing in the corner, holding a heavy canvas. He had been standing there for an hour. His arms were shaking.

Elenora was painting. She didn't like what she had done. In a fit of pique, she grabbed the jar of dirty paint water.

She splashed it on him.

Gray, murky water soaked his shirt.

"Clean it up," she said, laughing. "That's what you're here for, Woodard. To clean up my messes."

He got on his knees and scrubbed the floor.

The dream shifted again. The rain. The muddy field. She made him carry her because she didn't want to ruin her shoes. He slipped. They fell. She slapped him.

"Useless," she screamed in the dream. "You are useless."

Fitzgerald sat in the mud, rain dripping from his nose, and looked at her. That look. It wasn't submission anymore. It was a promise.

Elenora sat up in the dark room, sweat sticking her shirt to her back. Her heart was racing.

The door to the bedroom slammed open.

Light from the hallway flooded in, blinding her. Fitzgerald stood in the doorway.

He filled the frame. He wasn't the skinny boy from the dream. He was broad, imposing, a wall of muscle and expensive fabric.

He held a tray in his hand.

He walked to the bedside table and dropped the tray with a clatter. Soup sloshed over the side of the bowl. It looked cold. There was a piece of stale bread beside it.

"Eat," Fitzgerald said.

Elenora looked at the food. Her stomach turned. It looked like slop.

"I'm not hungry," she whispered.

Fitzgerald leaned against the doorframe. He crossed his arms. A cruel smile played on his lips.

"I didn't ask if you were hungry," he said. "I said eat. Don't expect anyone to spoon-feed you."

He paused, his eyes raking over her disheveled form.

"My Queen."

The title was an insult. A knife twisting in an old wound. He threw the word at her like she had thrown the money at him.

Elenora stared at the tray. The smell of the cold soup was greasy and metallic. Rage, sudden and hot, flared in her chest. It overrode the fear.

She swung her arm out.

The tray went flying. The bowl hit the wall and shattered. Cold broth and chunks of vegetables splattered against the silk wallpaper and dripped down to the carpet. The crash was loud, satisfying.

"I am not a dog, Fitzgerald," she said. Her voice shook, but she held her chin high.

Fitzgerald watched the soup ruin the wallpaper. He didn't blink. He slowly turned his head to look at her. The amusement was gone. His eyes were flat, black pools.

He pushed off the doorframe.

He took a step toward her. Then another.

Elenora scrambled back on the bed until her spine hit the headboard. There was nowhere to go.

He reached her. He didn't strike her. He leaned in, placing his hands on the mattress on either side of her hips, trapping her.

"Your value right now," he said, his voice a low rumble in his chest, "is less than a dog."

The proximity of him brought another memory crashing down on her.

The hospital corridor. Ten years ago.

Elenora was walking down the hall, her heels clicking on the linoleum. She was wearing a fur coat that cost more than the MRI machine in the room next door.

She saw Fitzgerald. He was pleading with a doctor. His voice was desperate, cracking. He needed an extension on the payment.

Beside him stood a nurse. A student nurse. Britni Bird. She had her hand on Fitzgerald's arm, rubbing it soothingly. She looked up at him with wide, watery eyes.

Elenora felt something ugly twist in her gut. It wasn't just disgust at his poverty. It was... something else. Something that felt like possessiveness.

She marched up to them.

"Woodard," she said, her voice echoing. "Is this why you won't polish my car? You're too busy playing man for this charity case?"

Britni flinched. She hid behind Fitzgerald.

Fitzgerald spun around. He put his arm out to shield the nurse. "Elenora, stop. Not here."

Elenora laughed. She opened her clutch. She pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. She crumpled it and threw it. It hit Britni in the face.

"A tip," Elenora sneered. "Stay away from my dog."

Britni started to cry. Fitzgerald shoved Elenora. Hard. She stumbled back into the wall. It was the first time he had ever touched her in anger.

The memory dissolved.

Fitzgerald's hand was on her throat.

Reality snapped back. He wasn't shoving her. He was choking her. His fingers wrapped around her windpipe, thumb pressing into the soft hollow of her throat.

"Do you remember?" he hissed. His face was inches from hers. "Do you remember how you treated her?"

Elenora clawed at his wrist. Her nails dug into his skin, but his arm was like granite. Black spots danced in her vision. Her lungs burned.

"She... is... a liar..." Elenora choked out. The words were barely air.

Fitzgerald's grip tightened. "Shut up. You don't get to speak her name."

The pressure was immense. Elenora's vision tunneled. Just when she thought her throat would collapse, he let go.

She fell sideways onto the mattress, gasping, coughing violently. She sucked in air, her throat screaming in protest.

Fitzgerald stood up. He loomed over her, adjusting his cuffs.

"Clean it up," he said, pointing to the mess on the floor.

Elenora looked at the shattered ceramic and the stain.

"And eat it," he added.

Elenora looked up, horror chilling her blood. "What?"

"Eat it off the floor," Fitzgerald said. "Or I call the hospital and tell them to stop your father's medication for the night."

Elenora froze. The threat was a physical blow.

She looked at the floor. The soup was soaking into the rug. Shards of white ceramic glinted in the mess.

She crawled off the bed. Her knees hit the carpet. She moved toward the spill. Tears blurred her vision, hot and stinging.

Fitzgerald watched. He didn't leave. He stood there, a sentinel of cruelty.

Elenora reached for a piece of potato that had fallen on the rug. Her hand trembled. She put it in her mouth. She swallowed. It tasted like dust and shame.

She heard Fitzgerald inhale sharply. She glanced up.

He was looking at her with an expression she couldn't read. It looked like triumph, but his jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. He looked... repulsed by her submission, as if it were a mirror to his own monstrosity.

He turned on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door so hard the walls shook.

Elenora was left alone in the dark, chewing on grit and tears.

The fever took her in the night.

She was burning up, but her teeth chattered with cold. She curled into a ball on the floor, unable to make it back to the bed. The darkness of the room swirled, pulling her down into the deepest, darkest memory of all.

The night. The rain. The club.

Elenora was in the back of her father's limousine. The leather seats were warm. She had a glass of champagne in her hand. The bubbles fizzed against her nose.

Outside, the world was drowning.

A figure ran up to the car. He banged on the window.

It was Fitzgerald. He was soaked to the bone. His hair was plastered to his skull. His eyes were wild.

Elenora rolled the window down two inches.

"I need five thousand," Fitzgerald begged. He didn't even say hello. "The surgery... the deposit... they won't operate. Please."

Elenora took a sip of her drink. She looked at him. She saw the desperation. And she remembered the nurse. She remembered how he looked at Britni.

She felt that ugly twisting thing in her gut again.

"Begging requires humility, Woodard," she said. Her voice was ice.

Fitzgerald froze. "What do you want?"

Elenora pointed a manicured finger at the puddle of oil and rainwater on the asphalt.

"Kneel. Beg me."

The people waiting in line for the club turned to look. Someone laughed. A phone came out, the camera flash going off.

Fitzgerald looked toward the hospital, miles away. He looked at the ground.

He dropped.

His knees hit the pavement with a crack that Elenora felt in her own bones. The water splashed up, soaking his cheap trousers.

"Please," he said. His head hung low. "Save my mother."

Elenora felt a rush of power. But underneath it, panic. She didn't want him to kneel. She wanted him to... look at her. To see her.

She checked her nails. She took another sip. She made him wait.

"Louder," she said. "I can't hear you over the rain."

Fitzgerald opened his mouth to scream his plea.

But his phone rang.

The sound cut through the rain. He fumbled for it with wet hands. He answered it.

Elenora watched his back. She saw his spine stiffen. She saw the phone slip from his fingers. It hit the puddle. The screen shattered.

He didn't move. He stayed on his knees. Then, a sound tore out of him. A roar. A howl. It wasn't human. It was the sound of a soul ripping in half.

"She's gone," he whispered to the asphalt.

Elenora dropped her glass. It shattered on the floor of the car.

"No," she whispered. "I was just... I was just playing."

Fitzgerald turned his head. His eyes were red. Capillaries had burst. He looked like a demon.

"Elenora Vang," he said. The voice wasn't his. "I curse you. One day, you will kneel. You will beg for death, and I won't give it to you."

Elenora screamed.

She woke up screaming.

The room was pitch black. Her throat was on fire. Her body felt like it was being crushed by a vice.

She tried to stand, to get water. Her legs gave way. She collapsed onto the floor.

She lay there, her cheek pressed against the cold wood. The fever raged.

She hadn't held a gun, but she had held the clock. She had been the gatekeeper to the minutes that mattered most. The thought was a poison, seeping into her, making her complicit in a death she never intended.

And now, the curse was here.