The grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel had been transformed in hours. The Cantu PR machine worked flawlessly.

Elizabeth sat in the bridal suite. She wore a sleek, minimalist silk gown that clung to her curves, a stark contrast to the ruffled monstrosity Meredith had picked out for her original wedding.

The heavy oak door clicked shut. Dorian walked in. He wore a tailored black tuxedo that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. He waved a hand, and the makeup artists scrambled out of the room.

He walked up behind her. Their eyes met in the vanity mirror.

Dorian placed his large hands on the back of her chair. He leaned down, his breath warm against her neck. "Were you drugged last night?"

Elizabeth didn't look away from his reflection. "Meredith's doing."

Dorian chuckled. It was a dark, appreciative sound. "You used her trap to corner me. Impressive."

Elizabeth stood up and turned to face him. "If you didn't want to be cornered, you could have told your grandmother no."

The air between them thickened. The space felt too small.

The wedding march began to play through the speakers.

Elizabeth walked down the aisle on the arm of her adoptive father, Kerr Goodwin. Kerr's face was pale and tight. He had planned to control the main branch of the Cantu family through Acey. Now, he was handing her over to the unpredictable outcast.

They reached the altar. Kerr shoved her hand toward Dorian and forced a sickeningly sweet smile for the cameras.

Dorian took her hand. His grip was firm, his thumb brushing over her knuckles.

The priest read the vows. They stood face to face, the picture of a couple fighting for their forbidden love.

"I do," Dorian said. His voice was steady, his eyes locked onto hers, stripping away her defenses.

"I do," Elizabeth replied, her voice equally cold and resolute.

Dorian pulled a ring from his pocket. He slid a massive, flawless emerald cut diamond onto her ring finger. The weight of it felt like a shackle.

At the reception, they played their parts perfectly. They smiled at the whispering guests. Dorian kept his hand on the small of her back, his fingers pressing into her spine.

Hours later, the stretched Lincoln town car pulled up to a sleek glass tower in Tribeca.

The private elevator opened directly into a massive penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the glittering Manhattan skyline.

Elizabeth kicked off her heels the moment the doors closed. She walked into the living room, her feet sinking into the dark rug.

Dorian pulled off his bowtie. He walked to the marble bar, poured two glasses of neat whiskey, and handed her one.

Elizabeth took the heavy crystal glass. "Let's set the rules. Separate bedrooms. Financial independence. We don't interfere in each other's private lives."

Dorian leaned against the bar. He took a sip of his whiskey, his eyes tracking the movement of her throat as she swallowed.

"You are Mrs. Underwood now," Dorian said, his voice dropping an octave. "You will attend the required events. You will play the part. You will not embarrass me."

Elizabeth let out a short, mocking laugh. "You're on the front page of the Post every other week with a different model. I think you handle the embarrassing part just fine."

Dorian set his glass down with a sharp clink. He closed the distance between them in two long strides, backing her up against the edge of the marble bar.

He planted his hands on the counter on either side of her hips, trapping her. His chest brushed against hers.

"Don't get too smart, Elizabeth," he warned, his voice a low rumble.

Elizabeth didn't flinch. She reached up, grabbed the lapels of his tuxedo jacket, and pulled him an inch closer.

"Keep your hands to yourself, Dorian," she whispered, "and I'll be the perfect wife."

Three days later.

Elizabeth sat on the white leather sofa in the penthouse. She scrolled through the digital edition of the New York Post on her phone.

There he was. Dorian Underwood, sitting in a VIP booth at a SoHo club, a blonde model draped over his lap. His smile was lazy and arrogant.

Her phone vibrated, replacing the photo with an incoming call. Kerr Goodwin.

She swiped to answer.

"Get to the estate for dinner tonight," Kerr barked through the speaker. "You've been married three days and your husband is already publicly humiliating you. You're making us look like fools."

Elizabeth stared at the city skyline. "I'll be there." She hung up before he could say another word.

At seven o'clock, her cab pulled up to the wrought-iron gates of the Goodwin estate in Long Island.

She walked through the heavy front doors alone. The air in the house was stale, thick with years of unspoken resentment.

She walked into the dining room. Kerr, Meredith, and Jami were already seated at the long mahogany table. The silence was suffocating.

Jami looked up. A fake, sympathetic pout formed on her lips. "Where's Dorian? Couldn't drag him away from the club?"

Meredith scoffed, slicing her steak with unnecessary force. "What did you expect? A man like that doesn't take a foster system stray seriously."

Elizabeth pulled out a chair and sat down. She picked up her heavy silver fork and knife, her face completely blank. She ignored them.

Her silence hit Meredith like a physical blow. The older woman slammed her hand onto the table. The crystal glasses rattled.

"You ungrateful little bitch," Meredith hissed. "We took you in. We fed you. And you destroy your sister's engagement with your filthy tricks!"

Elizabeth slowly raised her eyes. Her gaze was dead, devoid of any emotion.

"Who put the drugs in my champagne, Meredith?"

The temperature in the room plummeted. Kerr stopped chewing. He turned his head slowly, staring at his wife.

Meredith's face flushed a violent shade of red. Panic flashed in her eyes before anger swallowed it. "You lying whore! You carry the trash genes of whatever junkie left you in the system!"

Jami sniffled loudly, dabbing her dry eyes with a napkin. "Acey and I love each other. You just couldn't stand to see me happy. You had to steal him."

Elizabeth dropped her fork onto the porcelain plate. The sharp clatter made Jami jump.

Elizabeth let out a cold, hollow laugh. "Steal him? Jami, you can keep the garbage. I just took out the recycling."

Jami's face crumpled. She looked at Kerr. "Daddy, make her stop!"

Kerr threw his napkin onto the table. He pointed a thick finger at Elizabeth. "Apologize to your sister right now. You are a disgrace to this family."

Elizabeth pushed her chair back and stood up. She looked at the three of them, feeling nothing but absolute disgust.

"I came here to tell you one thing," Elizabeth said, her voice eerily calm. "I am done. I owe the Goodwin family nothing. Do not call me again."

She picked up her purse from the empty chair next to her.

Meredith shrieked. She grabbed her half-full glass of red wine and hurled the liquid across the table.

Elizabeth twisted her body, but the dark red wine splashed across the side of her black dress. It dripped down the fabric like fresh blood.

Elizabeth stopped. She turned her head slowly and locked eyes with Meredith. The sheer, murderous intent in Elizabeth's stare froze the older woman in her seat.

Elizabeth didn't say a word. She turned on her heel and walked out of the dining room, leaving the toxic rot of the Goodwin family behind her forever.

The heavy front doors of the Goodwin estate slammed shut behind her.

Elizabeth stood on the stone driveway. The cold night air hit her face, cooling the heat radiating from her skin.

She looked down at her dress. The red wine clung to the fabric. She lifted her right hand. When Meredith threw the wine, the base of the crystal glass had clipped her knuckle. A deep cut sliced across her skin. Thick drops of blood welled up and dripped onto the pavement.

She dug into her purse, pulled out a tissue, and pressed it hard against the wound. The sharp sting grounded her. She stared at the crimson stain spreading across the white paper. Good, she thought, her erratic heartbeat finally steadying into a slow, rhythmic thud. This was the absolute last time she would ever bleed for the Goodwin family. The suffocating rage that had nearly choked her at the dinner table evaporated, replaced by a glacier of cold, calculated intent. From now on, they would be the ones bleeding.

She walked down the long driveway and flagged down a passing yellow cab on the main road.

"Downtown," she told the driver. "The Abyss."

The city lights blurred past the window. Her heart rate slowed. The anger morphed into a cold, calculated focus.

Thirty minutes later, the cab pulled up to a narrow, unlit alleyway in the Lower East Side. The neon sign for The Abyss flickered halfway down the brick wall.

Elizabeth stepped out of the cab. Her heels clicked against the damp asphalt.

"Well, well. Look what the trash dragged in."

Elizabeth stopped.

Acey Cantu leaned against the hood of a bright red Ferrari parked at the mouth of the alley. He held a lit cigarette between his fingers. The smell of cheap alcohol rolled off him in waves.

He pushed off the car and stumbled toward her, blocking her path.

Acey's bloodshot eyes dragged up and down her body. He looked at the wine stain, then at the bloody tissue wrapped around her hand. He let out a harsh, ugly laugh.

"Look at you," Acey sneered. "Thrown out like the stray dog you are. Even Dorian doesn't want to touch you."

Elizabeth stared at him. Her jaw locked. "Move, Acey."

The dismissal in her voice snapped his fragile ego. Acey flicked his cigarette at her feet. He lunged forward, reaching out to grab her shoulder. "You think you're better than me, you little whore?"

Elizabeth didn't step back. The deadpan mask vanished. Growing up as a stray in the foster system had taught her one very specific lesson: you either learned how to use a larger opponent's momentum against them, or you ended up in the hospital. She had spent years perfecting the art of dropping drunken, heavy-handed men. Pure, violent instinct took over.

As his hand closed in, she shifted her weight. She grabbed his wrist with her good hand, twisted her body, and locked his arm over her shoulder.

She dropped her hips and pulled.

Acey's one hundred and eighty pounds went airborne.

With a sickening thud, his back slammed into the unforgiving asphalt. All the air left his lungs in a violent rush. He curled into a fetal position, clutching his ribs, a pathetic wheeze escaping his throat.

Elizabeth stood over him. She brushed a speck of dust off her shoulder. A cruel, mocking smile touched her lips.

She leaned down, her voice a soft, deadly whisper. "You couldn't even last three seconds in bed, Acey. What made you think you could last three seconds in a fight?"

Acey's face turned purple. He opened his mouth, but only a strangled gasp came out. His eyes bulged with absolute humiliation.

From the deep shadows of the alley, the slow, rhythmic sound of clapping echoed off the brick walls.

Elizabeth whipped her head around, her muscles tensing for another fight.

Dorian Underwood stepped out of the darkness. "My security detail mentioned you left the dinner early, and that a rather pathetic red Ferrari was tailing your cab," Dorian said, his footsteps slow and deliberate. "I was curious to see what he thought he was going to accomplish."