Columbus dropped his arm to his side. He took a step forward.

His long legs closed the distance between them at a terrifyingly calm pace.

Charlene clamped her jaw shut. Her teeth ground together. She ordered her feet to stay planted. She refused to take a single step backward.

Columbus stopped exactly two feet in front of her.

He looked down. His eyes swept over the cheap canvas duffel bag in her hands. His upper lip twitched in pure disgust.

He turned his head slightly to the side.

"Take that garbage," Columbus ordered. His voice was flat and cold.

A burly assistant stepped out from behind him. The man reached out and grabbed the bag.

Charlene didn't let go immediately. The assistant yanked it hard, tearing the coarse canvas handles from her raw, blistered fingers.

Columbus didn't say another word. He turned his back on her and walked toward the automatic glass doors at the end of the hall.

Charlene stood frozen for a second. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. She forced her legs to move, following his broad back.

The automatic doors slid open.

The brutal, freezing Swiss wind slammed into her face. It stung her cheeks like tiny needles.

A massive black Maybach sat idling by the curb.

A driver in white gloves stood by the rear door. He pulled it open and bowed his head.

Columbus stopped. He turned slightly and jerked his chin toward the dark interior of the car.

Charlene kept her eyes on the ground. She ducked her head and slid into the backseat.

The leather seats were soft, but the air inside was suffocating.

Columbus climbed in right after her. He sat down, his thigh almost brushing against hers.

The heavy car door slammed shut. The sound was a dull, final thud.

Instantly, the enclosed space filled with his scent. It was an aggressive, custom cedarwood cologne.

The smell hit the back of Charlene's throat.

Her lungs seized.

The scent was a physical blow. It ripped her out of the present and dragged her violently back to the charity gala.

She felt the room spinning. She tasted the bitter champagne on her tongue. The drug kicking in.

She remembered the pitch-black hotel room. The heavy weight of a man's body pressing her down into the mattress. The rough, animalistic sound of his breathing against her neck.

Charlene squeezed her eyes shut. She locked her hands together in her lap. She dug her fingernails so deeply into the back of her hand that the skin broke. She needed the physical pain to stay grounded.

But the memories wouldn't stop.

The dark room faded into the blinding white lights of the delivery room.

She felt the agonizing tearing in her body. She saw the doctor standing over her, shaking his head. His mouth moving, forming the words: Stillborn.

But she had heard it. Deep in her eardrums, she remembered the faint, weak cry of a baby.

Then came the face of Joshuah Rowe, her biological father. Standing over her hospital bed, his face red with rage, screaming insults at her while she bled.

And then, Columbus. Standing next to Joshuah, holding a thick stack of psychiatric evaluation papers. Handing them to the doctor with a cold, detached expression.

A single tear broke free. It slid down her left cheek, hot and humiliating.

She panicked. She raised the back of her trembling hand and scrubbed the tear away, rubbing her skin raw.

Columbus turned his head.

His dark eyes sliced into her. They were completely dead.

"Dry your face," Columbus said. His voice was a low, menacing whisper that sent a fresh wave of terror through her veins. "Keep the Gay family's dignity intact, or I will leave you here."

The Maybach's engine hummed as the driver applied the brakes. The car rolled to a smooth stop right next to the private airstrip.

The driver threw the car into park and jumped out. He pulled open the rear door of the Maybach.

Charlene's joints popped as she forced herself to move. She dragged her body out of the car.

Her feet hit the rough asphalt of the tarmac.

The wind out here was violent. It whipped her long, unbrushed hair across her face, stinging her eyes.

She walked toward the private Gulfstream jet. She climbed the metal stairs of the boarding ramp, her legs feeling like lead with every step.

She stepped inside the luxurious cabin. The air was warm and smelled of expensive leather and polished wood.

She ignored the plush sofas and walked straight to a single, isolated seat by the window. She collapsed into it.

She grabbed the heavy metal buckle of the seatbelt and shoved it into the slot. It clicked.

The engines roared to life. The plane began to taxi down the runway. Within seconds, the nose lifted, and the jet shot into the sky.

The cabin pressure shifted. Her ears popped.

Instantly, a brutal wave of vertigo slammed into the back of her skull. It was the lingering side effect of the Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation therapy they had forced on her.

Her vision blurred. The edges of the cabin warped and twisted.

Acid boiled in her stomach. The nausea rushed up her esophagus like a geyser.

She slammed her hand against the seatbelt release button.

She stumbled out of the chair. Her knees buckled, but she caught herself on the edge of the armrest.

She sprinted down the narrow aisle toward the back of the plane.

She threw open the bathroom door, lunged inside, and slammed the lock shut behind her.

She dropped to her knees. The hard floor bruised her kneecaps.

She leaned over the stainless steel toilet and gagged.

Her stomach violently contracted. She threw up nothing but bitter, yellow bile. Her throat burned. She coughed, gasping for air, tears streaming down her face from the physical strain.

When her stomach was finally empty, she grabbed the edge of the sink and pulled herself up.

She turned on the faucet. The water was freezing. She cupped it in her hands, rinsing the foul taste from her mouth, and splashed it onto her pale face.

She looked up at the mirror.

The woman looking back at her was a ghost. Sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, dead skin.

She took a deep, rattling breath. She unlocked the door and pushed it open.

Columbus was standing right outside.

He didn't say a word. He just held out a perfectly folded, pure white square handkerchief.

Charlene stared at the fabric. A surge of pure, unadulterated hatred flared in her chest.

She raised her hand and slapped his arm away.

The handkerchief fluttered to the expensive wool carpet.

Columbus's jaw clenched tight. A muscle ticked in his cheek. His eyes darkened with sudden, explosive rage.

His hand shot out. His fingers wrapped around her thin wrist like an iron vice.

He squeezed. The bones in her wrist ground together.

"Do not test my patience, Charlene," he hissed, his face inches from hers. "You are walking on very thin ice."

Charlene didn't flinch. She didn't pull away. She stared right back into his eyes. Her gaze was completely dead, devoid of any fear or light.

Columbus stared at her dead eyes. Something flickered in his expression. He scoffed, a harsh, ugly sound, and shoved her arm away.

He adjusted his suit cuffs, smoothing the fabric.

"Grandpa's heart condition has worsened," Columbus said, his voice dropping back to that cold, business-like tone. "His only wish is to see you."

The name hit her like a physical blow. Grandpa.

The rigid tension in Charlene's shoulders collapsed. The fight drained out of her body.

She closed her eyes. For the only man in the world who had ever truly loved her, she swallowed her pride. She turned around and walked silently back to her seat.

The long flight finally ended. The Gulfstream touched down smoothly on the runway at JFK Airport in New York.

Charlene unbuckled her seatbelt. She followed Columbus down the stairs and out into the humid New York air.

A bulletproof black Cadillac SUV was waiting for them.

She climbed into the back. The doors locked automatically. The SUV sped out of the airport, merging onto the highway, heading straight for the Gay family estate in the Hamptons.

Over two hours later, as the late afternoon sun began to dip below the horizon, the massive, black wrought-iron gates of the estate loomed ahead. As the SUV approached, the gates slowly swung open.

The tires crunched loudly against the crushed gravel driveway. The car pulled up to the front steps of the sprawling, multi-story mansion.

The driver put the car in park.

Charlene pushed her door open. She stepped out. Her flat shoes hit the familiar gravel.

A sharp, piercing whistle echoed from the front porch. It was loud and full of mockery.

Charlene looked up.

Antwan Gay, her second brother, was walking down the wide stone steps.

He was swinging a custom titanium golf club in his right hand. He wore a smug, arrogant smirk.

He stepped off the last stair and moved sideways, planting his body directly in her path to the front door.

"Look what the cat dragged in," Antwan sneered. "The crazy stray dog is back from the pound."

Charlene felt a dull ache behind her eyes. She didn't have the energy for this. She didn't even look at his face.

She turned her shoulders, trying to walk around him.

Antwan scoffed. He shuffled his feet, blocking her again.

Charlene slowly raised her eyes. She looked at him with a gaze so exhausted, so utterly empty, it was like looking at a piece of trash on the sidewalk.

That look of pure dismissal ignited Antwan's temper. His face flushed red.

He suddenly shifted his weight and kicked his right leg out.

The hard leather toe of his expensive loafer slammed directly into Charlene's stomach.

The impact knocked the breath out of her lungs.

She flew backward. Her feet tangled together. She crashed hard onto the crushed gravel.

Instinctively, she threw her right hand out to catch her fall.

Her palm hit the rocks.

Snap.

A loud, sickening crack echoed in the air.

Blinding, white-hot agony shot up her right arm. The pain was so intense her vision went completely black for a second.

All the blood drained from her face. She curled into a tight ball on the ground, gasping for air. She clutched her right wrist against her chest. The joint was already swelling, bent at a wrong, unnatural angle.

The heavy oak front door banged open.

Columbus sprinted out of the house.

He reached Antwan and grabbed him roughly by the collar of his designer shirt, pulling him close. "Have you completely lost your mind?" Columbus hissed, his voice a lethal, freezing whip devoid of any panic, only pure, unadulterated fury at the loss of control. "Stop embarrassing us out here in the open."

He shoved Antwan aside with a look of utter disgust, smoothing his own suit jacket. He then turned his cold, calculating gaze to the driver. "Bring the car back. Now," he ordered, his tone flat and absolute.

Columbus knelt down in the gravel, his movements stiff and calculated. He reached out and scooped Charlene up into his arms, not out of tenderness, but to swiftly remove the embarrassing spectacle from the driveway.

She groaned, her body trembling violently from the shock and pain.

He carried her to the SUV and laid her carefully across the backseat. He climbed in next to her, slamming the door.

The driver floored the gas pedal. The tires spun, kicking up gravel, as the SUV tore out of the estate toward the nearest private hospital ER.

The pain radiating from her wrist was unbearable. Charlene's breathing grew shallow. The edges of her vision darkened.

She passed out.

When she finally opened her eyes again, the harsh fluorescent lights of an emergency room blinded her.

She turned her head slowly on the stiff pillow.

Columbus was standing right next to her bed. His face was twisted into a mask of deep, sickeningly fake concern.