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.

Charlene lay perfectly still on the narrow hospital bed. The heavy plaster cast on her right arm felt like a concrete block resting on her stomach.

She watched Columbus through half-open eyes. His performance was flawless.

He leaned over the metal bedrail. His voice was soft, dripping with fake worry. "Is the pain medication working, Charlene?"

She turned her head away. She stared blankly at the blank white wall. She didn't make a sound.

Columbus let out a heavy, dramatic sigh. He was playing the role of the exhausted, patient older brother to perfection.

He turned around and picked up a sleek, insulated thermos from the bedside table.

He unscrewed the metal lid. He poured a thick, steaming grayish nutritional paste into a small plastic bowl.

Instantly, the heavy, bland smell of boiled oats and artificial vitamins filled the small room.

The smell hit Charlene's nose.

Her stomach violently seized.

The mere act of being forced to eat flashed her mind back to the dining room at the estate. Isabela, smiling sweetly, handing her a bowl of soup. The soup laced with shrimp puree. The severe allergic reaction that closed her throat. Isabela crying, claiming Charlene did it to herself to frame her.

Columbus picked up a plastic spoon. He scooped up the thick paste and pushed it right against Charlene's pale lips.

"Eat," Columbus ordered. The softness was gone from his voice. It was a hard command. "You need your strength."

Charlene pressed her lips together. She clamped her jaw shut so hard her teeth ached.

Columbus's eyes narrowed. His patience vanished.

He reached out with his free hand. His fingers clamped down hard on her jawline. He squeezed, pressing his thumb into her cheek until the pain forced her mouth open.

He shoved the spoon inside and dumped the hot paste onto her tongue.

The liquid slid down her throat. She choked.

The physical trauma and the psychological terror collided. Her body's defense mechanisms went into overdrive.

She grabbed the metal bedrail with her left hand. She hauled herself up, leaning over the edge of the mattress.

She retched.

The paste, mixed with burning stomach acid, poured out of her mouth and splattered all over the spotless hospital floor.

Columbus jumped back, his face twisting in disgust. He slammed the bowl down onto the bedside table.

The ER door suddenly flew open, hitting the wall with a loud bang.

Antwan strolled into the room. He was holding a red apple, casually peeling it with a pocket knife.

He looked at the vomit on the floor and let out a loud, barking laugh.

"Why are you playing the good guy with a lunatic, Columbus?" Antwan sneered, taking a loud bite of the apple.

Columbus spun around. His eyes were murderous. "Shut your mouth, Antwan. Get out."

Antwan ignored him. He walked right up to the side of Charlene's bed.

He leaned down. He brought his face so close to hers she could smell the sweet apple juice on his breath.

"You still don't get how the world works, do you?" Antwan whispered, a cruel, mocking smile stretching his lips. "You think you still have a say in anything? With that shiny new medical record of yours, you can't even prove who you are, let alone make a legal claim to Grandpa's estate. You're a ghost now. We hold all the cards."

Charlene's breath stopped.

Her pupils dilated. Pure, unadulterated horror flooded her eyes.

She slowly turned her head and looked at Columbus.

Columbus froze. He couldn't meet her eyes. He looked away, staring at the floor.

The truth crashed down on her, crushing her chest. It wasn't about the scandal. It wasn't about protecting the family. It was about money.

The last fragile thread of hope she had for her family snapped. Absolute, suffocating despair swallowed her whole.