Jane stood at a busy intersection in Manhattan. She wore her oversized, outdated coat. The noise of the city rushed past her in a blur of yellow cabs and rushing pedestrians.

A taxi sped through a puddle near the curb. Dirty water splashed against her pant legs. She flinched and stumbled backward.

People in expensive suits cast disgusted glances at her. She immediately dropped her gaze, her shoulders hunching forward in the same defensive posture she used to avoid guards in Cell Block D.

She forced herself to look up. In the distance, the towering glass skyscrapers pierced the clouds. That was Carson Long and Blaire Lowe's world. She did not belong here anymore.

A sharp gust of wind blew down the avenue. She wrapped her arms around her waist. Her cold fingers brushed against the thin envelope in her pocket.

Her parole officer's warning echoed in her head. She had to be at the halfway house in Queens before sunset.

But her feet moved in the opposite direction. She walked toward the Upper East Side. Toward New York-Presbyterian Hospital.

She stopped outside a high-end florist. Through the pristine glass window, she saw a display of fresh white lilies.

They were Blaire's favorite. Five years ago, before the fire, Jane used to help Blaire pick them out.

She pushed the heavy glass door open. A small bell chimed. The sudden blast of warm air from the heaters made her shiver.

The clerk behind the counter looked up. Her eyes scanned Jane's ragged clothes and the fading bruises on her face. The clerk's expression instantly hardened into defensive disgust.

Jane pointed a trembling finger at the white lilies.

"How much?" Jane asked. Her voice was raspy, sounding like sandpaper scraping across wood.

The clerk stated a price that was three times the amount in Jane's pocket. She gave Jane a look that clearly said to leave.

Jane pulled her hand back. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the crisp twenty-dollar bill. She placed it gently on the glass counter.

"Can I..." Jane swallowed hard. "Can I buy something cheaper? Even if they are dying. Just for twenty dollars."

The clerk rolled her eyes. She slapped a few crumpled dollar bills onto the glass counter as change, then walked over to a plastic bucket in the corner meant for the trash. She pulled out three wilting daisies with browning edges and shoved them into Jane's hands.

Jane did not care about the disrespect. She held the dying flowers against her chest as if they were made of gold.

"Thank you," Jane whispered repeatedly.

She left the shop and continued walking up Madison Avenue. With every step closer to the hospital, her heart beat faster against her ribs.

She stopped in front of the massive hospital entrance. The revolving doors spun endlessly, swallowing up well-dressed, healthy people.

She looked down at her scuffed, dirty shoes. A wave of intense shame washed over her. She did not deserve to breathe the same air as the people inside.

But when she blinked, she heard Blaire's agonizing screams from the burning car.

The desperate need to atone pushed the fear down. She clenched her jaw and forced her stiff legs to walk into the bright, sterile lobby.

The air conditioning raised goosebumps on her arms. She walked up to the front desk.

"I need the room number for Blaire Lowe," Jane said softly.

The nurse's face dropped. Her eyes darted over Jane's face. She immediately reached under the desk and pressed the silent security button.

"Who are you?" the nurse demanded, her voice tight with panic.

"I'm her friend," Jane stuttered, taking a step back. "I just want to see her."

At that exact moment, the large television screen mounted on the lobby wall switched to a financial news broadcast.

Jane heard the name. She snapped her head up and stared at the screen.

Carson Long.

He wore a tailored black suit. His face was sharp, handsome, and terrifyingly cold. Five years had made him look even more ruthless. Just looking at his face on a screen made Jane's lungs constrict.

Two massive security guards marched across the lobby floor, heading straight for Jane.

Jane panicked. She turned away from the desk and ran toward the elevator banks, desperately looking for the VIP wing.

She collided hard with an orderly pushing a medical cart.

Plastic trays, bandages, and metal instruments crashed onto the marble floor. The noise echoed like a gunshot.

Everyone in the lobby stopped and stared at the frail, terrified woman.

A security guard grabbed Jane's arm and twisted it violently behind her back. A sharp pain shot through her shoulder. She let out a muffled groan. The three daisies fell to the floor.

Through the chaos, the stainless steel doors of the private VIP elevator chimed open.

A middle-aged woman stepped out, surrounded by bodyguards. She wore a custom Chanel suit. Her face was elegant, but right now, it was twisted in absolute fury.

It was Meredith Lowe. Blaire's mother.

Meredith stopped dead in her tracks. She looked past her bodyguards, her sharp eyes locking onto the woman pinned by security.

When she recognized the face she hadn't seen in five years, Meredith's features contorted into pure, unfiltered hatred.

Meredith marched forward, her high heels clicking aggressively against the marble.

"Let her go," Meredith snapped at the guard.

The guard released his grip. Jane lost her balance and collapsed onto the freezing marble floor.

Before Jane could even lift her head, Meredith was standing over her. Meredith raised her hand and slapped Jane across the face with all her strength.

The sharp crack echoed through the silent lobby. Jane's head whipped to the side. The split in her lip tore wider, and fresh blood spilled down her chin.

Jane did not try to protect herself. She pushed herself up onto her knees. Tears spilled over her eyelashes and tracked through the dirt on her cheeks.

"Aunt Meredith," Jane cried, her voice breaking. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I just wanted to see Blaire."

Hearing her daughter's name pushed Meredith over the edge.

Meredith grabbed the handle of her heavy platinum Birkin bag and swung it down. She smashed the bag repeatedly into Jane's head and shoulders.

"You murderer!" Meredith screamed hysterically. "You ruined her life!"

The heavy metal clasp of the bag struck Jane's forehead. The skin split open. A thick line of blood ran down Jane's brow and dripped into her eye.

A crowd gathered. Whispers broke out as people recognized Jane from the tabloids five years ago.

Cell phones went up. People started recording the disgraced socialite getting beaten like a stray dog.

Jane curled into a tight ball on the floor. She wrapped her arms around her head, taking every blow. The three daisies lay crushed under Meredith's shoes.

Suddenly, the massive automatic doors of the hospital lobby slid open.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop below freezing. The loud whispers and camera clicks stopped instantly.

A fleet of black, bulletproof Maybachs sat idling at the curb. Carson Long stepped into the lobby, flanked by bodyguards and assistants.

He wore a dark, perfectly tailored suit. He looked like a god of destruction. His eyes were colder than glacial ice.

Brenda Walsh, his lead public relations assistant, stepped forward. She aggressively shoved the gawking crowd out of the way.

Carson's gaze swept over the lobby and landed perfectly on the bleeding, trembling woman curled on the floor.

The moment he saw Jane, Carson's pupils contracted. His hands curled into tight fists at his sides.

Five years in prison had not washed away her sins in his eyes. The passage of time had only fermented his hatred into something darker and more potent.

Brenda walked up to Meredith. She looked down at Jane with absolute disgust.

"How did security let this trash into the VIP sector?" Brenda yelled at the guards.

Jane heard the heavy, rhythmic sound of Carson's leather shoes approaching. Her breathing stopped.

She slowly lifted her head. Through the blur of her own blood and tears, she met Carson's eyes.

There was no emotion in his stare. Only an absolute, consuming desire to destroy her.

Jane's body began to shake violently. The terror was carved into her bones.

She tried to push herself backward, but her bloody hands slipped on the polished marble. She looked pathetic.

Carson stopped one step away from her. The tip of his expensive leather shoe almost touched her trembling fingers.

Meredith stood back, breathing heavily. "Look at her, Carson. She has no shame. Showing her face here."

Carson ignored Meredith. His eyes were nailed to Jane's face.

He saw the gash on her forehead and the blood on her lips. A strange, uncomfortable tightness flared deep in his chest, but he instantly crushed it with rage.

He convinced himself this was just her usual manipulation. She was playing the victim to get pity.

Carson leaned down slightly. His lips barely moved as he spoke in a voice so cold it burned.

"You stained my floor."

The words hit Jane like a physical blow. Her eyes widened in horror. Tears slid silently down her cheeks.

Meredith lunged forward to hit Jane again, but Carson raised a single hand to stop her.

"Don't dirty your hands on garbage, Meredith," Carson said flatly. "I will handle her."

Carson flicked his gaze to the two massive bodyguards standing behind him. They moved instantly.

Each guard grabbed one of Jane's arms. They hauled her off the floor, treating her like a broken ragdoll.

Jane's legs felt like water. She couldn't stand. The guards simply dragged her across the lobby toward the private VIP elevator.

Carson followed. The heavy thud of his shoes against the floor sounded like a countdown to her execution.

Inside the elevator, the enclosed space magnified Carson's suffocating presence. Jane couldn't pull enough oxygen into her lungs.

The elevator dinged at the 17th floor. The doors opened to the Intensive Care Unit. The sharp smell of bleach and antiseptic hit Jane's nose.

The guards dragged her down the long, quiet hallway. They stopped in front of the most heavily guarded room at the end of the corridor.

Through the large, reinforced glass window, Jane saw a woman lying in the bed. She was hooked up to dozens of machines. Her face and arms were covered in thick burn bandages. It was Blaire.

Carson stepped up to the glass. He looked at Blaire's lifeless form. A flash of pain crossed his eyes before hardening into pure venom directed at Jane.

He turned around. He grabbed the front of Jane's dirty coat and lifted her off the ground.

"Prison was too kind to you," Carson sneered, his face inches from hers.

He let go. He shoved her violently against the glass window of the ICU.

Jane's back hit the bulletproof glass with a heavy thud. She slid down the smooth surface and collapsed onto her knees.

Carson pressed the sole of his shoe against her calf, forcing her to stay kneeling.

"Keep your eyes open. Look at what you did," he commanded.

Jane stared at Blaire's ruined body. Five years of guilt and terror broke through her chest. She started sobbing uncontrollably.

She pressed her bloody hands flat against the cold glass. "I'm sorry, Blaire. I'm so sorry," she babbled frantically.

Carson watched her cry. A cruel, mocking smile touched the corner of his mouth.

He leaned down, his breath brushing against her ear like a demon. "If apologies worked, we wouldn't need hell."

He grabbed her hair, forcing her to look at him. "Crocodile tears. You think putting on this pathetic little performance will earn you my pity? It only makes me sick."

"No!" Jane gasped, shaking her head frantically. "I know I was wrong. I'll do anything to pay for it. Anything."

Carson's hand moved from her hair to her jaw. His fingers dug into her skin, squeezing so hard her bones ached.

"You want to atone?" Carson said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "Show me substantial proof."

He pointed a finger at Blaire's bandaged face. "Why does the victim have to look like a monster, while the murderer gets to keep a perfect face?"

The words struck Jane's brain like lightning. She understood exactly what he wanted.

Meredith stepped out of the elevator and heard his words. "Ruin her face!" Meredith spat viciously.

Jane's eyes darted around the hallway. Beside her was a small visitation table. During the struggle a moment ago, a framed photograph of Blaire had been knocked over. The glass over the smiling picture was shattered.

Jane did not hesitate.

She crawled forward on her knees. Her trembling fingers reached out and picked up the largest, sharpest shard of broken glass.

The jagged edge immediately sliced into her thumb, but she felt nothing.

She turned her head and looked up at Carson. Her eyes held no anger. Only a dead, empty calmness.

Before anyone could react, Jane raised the shard of glass and dragged it violently across her own left cheek.