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.

The sound of the glass slicing through flesh was sickeningly loud in the quiet hallway.

Blood erupted instantly. A deep, jagged line tore across Jane's left cheek, exposing the raw muscle underneath.

The bloody shard of glass slipped from her fingers and shattered against the floor tiles. Jane's eyes rolled back. Like a puppet with its strings cut, she collapsed forward.

Carson's pupils blew wide open. His heart violently seized in his chest, skipping a full beat.

His body moved before his brain did. He took a half-step forward, his hand reaching out to catch her. But his conscious mind slammed the brakes. He froze, his hand hovering in the empty air.

Jane hit the ground hard. A pool of dark red blood quickly spread across the white tiles around her face. She was completely unconscious.

Meredith let out a piercing scream. She covered her mouth and stumbled backward against the wall.

The nurses at the end of the hall finally saw the blood. The shrill sound of a medical emergency alarm blared through the floor.

Freeman Morales, the hospital's top trauma surgeon and Carson's closest friend, sprinted out of the stairwell with a crash cart team.

Freeman saw the blood. He shot a look of pure shock at Carson before dropping to his knees beside Jane. He pressed a thick gauze pad hard against her face to stop the bleeding.

"Get her on the gurney! Move!" Freeman yelled.

The medical team hoisted Jane up and rushed her down the hall toward the emergency surgical suite.

Carson stood frozen in the middle of the hallway. He stared at the puddle of blood on the floor. His fingers twitched slightly. His chest felt tight.

He clenched his jaw, forcing the physical reaction down. It's a trick, he told himself. She did this to escape punishment. She deserves this.

The red light above the surgical suite clicked on. Carson ripped his tie loose. He walked down to the private smoking lounge and lit a cigarette.

Two hours later, the red light turned off. Freeman walked into the lounge. He pulled off his bloody surgical mask.

Carson crushed his cigarette into the ashtray. "Is she dead?" he asked, his voice deliberately harsh.

Freeman didn't answer right away. He looked at Carson with a heavy, complicated expression. It looked a lot like pity.

Freeman let out a long breath. "Twenty-eight stitches on her face. She'll live, but the scar is permanent."

Carson let out a cold scoff. "She asked for it. It's what she owes Blaire."

Freeman shook his head slowly. He stepped closer. "The cut on her face is nothing, Carson. It's the old scars that shocked me."

Carson frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"When we cut her clothes off, I saw her ribs," Freeman said, his voice dropping low. "She has multiple old fractures that healed wrong. Her back and arms are covered in overlapping cigarette burns. And the deep tissue bruising... it's permanent."

Freeman stared directly into Carson's eyes. "That wasn't a few prison fights. That was years of systematic, brutal torture."

The hand Carson used to hold his cigarette jerked. Ash fell onto his expensive leather shoes.

Five years ago, Carson had paid off the prison warden. He told them to give Jane "special attention." He wanted her to be miserable.

But he never ordered them to permanently cripple her.

For a split second, panic flared in Carson's chest. But he immediately buried it under a thick layer of ice. He refused to feel sympathy for a murderer.

"Women like her make enemies easily," Carson said coldly. "She got what she deserved for running her mouth in a cage."

"Carson," Freeman warned. "Don't do this. She is severely malnourished. Her body is shutting down from physical trauma."

Carson refused to take the medical file Freeman held out.

"Wake her up," Carson ordered, turning his back to his friend. "We aren't done settling our accounts."

Freeman watched Carson walk away, easily spotting the frantic tension in his friend's rigid shoulders.

Inside the recovery room, the anesthesia began to wear off. Jane's eyebrows twitched. A weak groan slipped past her lips.

She slowly opened her eyes. A burning, tearing pain radiated from the left side of her face. Thick bandages covered her skin.

She stared at the white ceiling. She was alive. And being alive meant the hell was going to continue.