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.

Jane lay perfectly still on the hospital bed. The numbing medication was fading fast. Every time her heart beat, a wave of fire pulsed through her stitched cheek. She sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth.

The door opened quietly. Dr. Freeman Morales walked in, holding a small penlight.

"How are you feeling, Jane?" Freeman asked, his voice gentle. He clicked the light on to check her pupil response.

Jane's eyes widened in terror. She grabbed the edge of the thin blanket and dragged herself backward, pressing her spine against the bedrail.

Freeman noticed her extreme flinching. He lowered the light.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Freeman said softly. "I need to ask you about your old injuries. The broken ribs and the burns. Who did that to you?"

The memory of the dark isolation cell flashed behind Jane's eyes. The smell of burning flesh. The sound of Tasha laughing.

She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. She shook her head rapidly, refusing to speak. She knew Carson controlled this hospital. Anything she said would just be used to mock her.

Freeman sighed. He opened his mouth to try again, but the heavy door was suddenly shoved open.

Carson walked into the room. His presence sucked all the oxygen out of the space. His face was a mask of pure ice.

The moment Jane saw him, her heart rate spiked. The heart monitor beside the bed started beeping in a rapid, frantic rhythm.

Carson glanced at the machine, then looked at Freeman. He tilted his head toward the door.

Freeman hesitated, looking back at Jane's terrified face. But Carson's stare left no room for argument. Freeman walked out and pulled the door shut behind him.

The heavy click of the latch sounded like a vault locking.

Carson walked to the edge of the bed. He looked down at her pale, bandaged face.

"You have a thick skull," Carson sneered. "I guess cockroaches really are hard to kill."

Jane's body shook violently. She was trapped. This room was just a cleaner version of her prison cell.

Survival instinct took over. She threw her blankets off. She grabbed the IV line taped to the back of her hand and ripped it out.

Blood instantly welled up from the torn vein, dripping onto the pristine white sheets. She didn't care. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and tried to run.

The moment her bare feet hit the floor, her weak knees buckled. She pitched forward.

Carson moved with terrifying speed. He grabbed the back of her hospital gown and yanked her upward. He slammed her back against the wall, pinning her there with his forearm across her chest.

"You aren't going anywhere," Carson growled right against her ear. "Not without my permission."

Jane struggled weakly. The rough wallpaper scraped against the fresh wounds on her back. Tears spilled from her right eye.

She turned her head. She looked at him with absolute desperation. "Please," she choked out. "Let me go."

Her shaking hand reached into the pocket of her dirty coat, which had been tossed on a chair nearby. She dug her fingers in.

She pulled out the crumpled, blood-stained dollar bills-the change from the daisies.

Her hand trembled violently as she held the pathetic amount of money up to Carson's chest.

"This is all I have," Jane sobbed, her voice breaking. "Take it. Please. Just let me live."

Carson stared at the dirty paper money. Instead of pity, a blinding rage ignited in his chest.

She thought she could buy her way out of Blaire's suffering with pocket change? It was the ultimate insult.

Carson slapped his hand out. He struck her wrist hard. The dollar bills scattered across the floor like worthless trash.

He moved his hand up and wrapped his long fingers around her throat. He squeezed, forcing her chin up.

"Your life isn't worth a single cent," Carson spat, his eyes burning into hers.

He leaned in closer. "Walking out of that prison wasn't freedom. It was just a transfer. Your parole officer?" Carson added, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "My assistant already handled him. On paper, you are a ghost who skipped town. Legally, you don't exist anymore. You belong to me now."

Jane's pupils dilated. The last tiny spark of hope inside her chest was crushed into dust.

Carson saw the exact moment her spirit broke. A sick sense of victory washed over him, followed instantly by a hollow ache he refused to acknowledge.

He let go of her throat. He pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his fingers, acting as if touching her had infected him.

Carson turned and walked to the door. "Guards are outside. If you try to run, I'll make sure you never find a corner of this earth to hide in. Your name is already poison. You step out of line, and I'll ensure you can't even get a job scrubbing toilets. You'll be forced right back into the gutter where you belong."

The door slammed shut. Jane slid down the wall, collapsing into a heap on the floor among the scattered dollar bills.

Jane sat on the cold floor. The white walls of the hospital room seemed to be physically shrinking, pressing in on her lungs until she couldn't breathe.

Carson's voice played on a loop in her head. You belong to me now.

She knew he meant it. He had the money and the power to make sure she never saw the sun again. Going back to him meant enduring a torture far worse than the concrete walls of Cell Block D.

The sheer weight of her terror finally crushed the last barrier in her mind.

If staying alive meant endless humiliation and pain, then death was the only way to pay her debt and find peace.

Jane slowly pushed herself off the floor. Her eyes were completely hollow. She moved like a ghost.

She walked to the large window. The 17th-floor drop looked down over the busy streets of Manhattan. It was high enough to end everything instantly.

She reached for the latch, but the VIP windows were made of heavy, tempered safety glass. They only opened a few inches-not nearly enough for a person to fit through.

Jane turned her head. Her dead eyes locked onto the heavy metal IV pole standing in the corner of the room.

She wrapped both hands around the thick steel rod. Her muscles screamed in protest, but she forced herself to lift the heavy metal base off the ground.

She swung the pole, driving the heavy metal base directly into the corner of the window frame where the locking mechanism sat. BANG. The heavy impact sent a shockwave up her arms. The tempered glass did not break, but a web of white cracks appeared at the point of impact.

Jane didn't stop. She aimed for the exact same structural weak point, using the pole not with brute force, but with a desperate, calculated precision. She jammed the steel tip into the growing spiderweb of cracks, leveraging her entire body weight against it. Blood seeped through the bandages on her face and back, staining her hospital gown red. She couldn't feel the pain. She was a machine built only for destruction.

With a final, agonizing push, the compromised safety glass let out a loud groan, its structural integrity failing as it shattered outward. A massive hole opened to the sky.

Violent, freezing wind instantly sucked into the room. It whipped Jane's hair around her face and knocked over the medical trays.

The sound of breaking glass triggered the room's emergency sensors. Red lights began flashing wildly above the door.

The two bodyguards stationed outside kicked the door open and rushed in.

They froze. The bed was empty.

They ran to the window and looked out. Jane was standing barefoot on the narrow, six-inch concrete ledge outside the 17th-floor window.

The wind tore at her thin gown. She swayed dangerously, looking like a piece of paper about to be blown away.

One guard grabbed his radio. "Mr. Long! Get back here now!"

Less than a minute later, heavy, frantic footsteps pounded down the hallway. Carson burst into the room, his chest heaving.

When his eyes landed on Jane standing on the edge of the abyss, his heart violently seized.

A primal, soul-crushing panic exploded in his chest. It defied all logic, a sudden, all-consuming terror that threatened to swallow him whole. His mind went entirely blank, leaving only one singular, desperate thought echoing in the void-he could not let her fall.

But Carson's dominant personality violently suppressed the panic. He ground his teeth together so hard his jaw ached. He marched to the broken window.

He gripped the jagged edges of the window frame. His knuckles turned white. He glared out at her.

Instead of begging her to come back, Carson let out a harsh, mocking laugh.

"Is this your new trick?" Carson yelled over the howling wind. "You really think this cheap manipulation will work on me?"

He firmly believed she was faking it. He thought she was just a spoiled rich girl trying to force him to back down.

Carson took a step back from the window. He opened his arms wide in a gesture of invitation.

"You want to die?" Carson roared, his voice laced with pure venom. "Then jump! Let's see if you actually have the guts!"

The guards and the nurses who had just arrived gasped in horror.

Jane stood on the ledge. She looked down at the dizzying drop. The cars below looked like tiny ants.

She slowly turned her head. Through the broken glass, she looked at the man she had once loved, the man who was now pushing her into the grave.