The inside of the Lincoln was a different planet.

It smelled of sterilized air and leather. The silence was thick, insulated from the world by layers of bulletproof glass and steel. Estelle sat on the edge of the seat, trying to hover so her dirty jeans didn't touch the beige leather.

Across from her, the boy-Harlen-was staring.

He wasn't just looking; he was dissecting. He wore a hoodie that probably cost more than Mrs. Miller's entire trailer. He had a Nintendo Switch in his hands, but he wasn't playing.

"She smells," Harlen said.

He didn't whisper. He said it flatly, like he was commenting on the weather. "Like rot and wet dog. Can we put the partition up?"

Estelle felt the heat rush to her face. She tried to shrink, pulling her arms tight against her sides. She knew she smelled. She had been dragging trash in the sun all morning.

"Harlen," Arthur warned. He was sitting next to the driver, but his eyes were glued to the rearview mirror, watching Estelle. "That is enough."

"What? It's true," Harlen muttered, slouching. "She's gross."

Eleanor opened a small refrigerator built into the side of the car. She pulled out a glass bottle. Evian. The glass was frosted with condensation.

"Here, sweetie," she said softly.

Estelle stared at the bottle. She had only ever drunk water from the hose or the kitchen tap. Water came in plastic or pipes. Not glass.

She reached out, her hand trembling. Her fingernails were rimmed with black dirt. The contrast against the pristine bottle was stark.

"Thank you," she whispered. Her voice sounded rusty.

"I bet she doesn't even know how to open it," Harlen scoffed. He put his headphones on, but left one ear cup off, just to make sure she heard him.

Arthur turned in his seat. His movement was sharp, violent. He reached back and snatched the game console out of Harlen's hands.

"Hey!" Harlen yelled. "I was on the boss level!"

"You don't deserve distractions," Arthur said. His voice was terrifyingly calm. "You need to sit there and think about the fact that your sister has been living in hell while you were leveling up."

He tossed the console onto the empty seat next to him.

Harlen's face went red. He glared at Estelle. Pure, unadulterated hatred. This is your fault, his eyes screamed.

Estelle flinched. "I'm sorry," she blurted out. "Give it back to him. I don't mind. I'm used to... people saying things."

The car went silent.

That was the wrong thing to say. She saw Eleanor's face crumble. Arthur gripped the steering wheel so hard the leather creaked.

"You shouldn't be used to it," Arthur said, his voice thick.

Harlen just rolled his eyes and put both headphones on, blocking them out.

The car slowed. They were turning off the highway.

Estelle looked out the window. The rusted factories and strip malls were gone. Instead, there were trees. Huge, ancient oaks that lined the road like soldiers. The grass was impossibly green, cut so short it looked like carpet.

"Almost there," Eleanor said. She pointed a manicured finger at the horizon. "Look, Elara. That's home."

Estelle pressed her forehead against the cool glass.

In the distance, rising out of the greenery like a castle from a storybook, was a house. No, not a house. An estate. It had white pillars and endless windows and slate roofs.

It was beautiful. And it was terrifying.

Harlen pulled one side of his headphones back. He leaned forward, his voice low so his parents couldn't hear, just for her.

"That's our house," he hissed. "You're just a visitor."

Estelle pulled back from the window. The cold glass left a mark on her forehead. She looked at her lap, at her dirty hands, and she believed him.

The gates were iron lace, black and gold, towering twenty feet into the air. They swung open silently, admitting the convoy into a world that didn't obey the laws of physics Estelle knew.

Here, leaves didn't seem to fall. Dirt didn't exist.

The driveway was two miles long. Estelle counted the seconds. It took five minutes just to get from the gate to the front door.

When the car finally stopped, it was in front of a fountain. A marble statue of a woman pouring water stood in the center. The water was crystal clear.

"Come on," Eleanor said, opening the door.

Estelle stepped out. Her sneakers looked like insults against the paving stones.

A double line of people stood on the steps. Maids in black and white uniforms. Men in suits. They stood rigid, hands clasped behind their backs.

"Welcome home, Miss Estelle," a man at the front said.

He was older, with silver hair and a tuxedo that fit him perfectly. Winston. The butler.

Estelle panicked. She didn't know what to do. In the foster homes, when adults lined up like this, it meant inspection. It meant you stood still and hoped they didn't find lice.

She bowed. A clumsy, jerky motion. "I... I'm clean. I mean, I will be. I promise."

A ripple of shock went through the line of staff. A maid near the back covered her mouth.

Winston's face softened. His professional mask slipped, revealing deep, aching pity. He stepped forward, ignoring protocol, and offered her a hand.

"You are perfect, Miss," he said gently.

Just then, the second SUV pulled up. The back opened.

Buster jumped out.

The staff gasped and scattered. Two maids shrieked. The dog was a scarred, muscular brute in a world of porcelain and silk. He let out a low, rumbling bark, confused by the smells.

"Buster!" Estelle cried.

She broke away from Winston and ran to the dog. She dropped to her knees on the driveway, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"It's okay, boy. Shhh."

Under her hands, the dog went limp. He sat down, leaning his heavy weight against her thigh. He looked at the terrified servants and yawned.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

A sound came from the top of the stairs. Heavy. Rhythm.

The massive front doors opened.

An old man stepped out. He leaned on a cane with a gold handle shaped like a lion's head. He wore a three-piece suit, even though he was in his own home. His white hair was swept back, revealing a face that was severe, lined with power and age.

Alistair Bridges. The patriarch.

The air seemed to get thinner. Even Arthur straightened his spine.

Alistair stood at the top of the stairs, looking down. His eyes were like lasers. They swept over the cars, the staff, his son, and finally landed on the dirty girl kneeling on the pavement with a fighting dog.

Estelle felt the weight of his gaze. It was heavy, like a stone.

She knew that look. It was the look of a judge.

She instinctively tried to hide. She shifted her body, trying to put Buster between her and the old man. She used the dog as a shield, peering over his scarred back, waiting for the order to leave.

The silence on the driveway was absolute. Even the fountain seemed to quiet down.

Alistair took a step down. Then another.

He stopped three steps from the bottom. His hand was shaking on the cane.

Then, he did something impossible.

He let go of the cane.

The gold-headed stick clattered onto the stone, a loud, jarring noise that made Estelle jump.

Alistair didn't care. He ignored the cane. He slowly, painfully, bent his knees. His joints cracked audibly. The billionaire patriarch of the Bridges empire lowered himself until one knee touched the dusty ground.

He was now eye-level with Estelle.

"Elara," he rasped. His voice was like grinding stones, but there was no anger in it.

He reached out a hand. It was weathered, spotted with age, and trembling violently.

"You have her eyes," he whispered. "My God. You have her eyes."

Estelle stared at him. She didn't know who "she" was. She just saw an old man who looked like he was breaking apart.

"Grandpa?" she whispered.

Alistair let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. "Yes. Yes, child."

He reached for her. Estelle flinched, expecting a grab. But he stopped inches from her face, waiting. Asking for permission.

Slowly, Estelle reached out. Her hand was small and filthy. She placed it in his.

Alistair gripped it like it was a lifeline. He pulled her hand to his face, pressing her dirty palm against his clean-shaven cheek. He closed his eyes, and a single tear tracked through the grime on her skin.

"I thought I lost you," he said. "I thought the darkness took you."

"I'm back," she said, not knowing what else to say.

"Yes. And you will never leave again."

He opened his eyes. The vulnerability vanished, replaced by a fierce, terrifying protectiveness. He stood up, groaning with effort, but he didn't let go of her hand.

"Winston!" he barked. "Why is my granddaughter standing outside? Prepare the feast!"

He didn't walk her in. He scooped her up.

Estelle gasped as the old man lifted her. He was surprisingly strong, his arms like iron bands. He carried her up the stairs, past the stunned staff, past a fuming Harlen who was kicking at a pebble.

"Hey!" Harlen shouted. "I'm hungry too! Does anyone care?"

Alistair didn't even turn his head. "If you ruin this moment, boy, you'll sleep in the stables."

They entered the house.

It was a cavern of marble and gold. A crystal chandelier the size of a car hung from the ceiling. Estelle buried her face in Alistair's shoulder, overwhelmed by the sheer scale of it.

As they walked down a long hallway, Estelle lifted her head.

There was a painting on the wall. Ten feet tall. It was a woman in a blue dress. She was beautiful, regal.

And she had Estelle's eyes. The exact same shade of peculiar, violet-flecked gray.

"Who is that?" Estelle asked.

Alistair stopped. He looked at the painting with a mixture of love and agony.

"That is your grandmother," he said softly. "She was the only person who could ever understand me. Until you."

Estelle looked at the woman. For the first time in her life, she didn't feel like a mistake. She felt like a copy of something precious.

Behind them, in the shadow of a potted fern, a young maid pulled out her phone. Her thumbs moved quickly over the screen.

Target confirmed. The brat is back. Plan B initiated.

She hit send, then smoothed her apron and smiled.