The sound of Warren's footsteps faded into the silence of the massive house. The air in the hallway remained tight and heavy.

Cristin shifted her weight. She looked at the empty staircase, then back at Ava. Her eyes instantly filled with tears. Her lower lip trembled.

"Ava," Cristin whimpered. "Why did you speak to me like that? You broke my heart just now."

Jocelyn took a step forward, her natural empathy kicking in. "Ava, maybe you should-"

Ava held up her hand, silencing her mother. She kept her eyes locked on Cristin. She watched the tears spill over Cristin's cheeks. It was a flawless performance.

"Your fever is making you act crazy," Cristin sniffled, reaching into her pocket for a tissue. "I'm just trying to look out for you."

Ava looked at Cristin's left wrist. "Take off the bracelet."

Cristin froze. She quickly pulled her sleeve down over her wrist, hiding the gold metal. "What?"

"The Cartier Love bracelet," Ava said, her voice devoid of any emotion. "You bought it last Tuesday. You used the black card attached to my account. Take it off."

Cristin's face turned stark white. She stammered, "You... you told me I could borrow it for the gala."

Ava took a slow step forward. The physical distance between them vanished. "You claim you don't understand business. You claim you were just listening to Warren's advice." Ava tilted her head. "Your father was the executive secretary to the board for twenty years. He drafted the trust bylaws. You knew exactly what that contract meant."

The tears stopped falling from Cristin's eyes. The soft, victimized expression melted away, replaced by a hard, ugly glare.

"You don't deserve any of this," Cristin spat, dropping the tissue. "You are a stupid, spoiled brat who just happened to be born in the right bed."

Ava nodded slowly. "I was stupid. I was blind."

Ava reached out. Her hand moved fast. She grabbed the thin silver chain resting against Cristin's collarbone. It was a cheap friendship necklace they had bought at a boardwalk kiosk three years ago.

Ava closed her fist around the metal. She yanked her hand back.

The clasp snapped. The metal dug into Cristin's neck, leaving a thin red scratch before giving way. The cheap plastic beads strung along the chain scattered. They hit the hardwood floor, bouncing and rolling in every direction.

Cristin gasped, her hands flying to her neck. She dropped to her knees, instinctively reaching for the rolling beads.

Ava lifted her bare foot and brought her heel down hard on one of the blue plastic beads. It cracked into pieces under her weight.

Ava looked down at the top of Cristin's head. "Get out."

Heavy, measured footsteps echoed from the upper floor, descending toward the foyer. Sam Jones, the estate's head butler, was making his usual rounds to report on the evening's dinner preparations. He stopped as the tension in the hallway hit him, standing silently on the landing.

"Sam," Ava said. "Escort Miss Kerr off the property."

Sam stepped forward immediately. He did not ask questions. He extended his arm toward the stairs, his posture rigid and uncompromising. "This way, Miss."

Cristin stood up. Her face burned red with supreme humiliation. She looked at Ava, her chest heaving. She grabbed her designer purse from the floor and marched toward the stairs.

Ava leaned against the wooden railing of the hallway. She looked down into the grand foyer below, where three maids were dusting the chandelier.

"If she ever steps foot on this estate again," Ava said, her voice echoing loudly off the marble walls below, "call the police and have her arrested for trespassing."

The maids stopped working. They stared up at the stairs. Cristin's shoulders jerked. She practically ran out the front doors.

Ava watched the heavy doors close. She let out a long, slow breath. Her shoulders finally dropped.

The heavy thud of the front doors echoed through the foyer.

Jocelyn closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms tightly around Ava. The familiar scent of Chanel No. 5 filled Ava's lungs. The smell hit a nerve deep in her chest. A sharp ache radiated behind her sternum.

Jocelyn rubbed Ava's back. "What happened to you? You are scaring me."

Ava buried her face in her mother's shoulder. She forced her breathing to hitch. She let the lingering adrenaline push hot tears into her eyes. She needed an excuse.

"I had a nightmare," Ava sobbed against the cashmere fabric. "When I was drowning in the fever. I saw Warren taking everything. I saw us on the street. I saw you..." She let her voice break. "I can't be weak anymore. I won't let them hurt you."

Jocelyn's grip tightened fiercely. The maternal instinct overrode the shock. She kissed the top of Ava's head. "I won't let them touch us. I promise."

Ava pulled back. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Call Dad's old board members. The ones Warren sidelined. Tell them we are holding our ground."

Jocelyn nodded, her expression hardening. She turned and walked quickly down the hall toward the study.

Ava stood alone. She pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders. She walked down the sweeping staircase and pushed open the glass doors to the sunroom.

The room was bright. In the center sat a black Steinway grand piano. The polished wood reflected the golden evening light.

Ava walked up to the bench. She did not sit down. She held her hands out in front of her face. She stared at her wrists. She flipped her hands over, looking at the pale skin over her veins. She remembered the blinding pain of Demarco's knife slicing through her tendons in the final months of her past life.

She flexed her fingers. The joints moved smoothly. The muscles contracted without agony.

She sat down on the leather bench. She lifted the fallboard. She rested her fingertips lightly against the cool ivory keys. Her muscles, still weakened by the massive fever, trembled slightly. The physical toll of her illness was undeniable, but her mind was a roaring inferno. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, filling her lungs to capacity.

Her hands crashed down on the keyboard.

She played Chopin's Nocturne in C minor, but she stripped away all the elegance. At first, her fingers fumbled slightly, stiff and uncoordinated, but as the fury took over, the music morphed. She hammered the keys. The tempo was frantic, aggressive, and violent. The heavy bass notes shook the floorboards. She poured the memory of the fire, the chemical burns, and the betrayal into her fingers.

Outside the glass doors, two maids stopped in the hallway. They stared through the glass, their mouths slightly open, shocked by the sheer auditory violence coming from the usually quiet girl.

By the time she reached the crescendo, her arms felt like lead. Her weak body was pushed to its absolute limit. She slammed her hands down on the final chord. She held the pedal down, letting the dissonant sound ring out until it faded into silence.

She instantly slumped forward, gasping heavily for breath. Her lungs burned for oxygen, and cold sweat dripped from her forehead.

She opened her eyes. She looked at her trembling hands again. Playing the piano was not enough. Having a sharp mind was not enough. She needed physical power. She needed to know how to break a bone, how to disarm a man, how to survive.

She stood up and closed the piano lid.

"Dinner is served, Miss."

Ava turned. Sam Jones stood in the doorway. He wore his standard black suit, but Ava noticed the way he stood. His weight was perfectly balanced on the balls of his feet. His hands rested loosely at his sides, fingers slightly curled. It was the stance of a man ready to draw a weapon.

Ava looked at him. "Thank you, Sam."

She adjusted her shawl and walked past him toward the dining room.

Ava walked into the massive French-style dining room. A crystal chandelier cast a warm, golden glow over the long oak table.

She pulled out the chair to the right of the head seat and sat down. Her stomach rumbled loudly. The fever had burned through her calories, leaving a hollow, gnawing ache in her gut.

A maid in a black-and-white uniform stepped forward. She placed a folded white linen napkin across Ava's lap.

"To start, Miss," the maid said softly.

She set a small porcelain plate on the table. In the center rested a dollop of Beluga caviar, surrounded by thin crackers and a smear of crème fraîche. Next to the plate was a small bowl of steaming seafood chowder. The rich smell of butter and kelp filled the air.

Ava picked up the small mother-of-pearl spoon. She scooped up a cluster of the black eggs and placed them on her tongue.

She pressed the caviar against the roof of her mouth. The eggs popped. A burst of intense, salty brine flooded her taste buds.

Instantly, a physical shockwave hit the base of her skull. Her vision went black.

The warm light of the dining room vanished. The air turned freezing cold. The pressure against her skin was immense, crushing her chest. She was underwater. Deep, dark water.

She felt the rough scrape of scales against her sides. She tried to breathe, but water rushed over her gills. Suddenly, a massive, rough rope net slammed into her. The coarse fibers dug into her flesh. Panic exploded in her brain. She thrashed wildly, but the net tightened, dragging her upward at a terrifying speed.

Ava gasped in the dining room. Her hands gripped the edge of the heavy oak table so hard her knuckles turned white.

The vision did not stop. Blinding white spotlights pierced her eyes. She was slammed onto a hard wooden deck. The air burned her lungs. A shadow loomed over her. A sharp, freezing pain sliced through her abdomen. The blade ripped her open from tail to throat. The agony was absolute.

The mother-of-pearl spoon slipped from Ava's fingers. It hit the porcelain plate with a sharp clink.

Ava's eyes snapped open. She was drenched in cold sweat. Her chest heaved violently as she sucked in the air of the dining room.

"Miss Ava?" The maid stepped forward, her eyes wide with alarm. "Are you unwell?"

A violent wave of nausea hit Ava's stomach. The taste of the brine mixed with the phantom sensation of blood. She slapped her hand over her mouth, shoved her chair back, and ran.

She sprinted down the hallway and slammed the bathroom door open. She dropped to her knees in front of the marble toilet. Her stomach violently contracted. She vomited the caviar and stomach acid until her throat burned and her ribs ached.

She stayed on the floor, panting. She reached up and flushed the toilet. She pulled herself up using the edge of the marble sink. She turned on the cold water and splashed it over her face.

The freezing water shocked her system back to reality. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her skin was gray. The blood vessels in her eyes were bright red.

It wasn't a hallucination. The pain was too specific, too physiological.

She grabbed a thick towel, wiped her face, and walked back to the dining room. The maid was reaching for the plates.

"Leave it," Ava ordered.

She sat back down. She stared at the bowl of seafood chowder. She picked up a silver spoon. Her hand trembled slightly. She scooped up a piece of shrimp covered in thick broth. She forced it into her mouth and swallowed.

The vision hit instantly. Boiling water. Her skin turning instantly rigid. The excruciating, suffocating heat cooking her alive.

Ava dropped the spoon. She grabbed the edge of the table and squeezed her eyes shut until the phantom pain faded.

She opened her eyes. She looked at her hands. She had brought something back from the fire.