Giselle turned. She was holding another document, waving it like a fan. "Not so fast. We need to settle the accounts."

"I signed the papers," Giselle said, hugging her arms around herself. "I'm leaving."

"You signed the divorce," Buna sneered, stepping closer. "Now we execute the prenup. Clause 14: In the event of fraud, all assets, gifts, and jewelry provided by the Villarreal family must be returned immediately."

She snapped her fingers. "Search her."

Giselle's eyes widened. "What? No. You can't-"

The female head of housekeeping stepped forward. Giselle stepped back, her back hitting the bodyguard's chest. She felt violated as hands patted down her pockets, checking the lining of her coat.

Joseph stood in the doorway of the study. He was leaning against the frame, watching. He didn't move. He didn't speak. He just watched.

"The necklace," Buna commanded.

Giselle's hand went to her throat. The diamond solitaire. It was an anniversary gift. "Joseph gave this to me," she whispered, looking at him. "It's mine."

"Family trust money paid for it," the lawyer stated monotonously. "Technically, it belongs to the estate."

Giselle looked at Joseph. Say something, she begged silently. Please, just have one ounce of decency.

He checked his watch.

Something inside Giselle snapped. The last thread of hope, the last pathetic wish that he cared, disintegrated.

She unclasped the necklace. She didn't hand it to Buna. She dropped it onto the silver tray the butler was holding. It landed with a sharp clatter.

Buna's eyes dropped to her left hand. "And the ring."

Giselle's breath hitched. The pink diamond. He had put it on her finger. He had promised...

"She doesn't deserve to wear it," Buna hissed. "That stone belongs to the future mistress of this house. To Clydie."

Giselle grabbed the ring. Her knuckles turned white as she yanked it over her knuckle. It scraped her skin, leaving a red mark.

She didn't put it on the tray.

She turned to Joseph. She locked eyes with him. She threw it.

The ring sailed through the air and hit the carpet right in front of his polished shoes. It bounced once and settled near his toe.

Joseph looked down at the ring. His jaw tightened. His hand twitched by his side, almost as if he wanted to reach for it. A strange current of electricity shot through his arm, a primal urge to stop this, but he crushed it instantly. He stayed rooted to the spot.

"Get out," Buna shrieked. "Get this trash out of my house!"

Giselle ran. She ran up the stairs to the guest room they had moved her into last week. She grabbed the old, battered suitcase she had arrived with three years ago. She threw in her jeans, her old sweaters, her ID. Nothing that they had bought. Nothing that smelled like this house.

She dragged the suitcase down the grand staircase. The wheels bumped loudly on each step.

The front door opened. A gust of wind and rain blew in, along with a woman in a shimmering cocktail dress.

Clydie Woods.

She shook out her umbrella, handing it to a maid. She looked dry, warm, and expensive. She saw Giselle standing there, wet-eyed and disheveled, dragging a broken suitcase.

"Oh, Giselle," she cooed, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. She walked over, her heels clicking. She leaned in close, so only Giselle could hear. "Don't worry. I'll take good care of him. Better than a fake like you ever could."

She pulled back and smiled brightly. "Safe travels."

Giselle didn't trust herself to speak. She pushed past her. The butler held the door open, his face full of pity.

"Mrs. Villarreal..." he started.

"Don't," Giselle said.

She stepped out onto the porch. The rain was torrential. It came down in sheets, instantly soaking her blouse.

"No car," Buna yelled from the foyer. "Villarreal cars are for family. She walks."

Giselle gripped the handle of her suitcase. The driveway was long. A mile to the main gate.

She started walking. The wind whipped her hair across her face, blinding her. The cold rain soaked through her clothes, chilling her to the bone. Her shoes squelched in the puddles.

Halfway down the drive, the wheel of her suitcase caught in a crack in the cobblestones. She yanked it. The handle snapped. The suitcase tipped over, spilling her humble clothes into the mud.

Giselle stopped. She stared at her clothes soaking in the dirty water.

She fell to her knees. The dam broke. She sobbed, the sound torn from her throat, lost in the roar of the storm. She gathered her muddy sweaters, hugging them to her chest. She was twenty-three years old, and she had nothing. No family. No money. No husband.

High above, in the master bedroom window, Joseph stood in the dark. He watched the small figure collapse in the rain. He pressed his hand against the cold glass. His chest ached with a strange, hollow pain he couldn't name. It felt like a phantom limb syndrome, an ache for something that was no longer there.

Giselle stood up. She shoved the wet clothes back into the broken case. She wiped the mud and tears from her face.

Survive, she told herself. Just survive.

She dragged the case the rest of the way. She reached the iron gates. They opened slowly.

She stepped out onto the public road. It was pitch black.

Then, blinding white light flooded her vision.

---

It was a Rolls Royce Phantom. Extended wheelbase. Jet black. The hood ornament, the Spirit of Ecstasy, gleamed under the streetlights, but unlike the ostentatious Villarreal fleet, this car bore no flags, no crests. It was a ghost in the night, radiating silent, terrifying power.

Behind it, a second car stopped. Then a third. A fourth. It was a motorcade fit for a head of state.

The rear door of the first car flew open before the chauffeur could even get there. A man in a grey suit sprinted out into the rain. He didn't care about his Italian leather shoes sinking into the mud.

"Giselle!"

It was her father. Or the man she had only seen in blurry, recovering memories.

He reached her in two strides and pulled her into a crushing embrace. He smelled of old tobacco and comfort. "I found you. My god, we found you."

A woman followed him, sobbing openly. Her mother. She wrapped her arms around both of them, sandwiching Giselle in warmth. "My baby. My sweet girl."

Giselle stood frozen, the rain matting her hair to her skull, mud streaked across her cheek. She was too shocked to cry.

Then, the doors of the second car opened.

Three men stepped out. Tall. Imposing. They moved with a predatory grace that screamed power.

Kordell Hines. The eldest. He took one look at Giselle-shivering, wet, broken-and his face darkened with a rage that could burn cities. He took off his cashmere trench coat and draped it over her shoulders. It was heavy and warm.

"Who did this?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. He looked toward the Villarreal gates.

"Let's get her inside," the second brother, Silas, said. He walked over to her broken suitcase. He looked at it with disdain, then kicked it aside. "Leave it. You don't need garbage anymore."

The third brother, the youngest, Asher, stepped up. He pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and gently dabbed the mud from her forehead. His eyes were red-rimmed. "We have a penthouse ready for you in Coast City. Or the estate in the Hamptons. Wherever you want to go, Elle."

Elle. The nickname from a childhood she had almost forgotten.

"Let's go home," her father said, guiding her toward the open door of the Rolls Royce.

Giselle climbed into the back seat. It was like entering a different world. The air was climate-controlled to a perfect seventy-two degrees. The seats were softer than her bed at the manor.

Her mother sat beside her, gripping her hand so tight her rings dug into Giselle's skin. She handed her a thermos of hot cocoa.

"We have the best doctors on standby," Silas said from the jump seat. "We're going to fix whatever they broke."

Kordell handed her a leather folder. "This is just the start," he said. "Ten percent of Hines Global. It's in your name. Effective immediately."

Giselle looked down at the papers. The numbers were staggering. In the span of five minutes, she had gone from destitute to a billionaire.

"Why..." her voice cracked. "Why now?"

"We never stopped looking," her father said, his voice breaking. "The Woods family... they hid you well. But we found the discrepancy in the records. We came as fast as we could."

As the convoy began to move, pulling away from the curb, Giselle looked out the tinted back window.

Through the rain, she saw the imposing silhouette of the Villarreal manor. It looked like a prison now. A cold, stone mausoleum.

Inside that house, Joseph was probably pouring himself a drink, relieved to be rid of the "fraud." He had no idea. He thought he had thrown out trash, but he had just declared war on an empire.

Back in the manor, Joseph stood by the window. He saw the red taillights of the convoy fade into the mist.

"Sir," Kieran, his assistant, entered the room. "We've lost her."

Joseph frowned, turning around. "What do you mean?"

"I tried to track her phone. I tried to check the train stations, the bus depots. Nothing. Her signal just... vanished. It's like she ceased to exist the moment she stepped out the gate."

Joseph swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "She's hiding," he muttered. "She'll turn up in some cheap motel in a few days when she needs money."

But a knot of unease tightened in his stomach. He remembered the look in her eyes before she left. It wasn't the look of a defeated woman. It was the look of someone who had nothing left to lose. And that convoy... he hadn't seen the logos, but the precision of those cars, the way they moved in formation-that wasn't a taxi service. That was extraction.

In the Rolls Royce, Giselle took a sip of the cocoa. The warmth spread through her chest. She leaned her head on her mother's shoulder.

The girl who cried in the mud was gone.

---

"Dr. Mandy," a resident stammered, jogging to keep up with her stride. "The neuro consult in Room 304-they're asking for your opinion on the synaptic response."

Giselle adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses. The surgical mask covered the lower half of her face, and her hair was pulled back in a severe, tight bun. No one looked at her and saw Giselle Villarreal. They saw Dr. Mandy, the phantom of the neurological world. She wore no jewelry, no makeup, just a plain, functional watch on her wrist that belied the billions in her bank account.

"Increase the dosage of the inhibitor by 2%," she said, her voice crisp. "And check the spinal fluid pressure. You missed the micro-tremors in his left hand."

The resident blinked, awestruck. "Right. Yes. Thank you, Doctor."

Giselle checked the generic medical watch on her wrist. 3:00 PM. She had exactly twenty minutes before she had to pick up Kim from her ballet class.

She turned the corner toward the elevators, her mind already shifting from neurotoxins to dinner plans.

Thud.

Something small and solid slammed into her legs.

Giselle stumbled back, catching her balance. She looked down.

A little boy, no older than five, was clinging to her lab coat. He was dressed in a miniature, tailored navy suit that probably cost more than most people's cars. His dark hair was tousled, and his big, brown eyes were wide with panic.

"Shh!" he hissed, pressing a finger to his lips.

"Young man?" she started, reaching down to detach him.

"Hide me!" he whispered urgently. "The gorillas are coming!"

"Gorillas?"

"Jamin! Master Jamin!" Heavy voices echoed from the main entrance.

Giselle looked up. Three men in black suits were scanning the crowd, looking frantic. Bodyguards.

The boy, Jamin, looked up at her. His eyes... Giselle froze. Those eyes. They were the color of espresso. They were Joseph's eyes.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. This was Joseph's son. Clydie's son.

She should have pushed him away. She should have called the guards. But the terror in his little face triggered something primal in her.

She stepped to the side, flaring her white coat open just enough to shield him between her and a large potted fern. She pulled a chart from under her arm and pretended to read it.

The bodyguards ran past them, their earpieces buzzing.

When they were gone, Jamin peeked out. He let out a dramatic sigh of relief. "That was close. They are so annoying."

He looked up at her, tilting his head. "Wow."

"Wow what?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

"You have really pretty eyes," he said solemnly. "You look like the mommy in my dreams."

Giselle's breath hitched. "I think you're confusing me with someone else."

"Nope," he said, popping the 'p'. He grabbed her hand. His fingers were small and warm. "I heard the nurse call you Dr. Mandy. Are you the boss here?"

"I work here," she corrected lightly, her pulse still racing.

"Are you single? I need a girlfriend."

Giselle couldn't help it. A laugh escaped her mask. "I'm a little old for you."

"Not for me," he said, shaking his head. "For my daddy."

Her smile vanished.

"My daddy needs a girlfriend. Or a doctor. Or both." Jamin suddenly clutched his chest and groaned. "Oh no. My heart. I think I'm dying."

Giselle dropped to one knee instantly, her fingers finding his radial pulse. Strong. Regular.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Your heart is fine."

He dropped the act immediately, grinning. "Okay, you caught me. I'm not sick. But my daddy is. He's really sick."

"Where is your mother?" she asked, the words tasting like ash. "Shouldn't she be helping him?"

Jamin's face fell. The playful spark vanished. "I don't like her," he muttered, kicking at the floor tile. "She's mean. She just wants Daddy's money. Daddy doesn't like her either. He kicked her out."

Giselle's brain short-circuited. Kicked her out? But the news... the tabloids painted them as the perfect power couple.

"Dr. Mandy to the ER. Dr. Mandy to the ER," the overhead speaker blared.

Giselle stood up. "I have to go, Jamin. Go find your guards."

"Wait!" He held onto her sleeve. "Please. My daddy... he hurts. He hits his head against the wall because it hurts so bad."

She stopped. That sounded like neurotoxic residue syndrome.

"Please," he whispered, his eyes filling with tears. "Help him."

---