The frosted glass door of the medical room was shoved open with violent force.

Eleanor McConnell stormed in. Her immaculate, custom-tailored Chanel suit didn't have a single wrinkle, but her face was tight with panic.

Her eyes immediately found Diana standing barefoot on the cold marble.

"Diana!" Eleanor gasped, pressing a manicured hand to her chest.

She crossed the room in three quick strides, the heels of her Louboutins clicking sharply. She grabbed Diana's arms, her grip tight and frantic, trying to pull her away from the machines and back toward the bed.

"What are you doing out of bed? You have a concussion! That's reckless."

Dr. Evans immediately stepped forward, his posture rigid.

"Mrs. McConnell, the young miss seems to be suffering from post-traumatic confusion. She forcefully terminated the blood extraction protocol."

Eleanor stopped pulling. She turned her head slowly. Her perfectly arched eyebrows drew together in a sharp, dangerous line. She glared at the doctor.

Then, her gaze shifted to Jorden still strapped to the chair.

The look on Eleanor's face wasn't just anger. It was pure, unadulterated disgust. She looked at the boy the way one might look at a rat in a Michelin-star kitchen.

"If he is upsetting my daughter, remove him," Eleanor ordered, her voice like cracking ice. "Take this useless thing back to the basement. Now."

Two massive security guards in dark suits immediately pushed their way through the open doorway.

They didn't hesitate. They marched straight to the medical chair. One of them roughly unbuckled the thick leather straps binding Jorden's wrists.

The sudden release of pressure left a raw, angry red welt across the boy's pale skin. Jorden didn't make a sound. His jaw remained locked tight.

The guards grabbed Jorden by the upper arms. They hauled him up from the chair like a sack of dead weight. Jorden's legs, weak from the blood loss, dragged against the floor.

Diana's brain spun.

The novel. The basement. If they locked Jorden in that dark, freezing room now, his hatred would solidify. He would become the monster that eventually tore this family apart and left her bleeding out in an alley.

She couldn't let them take him.

Diana reached out. Her hand clamped down hard on Eleanor's wrist, right over the cold metal of her Cartier diamond watch.

"Mom."

Diana forced her voice to tremble. She bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood, letting the sharp pain force hot tears into her eyes.

"Mom, please. Don't put him in the basement."

Eleanor froze. She stared down at her adopted daughter, completely stunned. Diana was always the one demanding harsher punishments for the servants.

Diana let out a broken, ragged breath. She made her knees buckle slightly, forcing Eleanor to support her weight.

"The blood..." Diana whimpered, her fingers digging into Eleanor's expensive sleeve. "There was so much blood in the tube. I woke up and it was right there. It made me so dizzy. Dr. Evans wouldn't stop when I asked him to. He scared me."

She pointed a trembling finger at the doctor.

Dr. Evans's face drained of color. His mouth opened and closed like a fish.

"Mrs. McConnell, I assure you, it was standard procedure-"

Eleanor didn't let him finish. She spun on the doctor, her maternal panic instantly morphing into vicious rage.

"You terrified her!" Eleanor screamed, her voice echoing off the tile walls. "She just fell down a flight of stairs, and you subject her to a slaughterhouse display? Are you completely incompetent?"

Dr. Evans took a step back, raising his hands in defense. "Ma'am, the medical proxy states-"

"I don't care what the proxy states!" Eleanor snapped, smoothing the edge of her Chanel jacket with shaking hands.

Diana didn't give the doctor a chance to recover. She looked at Jorden, who was still suspended between the two massive guards.

"Let him go to the guest room on the south wing," Diana whispered, wiping a tear from her cheek. "I don't want to see anyone else get hurt today. Please, Mom. It will just give me nightmares."

The guards stopped moving. They looked at Eleanor, waiting for the final command.

Eleanor frowned. The south wing guest rooms were for actual humans, not biological assets. But she looked down at Diana's pale, tear-stained face and the bandage on her head.

Eleanor sighed, waving her hand dismissively at the guards. "Fine. Put him in the guest room. Just get him out of her sight."

The guards immediately let go.

Without their support, Jorden collapsed. His shoulder slammed hard against the metal doorframe with a sickening thud.

He slumped to the floor. His head bowed, his dark hair falling over his eyes.

But in that split second before he looked down, he quickly ducked his head, hiding his face behind his dark, unruly bangs and completely shielding whatever emotions flickered in his eyes.

When he slowly raised his head again, any hint of reaction was completely buried. He looked at Diana with the familiar, pathetic, trembling gaze of a broken victim, offering nothing but hollow submission.

Before Diana could process the shift, heavy footsteps pounded down the hallway.

The head butler appeared in the doorway, his usual composed face slick with sweat.

"Madam," the butler gasped, out of breath. "The police are downstairs in the lobby. And they brought agents from Child Protective Services."

Two NYPD detectives and a woman wearing a CPS badge stepped onto the thick Persian rug of the living room.

Eleanor stood in the center of the room. She had already adjusted her posture, slipping into the impenetrable, arrogant armor of a New York socialite.

"I don't care who called you," Eleanor said, her voice dripping with condescension. "You do not enter my home without my legal counsel present. My husband's lawyers are already on their way."

The lead detective, a heavy-set man in a cheap suit, didn't flinch.

"Mrs. McConnell, we received an anonymous tip regarding the intentional assault of a minor on these premises. We don't need your lawyers to ask a few preliminary questions."

The butler walked into the room, leading a girl behind him.

Harriet.

She wore an oversized, faded gray hoodie and cheap denim jeans. She stood near the edge of the room, her hands shoved deep into her pockets. Her face was completely blank. She looked at the police, then at Eleanor, with the detached boredom of someone watching a bad play.

A man stepped out from the shadows of the hallway corridor. Alistair Finch. He wore a tailored suit and gold-rimmed glasses, looking every bit the high-end private physician.

Alistair pushed his glasses up his nose and looked directly at the detectives.

"Officers," Alistair said smoothly. "As the family's attending physician, I can confirm Miss Diana suffered a severe concussion from a fall. And she..." He pointed a manicured finger at Harriet. "...was the only one standing at the top of the stairs with her."

Eleanor's head snapped toward Harriet. Her eyes widened with pure, unfiltered hatred.

"You," Eleanor hissed, taking a step toward her biological daughter. "You dragged your filthy, barbaric habits straight from that Ohio trailer park into my home. You tried to kill my daughter!"

The detective pulled out a small notepad and clicked his pen. He turned to Harriet.

"Miss, we need you to answer some questions about the incident."

Harriet didn't defend herself. She didn't even look at the detective. Her dark, penetrating eyes simply shifted, glancing up toward the second-floor staircase landing.

Diana stood there.

She gripped the polished mahogany railing. She wore a white silk robe, the white gauze bandage stark against her forehead.

The entire room went dead silent. Every eye turned to her.

Alistair immediately walked toward the base of the stairs, holding out a hand.

"Miss Diana, please, you shouldn't be out of bed. Tell the officers what happened. Tell them how she pushed you."

Diana ignored his hand. She walked down the remaining steps, her bare feet making no sound on the wood. She walked straight past Alistair and stopped right in front of the two detectives.

She took a deep breath. She dug her nails into her palms.

"There was no assault," Diana said. Her voice was clear, cutting through the tension in the room.

The air in the living room froze.

"Diana, what are you saying?" Eleanor gasped, rushing forward to grab her arm. "Don't be afraid of her! Tell them the truth!"

Diana turned to Eleanor. She let her shoulders drop, softening her expression into one of deep guilt.

"Mom, I can't lie to the police," Diana said softly. She looked back at the detectives. "I was wearing new heels. I misjudged the distance and slipped on the marble edge. It was entirely my fault."

Alistair's face tightened. The smooth, confident mask slipped for a fraction of a second, revealing a flash of intense irritation. His trap was perfectly set, and the victim had just dismantled it herself.

Diana continued, her voice steady. "Harriet was at least five feet away from me. She didn't touch me. She couldn't have."

Harriet finally moved. She tilted her head slightly. For the first time, a flicker of genuine curiosity broke through the cold indifference in her eyes as she stared at Diana.

The detective stopped writing. He looked at Diana, then at Harriet, and finally snapped his notepad shut.

"Well," the detective grumbled. "If the victim states it was an accident, there's no crime here."

The CPS worker stepped forward, her brow furrowed. "What about the boy? The tip mentioned a minor being subjected to unauthorized medical procedures."

Diana didn't miss a beat. She looked at the butler. "Show them the medical proxy."

The butler quickly retrieved a thick leather binder from the side table and handed it to the CPS worker.

"As you can see right there in the highlighted clauses," the butler stated smoothly, picking up the slack as Diana leaned back against the banister, feigning exhaustion. "Jorden Watson is under a legally binding medical guardianship. All procedures are meticulously overseen by licensed professionals. Furthermore, per page four, his independent trust fund receives a monthly compensation of twenty thousand dollars for his... donations. It is an entirely legal, mutually beneficial arrangement."

The CPS worker scanned the documents. Her lips thinned in disgust, but she handed the binder back. In New York, money and ironclad contracts beat morality every time.

"We're done here," the detective muttered.

The moment the heavy front doors clicked shut behind the police, Eleanor exploded.

"Are you out of your mind?!" Eleanor screamed, grabbing Diana by the shoulders. "Why did you protect that little savage? We could have sent her to juvenile detention!"

Diana didn't answer Eleanor.

She gently pulled out of her mother's grip. She turned around and faced Harriet.

The two girls looked at each other across the expanse of the Persian rug.

"I'm sorry," Diana said quietly.

It took an hour of crying, pleading, and playing the traumatized daughter to finally get Eleanor to take a sedative and go to the master bedroom.

Diana rubbed her temples. The throbbing in her head was getting worse.

She turned away from the grand foyer and walked down the east corridor. The thick carpets gave way to cheap hardwood. The lighting grew dim. This was the servant's wing.

She stopped in front of a door with peeling white paint. She took a deep breath, turned the brass knob, and pushed it open.

The smell of dampness and mildew hit her immediately.

The room was tiny. A single, bare bulb hung from the ceiling. Jorden was curled into a tight ball on a narrow, creaking cot in the corner.

At the sound of the door opening, Jorden violently flinched.

He shot up, pressing his back against the peeling wallpaper. His breathing hitched. His hands instantly crossed over his chest, his fingers digging into his biceps to hide the fresh needle marks on his inner arms. He stared at her like a cornered animal waiting for the final blow.

Diana's chest tightened. A sharp ache bloomed behind her ribs.

"It's too damp in here," Diana said, keeping her voice low and soft. "It's bad for your wounds."

She took a step toward the bed and reached out to gently grasp his forearm.

Jorden violently yanked his arm away.

"Don't touch me," he hissed. His voice was raw, scraping against his throat. "What new game is this? What do you want?"

Diana didn't argue. She turned around, opened the small, rusted closet, and pulled out a thick, brand-new cashmere sweater she had grabbed from her own room.

She tossed it onto the cot next to him.

"Put it on. Follow me." Her tone left no room for debate.

Jorden stared at the sweater. He looked at the door, then back at Diana. Years of conditioned obedience fought against his survival instincts. Slowly, with shaking hands, he pulled the heavy fabric over his head.

Diana led him out of the dark corridor. They walked across the apartment to the south wing.

She pushed open a set of heavy double doors.

Brilliant, blinding afternoon sunlight flooded the space. The room was massive. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the sprawling greenery of Central Park.

Jorden stopped dead in the doorway. He squeezed his eyes shut against the harsh light. He didn't take a single step onto the plush, cream-colored carpet.

Diana walked over to the massive King-size bed and patted the silk duvet.

"You're staying here from now on," she said.

Jorden opened his eyes. He stared at her, his jaw tight. He looked around the room, then back at her, as if waiting for the punchline of a cruel joke.

He bit his lower lip. "If I bleed on the carpet... will they break my legs?"

The words were spoken so quietly, so matter-of-factly, that they felt like a physical knife twisting in Diana's gut. The original owner of this body had truly been a monster.

Diana walked back to the doorway. She stopped right in front of him, forcing him to meet her eyes.

"Listen to me," Diana said firmly. "From today on, no one is allowed to hurt you. Not the doctors. Not the guards. And especially not me."

She reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out a small, silver tube of medical-grade scar ointment she had taken from the medical room.

She held it out to him.

Jorden stared at the tube. He didn't reach for it. His eyes darted across her face, searching for the trap.

Diana sighed. She grabbed his hand, pressed the cold metal tube into his palm, and closed his fingers around it.

"Use it," she said.

She turned around, walked out into the hallway, and gently pulled the double doors shut behind her.

The second the latch clicked into place, the trembling fear vanished from Jorden's face.

His posture straightened. The hollow victim disappeared, replaced by a cold, calculating predator. He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows and stared down at the Manhattan traffic, his eyes dark and unreadable.

He looked down at the tube of ointment in his hand.

With practiced, mechanical precision, he unscrewed the cap. He squeezed a tiny amount onto his finger, checking the consistency. He smelled it, analyzing the chemical makeup for toxins or hidden micro-trackers.

It was clean.

He rubbed the ointment into the angry red welt on his wrist.

The sharp, crisp scent of peppermint filled the air. He smoothed the cool salve over his bruised skin, and an icy stillness seeped into the wound.

Jorden's hand froze.

The distinct smell of mint made his fingers pause mid-air. A fragmented, dust-covered image flashed violently across his mind-the cold, sterile laboratory, the metal cages, and the little girl who used to sneak him peppermint candies through the bars. Anya. But years of brutal conditioning kicked in instantly. He ruthlessly suppressed the anomaly, forcing his logic back online to finish checking the ointment for micro-trackers. Only after he was absolutely certain he was safe and alone did the rigid tension in his shoulders break. Jorden stared at the closed mahogany door. His chest rose and fell rapidly. A dark, intense wave of profound shock and suspicion finally bled into his dark eyes.

Down the hall, Diana sat at the massive oak desk in her bedroom. She opened the sleek Apple MacBook. It was time to check her bank accounts. The real storm was coming, and she needed cash to survive it.