Mitch's knees buckled. He collapsed onto the white leather sofa, his fingers digging into the cushions so hard his nails left deep, white scratch marks in the material.

"Mitch!" Brenda screamed, dropping her phone. She scrambled across the rug and fell to her knees beside him. "What happened? Are you having a heart attack?"

Mitch's head rolled back against the sofa. The top buttons of his shirt tore open.

Thick, purplish-black veins bulged beneath the skin of his neck. They crawled upward like the roots of a dead tree, pulsing with a sickening, unnatural rhythm.

A man in a tailored suit, carrying a silver medical case, sprinted through the open front doors, completely out of breath. It was Dr. Evans, the family's private concierge physician.

Dr. Evans threw the case onto the glass coffee table. The latches popped open. He bypassed the stethoscope and immediately pulled out a thick, large-gauge blood-draw needle.

Mitch's head snapped up. His bloodshot eyes locked onto Eloise, who was still standing quietly next to her broken duffel bag.

"Draw... her blood," Mitch wheezed, his voice sounding like two stones grinding together. "Do it now."

Kylie shrieked and scrambled behind the opposite sofa, though a sick glimmer of amusement danced in her eyes as she watched Eloise.

Dr. Evans hesitated. He looked at the massive needle in his hand, then at Eloise. "Miss Eloise, please. Just hold out your arm. It's for your father's treatment."

Eloise took one step back. She lowered her center of gravity, her feet shifting into a balanced, defensive stance.

"You dug up the protected Native American burial ground in the Hamptons to lay the foundation for your new condos," Eloise said. Her voice cut through the panic in the room like a blade.

Mitch's eyes widened in sheer terror. The mention of the burial ground hit him like a physical blow.

"Those black veins aren't a medical condition," Eloise continued, her tone clinical. "It's subterranean miasma entering your bloodstream. Modern medicine cannot save you."

"Shut up!" Mitch roared, spit flying from his lips. "You're a witch! You cursed me! You did this!"

He forced himself up on one elbow, his chest heaving. He pointed a trembling finger at the doctor. "Hold her down and take her blood! The broker on the black market said I need the blood of a virgin to cleanse the toxin! Do it, or you're fired!"

Dr. Evans swallowed hard. The thought of losing his million-dollar retainer erased his medical ethics. He clenched his jaw, gripped the needle tightly, and lunged at Eloise.

Eloise didn't retreat. As the doctor's heavy frame barreled toward her, she pivoted sharply on her left foot.

She didn't launch a violent strike, but instead shifted her weight with impossible precision. Her foot hooked cleanly behind his ankle, instantly disrupting his balance. He tumbled forward, his own momentum causing his knee to twist violently and slam into the heavy base of the coffee table.

A sickening pop echoed in the room. Dr. Evans screamed, dropping the needle onto the rug as his leg gave out. He crashed to the floor, clutching his knee in agony.

"You little animal!" Brenda shrieked, her face purple with rage. "How dare you assault someone in my house!"

Mitch completely lost his mind. He grabbed a heavy, solid crystal ashtray from the coffee table and hurled it directly at Eloise's head.

Eloise ducked. The heavy crystal grazed the shoulder of her jacket and smashed into the drywall behind her, exploding into sharp fragments.

"Security!" Mitch bellowed, slamming his fist against the emergency intercom button on the wall panel next to the sofa. "Get in here and restrain this psycho!"

Heavy combat boots pounded against the stone steps outside. Three massive private security guards, wearing black tactical vests, stormed into the living room.

They didn't ask questions. Seeing the doctor on the floor and Mitch bleeding from his neck, they instantly fanned out, forming a half-circle.

They advanced on Eloise, forcing her to step backward until her shoulder blades hit the cold glass of the floor-to-ceiling window. She was trapped.

Eloise flipped her wrist. A sharp, jagged piece of raw amethyst slid from her sleeve into her fingers. She gripped it tight, ready to drive the stone into the first man's carotid artery.

Eloise flipped her wrist. A sharp, jagged piece of raw amethyst slid from her sleeve into her fingers. She gripped it tight, ready to drive the stone into the first man's carotid artery.

The lead guard, a man with a thick neck and cauliflower ears, lunged forward. He reached out a massive hand to grab Eloise by the collar.

Eloise's eyes narrowed. She raised the amethyst, aiming for the pressure point on his inner wrist.

Before she could strike, a sharp, authoritative cough echoed from the open doorway.

A solid black cane, topped with a gleaming silver wolf's head, shot out from the entryway. But the cane didn't strike the guard—it deflected the hand of the second guard who was reaching for Eloise's shoulder, sending his arm crashing into a nearby marble console table. Porcelain vase shattered, shards scattering across the floor.

The guards froze. A cold sweat broke out on the lead guard's neck. He slowly turned his head.

Standing in the doorway was an elderly man with perfectly combed silver hair. He wore a bespoke three-piece suit from Savile Row, tailored to absolute perfection. His posture was rigid, his eyes sharp and unforgiving.

Christopher McNeil surveyed the room, his gaze slicing through the chaos like a scalpel. He wasn't close enough to touch any of them—but he didn't need to be. The message was clear: he had eyes everywhere, and his reach extended far beyond his cane.

Without a word, two men in long black trench coats materialized from the shadows behind him. They moved with terrifying speed, crossing the vast foyer in seconds. In less than two heartbeats, the elite operatives swept the legs of the three Foreman guards. The sound of bones dislocating snapped through the air as the guards were pinned face-down against the hardwood, completely neutralized.

Mitch struggled to stand, his legs shaking. "Who the hell are you? This is private property! I'll have you arrested!"

Christopher ignored him entirely. He walked past the groaning guards, his cane tapping rhythmically against the floor, and stopped two feet in front of Eloise.

He bowed. It was a deep, respectful bow that belonged to a bygone era of aristocracy.

"Miss Palmer," Christopher said, his voice smooth and deeply respectful. "I apologize for my tardiness."

Brenda let out a harsh, ugly laugh. "Palmer? What kind of sick joke is this? She's a nameless stray. She doesn't even know who her real parents are!"

Christopher slowly turned his head. He looked at Brenda as if she were a cockroach on a dining table.

He unlatched his leather briefcase and pulled out a thick document bound in gold-embossed leather. He tossed it onto the glass coffee table. It landed with a heavy thud.

"A parting gift," Christopher said coldly. "To compensate the Foreman family for providing shelter to our young miss all these years."

Kylie crawled out from behind the sofa. Her phone vibrated violently against her thigh. She pulled it out with trembling fingers, her eyes locking onto a text message from her private driver: 'Miss Kylie, the mechanic just called. You are incredibly lucky. The front right inner sidewall of your Porsche had a massive bulge. It was minutes away from blowing out on the highway.'

Kylie's breath hitched. A cold sweat broke out on her neck as she stared at Eloise in sheer terror, realizing the prophecy was absolutely real. Shaking, she then squinted at the cover page. Her breath hitched. It was a Manhattan Land Trust document, transferring ownership of a prime commercial block.

Mitch saw the valuation at the bottom—three billion dollars.

He stared at it for a second, then burst into a wet, hacking laugh. "A three-billion-dollar trust? You expect me to believe this? You're just a con artist she hired to play dress-up!"

Christopher's expression did not change. He reached out and calmly picked the document back up. "If you refuse the compensation, then the Palmer family owes you nothing."

He turned back to Eloise and pulled a pair of pristine, white lambskin gloves from his pocket. He offered them to her. "Please, Miss Palmer. Do not dirty your hands in this place."

Eloise slipped the soft leather over her fingers. She picked up the straps of her broken duffel bag and walked toward the door.

As she passed Mitch, she stopped. She tilted her head, looking at the black veins pulsing on his neck.

"At exactly midnight tonight, your left lung will completely collapse," Eloise said, her voice devoid of pity. "That will be your only window to survive. Don't miss it."

Mitch's face twisted in pure rage. He grabbed a pair of heavy brass scissors from the side table and lunged at Eloise's back.

The two operatives in trench coats moved simultaneously.

The sharp, metallic clack of two Glock 19s racking rounds into their chambers echoed through the living room. The muzzles were aimed directly at Mitch's forehead.

Mitch dropped the scissors. They clattered against the floor as Eloise walked out into the freezing wind.

Christopher opened a massive black umbrella, shielding Eloise from the icy drizzle that had begun to fall over Long Island. He guided her down the expansive driveway.

Waiting at the curb was a black Rolls-Royce Phantom Extended Wheelbase. Its license plate bore a single, highly restricted digit.

A driver in white gloves opened the heavy rear door. Eloise slid into the cabin. The air inside smelled faintly of cedarwood and expensive leather.

The Phantom pulled away smoothly, the engine silent. In the rearview mirror, the Foreman villa shrank into a meaningless speck before disappearing entirely.

Christopher sat opposite her in the rear-facing jump seat. He poured a cup of hot Earl Grey tea from a silver thermos and handed it to her.

"The Palmer family," Christopher began, his voice low and steady, "is not a name you will find on Forbes. The family operates from a private island in the Caribbean. They control global shipping lanes and deep-sea mineral rights."

Eloise held the warm teacup. Her fingers traced the gold rim. Her heart rate remained steady. She felt no sudden surge of joy or relief.

"I need time," Eloise said, her eyes fixed on the rain streaking the window. "I am not abandoning my life or my practice as a clairvoyant just because you found me."

"Of course, Miss Palmer," Christopher bowed his head slightly. "The family respects your boundaries. We are merely here to serve."

The Rolls-Royce merged onto a winding coastal road overlooking the Atlantic, heading away from the Long Island estates. The rain intensified, slashing against the glass.

Suddenly, a searing heat bloomed against Eloise's chest.

She gasped, her hand flying to her sternum. The raw amethyst amulet she wore under her shirt felt like a burning coal. The heat pierced through her skin, radiating directly into her ribcage.

Eloise squeezed her eyes shut.

A violent vision forced its way into her mind. She saw blinding, sterile white lights. She heard the piercing, continuous scream of a flatlining EKG monitor.

An old man's face flashed before her-an oxygen mask strapped over his mouth, his eyes clouded with the unmistakable, suffocating fog of death.

The amethyst vibrated against her chest, syncing perfectly with the frantic hammering of her own pulse. It was a life-and-death resonance. A soul was being ripped from the physical world prematurely.

Eloise's eyes snapped open. A faint, dark purple light flickered in her irises.

She could feel it. Three miles ahead, on a sharp bend of the mountain road, a massive shadow of death was gathering. If she didn't intervene, the reaper would take a soul that wasn't scheduled to die.

Eloise slammed the teacup down onto the silver tray.

"Speed up," she commanded. Her voice was no longer quiet; it carried the heavy, absolute authority of a commanding officer.

The driver glanced in the rearview mirror. He looked at Christopher. The butler gave a single, curt nod.

The driver slammed his foot on the gas. The Phantom roared, surging forward through the heavy rain like a black torpedo.

Eloise unzipped her broken bag. She dug past her clothes and pulled out the stack of slightly damp parchment runes.

Her fingers moved with practiced speed, pulling out a specific card-the Sun Rune, drawn in red ink, representing absolute vitality. She pinched it between her index and middle fingers.

Through the thick fog ahead, a cluster of flashing red and blue emergency lights pierced the gloom. It was a massive medical convoy.