The next morning, Frank threw a black credit card onto the kitchen table. It slid across the wood and stopped in front of my plate of dry toast.

"Get her something that doesn't look like it came from a dumpster," he told Brenda. "But keep it under budget. We need the cash for the settlement."

Brenda snatched the card up. "Come on," she barked at me. "And put a hat on. I don't want the neighbors seeing your roots."

We went to the mall. Not the high-end boutiques on Fifth Avenue, but a sprawling outlet center on the edge of the island. Kayla came with us, wearing dark sunglasses to hide her hangover, her wrist wrapped in an Ace bandage she didn't need.

Brenda dragged me into a store that smelled of cheap polyester and desperation. She started pulling things off the racks. Bright pinks, neon greens, animal prints. Clothes that screamed "new money" and "no taste."

"Try this," she said, shoving a tight, sequined cocktail dress at me. It looked like something a disco ball would wear to a funeral.

I went into the changing room. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. I pulled the dress on. It was itchy. It was tight in the wrong places. It was perfect for the role.

I stepped out. I let my shoulders slump. I chewed the gum I had popped into my mouth earlier with my mouth open. I walked awkwardly, stumbling a little in the heels they had given me.

Kayla snickered. She had her phone out, snapping pictures. "Look at her," she whispered to Brenda. "She looks like a hooker on clearance."

Brenda nodded, satisfied. "It fits her personality. We'll take it."

I saw the salesgirl watching us. She had a look of pure disdain on her face. Poor white trash trying to play dress-up, her eyes said.

I caught Kayla's reflection in the mirror. She was typing furiously on her phone, posting the photo to her private group chat. "Wait until you see what my cousin is wearing to meet the Sterlings. #CharityCase."

I made a mental note of the timestamp. That photo would be useful later. Evidence of their cruelty, if I ever needed to burn them down publicly.

After the shopping, there was the hair salon. Brenda instructed the stylist to bleach my hair platinum blonde. Not a nice, honey blonde. Platinum. White. Fried.

"Make it bright," Brenda said. "She needs to pop."

The stylist looked at my hair, which was healthy despite the bad dye job I'd given it myself for cover. "Are you sure? This will damage the cuticle..."

"Just do it," Brenda snapped.

Two hours later, my scalp was burning, and my hair felt like straw. I looked in the mirror. I looked exactly like the stereotype they wanted me to be. A gold-digger. A bimbo.

The final stop was a "manners consultant" Frank had hired for a two-hour crash course. Mrs. Gable was a stern woman with a British accent that sounded fake.

She tried to teach me how to walk with a book on my head.

"Chin up, shoulders back," she commanded.

I took two steps and let the book slide off. I bent down to pick it up, bending at the waist instead of the knees, giving Mrs. Gable a view of my underwear.

She gasped. "Oh, good heavens! No!"

I did it again. And again. I spilled tea. I used the salad fork for the cake. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

By the end of the hour, Mrs. Gable looked ready to retire.

"Mr. Vance," she told Frank, who had come to pick us up. "She is... unteachable. She is a liability."

Frank looked at me with pure hatred. "She's not going there to talk politics, Mrs. Gable. She's going there to sign papers and breed."

I stood there, popping my gum, looking vacant. Inside, I was smiling. They thought I was stupid. Stupidity was the best camouflage in the world.

I needed to use the restroom before we left. I went into the stall and locked the door. A moment later, I heard Brenda and Kayla enter.

"I can't believe we have to give that idiot two million dollars," Kayla complained. "That's my inheritance, Mom."

"Shh," Brenda said. "It's a signing bonus. Frank has to transfer it to get her to sign the prenup. But don't worry. Once she's in that house, once the trust fund is unlocked for us... who cares what happens to her?"

"But two million?"

"She won't live long enough to spend it, honey. You know what they say about Julian. He's killed two nurses already. Why do you think they're accepting her? They need a body count that doesn't sue."

I sat on the toilet lid, my breath held. Two million.

They were going to pay me two million dollars to walk into a trap.

I waited until they left. I walked out of the stall and washed my hands. I looked at the platinum blonde stranger in the mirror.

Two million dollars. That would buy a lot of neurotoxin antidote on the black market.

I dried my hands. I wasn't just going to survive Julian Sterling. I was going to use their own blood money to save him.

The morning of the departure, the air in the Vance living room was so thick you could choke on it. Frank sat at the head of the mahogany table, a pen tapping rhythmically against the wood. Beside him lay a stack of documents thick enough to be a novel.

The Prenuptial Agreement. The Non-Disclosure Agreement. The Waiver of Rights.

"Sign," Frank said. He didn't look up.

I stood by the window, clutching my denim bag. I was wearing the pink dress. It was tight, uncomfortable, and ridiculous for a Tuesday morning.

I walked to the table. I picked up the pen. I hovered it over the signature line.

Then I stopped.

Frank stopped tapping. "What are you doing?"

I looked up at him. My eyes were wide, innocent. I dropped the pen. It clattered loudly on the table.

"I don't read so good, Uncle Frank," I said, my voice pitching up a little and my grammar slipping into the broken cadence I had perfected for them. "But I know numbers. And I don't see my numbers here."

Frank's face turned a shade of purple I hadn't seen before. "Excuse me?"

"I heard you and Aunt Brenda," I said. "In the bathroom. You said two million."

Brenda gasped from the sofa. "You little spy!"

I took a step back, crossing my arms. "I'm not signing. Not until I see the money."

Frank stood up so fast his chair tipped over. "You ungrateful little gutter rat! We are giving you a life! We are giving you a future!"

"You're selling me to a monster!" I screamed back. I let the tears come now. Panic, real and raw, or at least it looked that way. "You said he kills people! If I'm going to die, I want to die rich!"

Kayla marched over and got in my face. "You don't deserve a dime."

"Then go marry him yourself!" I shoved the papers toward her.

Silence. Absolute silence descended on the room. Kayla recoiled as if the papers were radioactive. They all knew the truth. They were terrified of Julian Sterling.

Frank looked at his watch. The Sterling car would be here in twelve minutes. If I wasn't in it, the deal was off. The Vance family bankruptcy would be public by noon.

He was trapped. And he knew it.

"Fine," he snarled. He pulled out his phone. "Give me the account number."

I didn't hesitate. I pulled a crumpled piece of paper from my bra. It had a routing number on it.

"What is this?" Frank squinted at it. "This is... Swiss?"

"My friend's account," I lied smoothly. "She works at a bank. Said she could hold it for me so Momma don't steal it."

Frank didn't have time to argue. His fingers flew across the screen, trembling with rage. He authorized the wire transfer.

I waited. My left eye began to itch-the signal from the contact lens I was wearing. A tiny, augmented reality overlay flickered in my vision.

My fingers, hidden behind my back, tapped a sequence on the microscopic keypad embedded in my belt buckle. It was a failsafe. Frank thought he was sending a pending authorization, something he could cancel later. But with a little help from my end, the transfer was instant and irreversible.

Transfer Confirmed: $2,000,000.00 USD.

I smiled. It was a greedy, ugly smile. I grabbed the pen and scribbled my name on the documents. I didn't even read them.

The doorbell rang.

Frank grabbed my arm, his grip bruising. "If you screw this up, Serena, I will find you. And I will make you wish you died in that house."

I pulled my arm away. I grabbed my bag.

"Bye, Uncle Frank. Thanks for the tip."

I walked out the front door.

A stretch limousine was waiting. Standing beside the open door was a man who looked like he had been carved out of granite. He wore a tuxedo that fit him like armor. His hair was grey, cropped close. His eyes were cold, assessing, and utterly unimpressed.

Higgins. The Sterling family's head of security and estate manager.

He looked at my pink dress. He looked at my cheap bag. He didn't say a word. He just gestured for me to get in.

I climbed into the back. The leather here was softer than Frank's car. It smelled of expensive cologne and old money.

Higgins got in the back with me, sitting on the opposite bench. The partition was up. We were alone.

He tapped on a tablet, ignoring me completely.

I leaned back, clutching my bag to my chest. I let out a long, shaky breath.

The car began to move. I watched the Vance house disappear in the rearview mirror. I felt the weight of the two million dollars in the offshore account-funds that Wolf was already converting into cryptocurrency to buy the illegal chelation agents we needed for Julian.

I looked at Higgins. "So," I said, popping a bubble of gum. "Is he really crazy? Or is that just, like, a rumor?"

Higgins looked up. His eyes were dead.

"Ms. Vance," he said, his voice deep and smooth. "In this family, the rumors are usually the polite version of the truth."

The drive took two hours. We left the suburbs and entered a part of the state that wasn't on most maps. The trees grew taller, thicker. The fences became higher, topped with razor wire that glinted in the sunlight.

Sterling Manor wasn't a house. It was a gothic nightmare rising out of the forest. Grey stone, high turrets, windows that looked like unblinking eyes. It was beautiful and terrifying.

The limousine crunched over the gravel driveway and came to a halt in front of the main entrance. A line of staff stood waiting. They weren't smiling.

Higgins opened the door. "Out."

I stumbled out, my heels sinking into the gravel. The air here was colder, damper.

At the top of the stone steps stood a woman. She was impeccable. Her white suit was tailored to within an inch of its life. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a chignon so tight it pulled her face into a permanent expression of disdain.

Victoria Sterling. The stepmother. The Queen.

She didn't come down to greet me. I had to walk up to her.

I stopped two steps below her, forcing myself to look up. "Hi," I said. "I'm Serena."

Victoria didn't answer. She reached out with a gloved hand and grabbed my chin. Her grip was iron. She turned my face left, then right.

"The skin is decent," she said to Higgins, as if I were a horse she was considering buying. "But the hair is atrocious. Burn it off and start over."

"Yes, Madame," Higgins said.

Victoria released me. She wiped her glove on her thigh. "Take her to the West Wing. Do not bring her into the main house. I have guests coming for the gala on Saturday, and I don't want them to see... this."

"But... aren't we having a wedding?" I asked stupidly.

Victoria laughed. It was a cold, dry sound. She snapped her fingers, and a man in a grey suit stepped forward from the shadows of the foyer. He held a leather binder.

"This is Judge Miller," Victoria said, her voice dripping with boredom. "He has already processed the license in your absence. You are legally bound to this family as of twenty minutes ago. The state requires a witness, and Higgins has sufficed."

She looked at me with eyes that promised suffering. "There is no cake. There is no party. There is just you, and your duty."

She turned on her heel and walked into the house. The heavy oak doors slammed shut.

Higgins gestured to the left. "This way."

We walked along the side of the house, down a path that was overgrown with ivy. The West Wing was separated from the main house by a long, glass-enclosed corridor. The windows were barred.

As we walked, the air changed. It smelled of antiseptic and mold. The silence was heavy.

Higgins stopped at a steel door. There was a keypad and a retinal scanner. He leaned in, his eye washed in red light.

"Access Granted."

The door hissed open.

Inside, it looked less like a home and more like a high-security psychiatric ward. The walls were white padding. The floors were linoleum. Cameras were mounted in every corner, their red LEDs blinking.

Higgins turned to me. "Listen carefully, Ms. Vance. Beyond this point, you are on your own. The West Wing is automated. Food comes through the secure slot. Medications are dispensed remotely. The panic button is on the wall by the door. If you press it, security will come, but it will take them three minutes."

"Three minutes?" I squeaked.

"A lot can happen in three minutes," Higgins said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a key card. "This opens his room. Do not go in unless he is restrained. Do not turn your back on him. Do not give him anything sharp."

I took the card. My hand was shaking. "Is he... is he in there now?"

Higgins nodded toward the end of the hall.

"Good luck, Ms. Vance. Try not to provoke him. The last one lost an ear."

Higgins turned and walked out. The steel door slammed shut behind him. The lock engaged with a heavy thud that echoed in my bones.

I was alone.

I stood in the hallway, listening.

At first, there was nothing. Then, from the room at the very end of the hall, I heard a sound.

It was the sound of chains dragging across the floor. And then, a low, guttural growl that didn't sound human at all.