Alana POV

Consciousness returned to the shrill, rising pitch of a mechanical whine.

Darkness pressed heavy against my eyelids.

The acrid smell of rust and bleach filled my lungs.

The Panic Room.

I tried to move, but leather straps bound my wrists and ankles to a metal chair with unyielding force.

My crushed hand was strapped flat to a cold steel table.

A spotlight clicked on, blinding me instantly.

Austen stood just beyond the halo of light, operating a remote control.

"Punishment Ninety-Seven," his voice echoed off the damp concrete walls. "Attempted harm of a protected asset."

"I didn't touch her," I rasped, my throat dry as sandpaper.

"Objective truth is irrelevant," Austen said calmly. "Perception is reality. Joyce feels threatened. Therefore, you are a threat."

The mechanical whine climbed to an ear-splitting frequency.

A small, industrial drill descended from the ceiling.

It hovered inches above my index finger.

The one he had already broken.

"Please," I whispered. Not for mercy, but for the sheer absurdity of it.

"Don't worry," he said. "The doctor is on standby."

The drill descended.

Metal met bone.

I screamed until my throat tore.

The world dissolved into white, then black.

When I surfaced again, I was in the estate's private infirmary.

The rhythmic beeping of monitors greeted me.

My hand was a heavy mass of bandages.

I could hear voices on the other side of the privacy curtain.

"The serum is experimental, Sir," the doctor was saying, his tone hesitant. "We only have one dose. It accelerates bone regeneration by 400 percent. Mrs. Ballard's hand could be saved."

"Give it to Joyce," Austen's voice was flat.

"But Sir... Miss Cummings only has a scratch."

"She is distressed. The scratch might scar. She needs to be perfect. Give her the serum."

"And Mrs. Ballard?"

"Give her Tylenol."

Rage is a quiet thing when you have nothing left to lose.

The curtain was pulled back.

Austen walked in.

He looked tired.

He pulled a chair up to my bed and sat down.

He took a switchblade from his pocket.

He flicked it open and sliced a shallow line across his own palm.

Blood welled up.

"I bleed with you, Alana," he said, his eyes burning with a feverish, delusional intensity. "We share this pain. It binds us."

It was a performance.

A sick ritual to make himself feel like a martyr instead of a monster.

"You're insane," I whispered.

He smiled, sad and soft.

"I am a man of honor. I protect those who save me."

From the hallway, I heard Joyce's voice.

"Austen? Baby? I'm scared. Come hold me."

Austen stood up immediately.

"I have to go," he said. "Rest."

He walked to the door.

I saw Joyce waiting there.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him.

He didn't pull away.

He kissed her back, his hand-the bleeding one-resting on her waist.

He was paying his "debt" with his body.

I looked at my good hand.

The diamond wedding ring glittered under the sterile fluorescent lights.

Five carats of flawless oppression.

I gritted my teeth.

I gripped the band.

It was tight, but I yanked.

Skin tore.

I didn't care.

It slid off, heavy and cold.

There was a red biohazard bin next to the bed for used needles and bloody gauze.

I dropped the ring into it.

Clunk.

It belonged in the trash.

Just like him.

Alana POV

"Where is it?"

Austen's voice was a low, subterranean growl.

He was looming over my hospital bed, gripping my right hand with bruising force.

The ring finger was bare.

"I lost it," I said, keeping my gaze fixed on the sterile white tiles of the ceiling. "Must have fallen off when they changed the bandages."

"Liar."

He dug into his pocket and extracted the ring.

He had retrieved it directly from the biohazard bin.

"You do not discard me, Alana."

He shoveled the ring back onto my finger.

He forced the cold metal past the knuckle, hard enough to grind bone against bone.

"Get dressed," he commanded, stepping back as if the intimacy disgusted him. "We are going out. You need to be seen."

"I can't walk," I said, my voice raspy.

"Then crawl."

An hour later, we were on Rodeo Drive.

Austen had cleared the flagship store for a private viewing.

He paraded me around like a prize poodle that had been kicked too many times-bandaged, limping, and on display.

My arm was in a black silk sling.

I wore oversized sunglasses to hide the dark circles carved under my eyes.

Joyce was there, of course.

She was flitting around the space, pointing at bags she wanted with manic energy.

"Oh, look!" Joyce squealed.

She was pointing at a display case in the auction house next door, visible through the glass partition.

"Antique silver. Boring."

I looked.

My breath caught in my throat, turning into a sharp pain.

It was a silver locket.

My mother's locket.

Robert, my father, had pawned it to pay a gambling debt barely a week after her funeral.

It was the only thing I had left of her.

"I want to go in there," I said, my voice trembling despite my best efforts.

Austen looked at the locket, then at me, his eyes cold.

"Fine. Whatever keeps you quiet."

We entered the auction house.

The bidding was already underway, the air thick with tension and expensive perfume.

"Five hundred dollars," I said, lifting my chin.

"One thousand," a voice chirped.

It was Joyce.

She grinned at me, predatory and bright.

"Two thousand," I said.

"Five thousand," Joyce countered instantly.

Austen sighed, checking his watch. "Joyce, stop playing."

"But I want it, Austen! It's vintage."

She didn't want it.

She knew I wanted it.

"Ten thousand," I said.

"Twenty," Joyce laughed, twirling a strand of hair.

"Alana, yield," Austen ordered, his patience thinning. "Let her have the trinket. I'll buy you a diamond necklace."

"No," I said.

"Excuse me?"

"No."

I raised my paddle, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"One million dollars."

The room went deathly silent.

The auctioneer choked on his own spit.

Austen stared at me, his jaw tight enough to snap.

"Sold," the auctioneer squeaked, recovering his composure. "To Mrs. Ballard."

I used Austen's account.

I had just incinerated a million dollars of his money for a piece of silver worth fifty bucks.

Joyce screamed.

She actually stomped her foot, like a petulant child denied candy.

"Austen! She's mocking you!"

Austen grabbed Joyce's arm, his fingers digging into her flesh.

"Calm down," he soothed her, though his eyes remained fixed on me with lethal promise. "I'll handle her."

He turned to me.

"Wait in the parking garage. Driver 2 is there."

He led a weeping Joyce out the front door to buy her ice cream or diamonds or whatever appeased the monster.

I walked to the garage alone, clutching the locket so hard the edges bit into my palm.

I reached the designated black SUV.

The driver wasn't there.

Three men detached themselves from behind a concrete pillar.

They weren't Ballard men.

They were street thugs, hired muscle with dead eyes.

"Miss Cummings sends her regards," one of them grinned, revealing a gold tooth.

He didn't hesitate.

He punched me in the ribs.

I heard the crack before I felt the pain.

I fell to the concrete, curling around the locket to shield it with my body.

They kicked me.

Once. Twice. Three times.

They didn't touch my face.

Joyce wanted me broken, not ugly.

They left me gasping for air on the oil-stained floor, tasting copper and dust.

My phone beeped.

A text from Joyce.

Don't be late for dinner at Daddy's house. We're celebrating my new necklace.

Alana POV

I arrived at my father's house looking less like a daughter and more like a car crash survivor.

My ribs were bound tight with tape, restricting every breath.

My hand was a throbbing mess.

Although my dress hid the bruises on my torso, my walk was a dead giveaway.

Robert McNeil opened the door.

He looked at me with unmasked disdain.

"Fix your hair," he hissed. "You look like a stray dog. You're embarrassing the Don."

"Nice to see you too, Dad," I muttered, limping past him into the foyer.

The dining room was set with gleaming crystal and china.

Austen sat at the head of the table.

Joyce sat to his right.

My mother's seat.

Diana, Joyce's mother, was fawning over them like a court jester.

"Alana," Joyce smiled, fingering a massive sapphire necklace. "You made it. Did you trip on the way here?"

"Something like that," I said, gripping the locket in my pocket as if it were a lifeline.

I sat down stiffly.

"Show us your little purchase," Joyce said. "The million-dollar tin can."

I didn't move.

"Show us," Austen commanded, his voice cold and detached. "Since you spent my money on it."

Reluctantly, I pulled the locket out.

Joyce snatched it from my hand before I could react.

"Oops," she said.

She let it slip from her fingers.

It hit the floor with a dull clatter.

Before I could move, she smashed her stiletto heel down on it.

The soft silver crumpled.

The hinge snapped.

"Oh no," Joyce giggled, feigning shock. "Clumsy me."

Something inside me snapped.

The tether that held my sanity to the earth finally broke.

I stood up.

I swung my good hand with everything I had left.

Crack.

My palm connected with Joyce's cheek with a force that vibrated up my arm.

It was the sweetest sound I had ever heard.

The room went deadly silent.

Joyce touched her face, eyes wide.

"She hit me!" she shrieked. "Austen! She hit the Savior!"

Austen stood up, his face thunderous.

"Alana!"

Diana shoved me hard.

I stumbled back, tripping over the edge of the rug.

I fell backwards into a glass sculpture on the side table.

It shattered.

Shards sliced into my back through the silk of my dress.

"Get her out of my sight!" Robert roared. "Lock her in the basement until she learns respect!"

Two of my father's guards grabbed me.

They dragged me toward the basement door.

"No," I pleaded, digging my heels in. "Not the basement. Please."

It was where Robert used to lock me whenever I got better grades than Joyce.

It was dark. Damp.

Full of spiders and memories.

They threw me down the stairs.

I tumbled, landing hard on the concrete.

The door slammed shut above me.

The lock clicked.

Darkness swallowed me whole.

My breath came in short, panic-stricken gasps.

The smell of mold triggered it.

Flashback.

Fifteen years ago.

The crawlspace.

The choking smoke.

The boy bleeding next to me.

"Don't let them find me," he had whispered, his voice trembling.

"I won't," I had promised. "I'm your Little Star. I'll shine for you."

I curled into a ball, rocking back and forth on the cold floor.

"I won't let them find you," I whispered to the empty room.

Time dissolved.

I didn't know how long I was down there.

Suddenly, the door at the top of the stairs exploded inward.

Light flooded in.

Austen stormed down the stairs.

He looked frantic.

"Alana!"

He scooped me up into his arms.

He smelled like rain and gunpowder.

"I've got you," he said, his voice rough. "I'm here."

He was playing the hero again.

Saving me from the hell he had allowed to happen.

I was delirious with pain and fear.

I looked up at his face.

The shadows made him look like the boy in the crawlspace.

I reached up and touched his cheek with a trembling hand.

"It's okay," I whispered, my voice slurring. "You're safe now, Stellen."

Austen froze.

He stopped halfway up the stairs.

His body went rigid as stone.

He looked down at me, his eyes wide with shock.

"What did you call me?"

"Stellen," I murmured, closing my eyes. "Your real name. The one you only told the Little Star."

I felt his heart hammer against my chest.

Joyce had never known that name.

Nobody knew that name.

Only the girl in the crawlspace.

The girl he had been torturing for five years.

"Alana?" his voice broke.

But I was already drifting away, leaving him alone with the truth that was about to destroy him.