Jenna slammed her open palms against the thick wooden door. The impact sent a painful shockwave up her arms, but the heavy wood absorbed the sound completely. No one answered.

She took two steps back. Her chest heaved. She forced herself to inhale deeply through her nose and exhale through her mouth, pushing down the rising tide of panic in her throat.

Through the thick door, she heard Alonzo's deep, authoritative voice echoing in the hallway. He was calling for Hector Finch, the estate's head butler.

Rapid, precise footsteps approached. Hector's voice murmured a respectful greeting to his employer.

Jenna pressed her ear against the narrow crack between the door and the frame. She held her breath.

"My wife's mental state is extremely unstable," Alonzo ordered, his tone devoid of any emotion. "She is exhibiting violent tendencies."

He paused, then continued. "Confiscate all her car keys. Freeze every supplementary credit card under her name. Instruct the entire staff that no one is allowed to speak to her."

Hector hesitated for a fraction of a second. "Sir, should I call the family physician to examine her?"

"No," Alonzo snapped impatiently. "She is just throwing a hysterical tantrum. Starve her for a few meals. She'll figure out reality soon enough."

A moment later, the sound of little Arthur and Clio running up the stairs echoed in the hall.

Alonzo's voice instantly shifted, becoming sickeningly gentle. "Pack your things, kids. Mommy is sick. She needs absolute quiet to rest."

"Mommy is a crazy witch!" little Arthur complained loudly, his childish voice laced with pure malice. "She hit me so hard!"

"Mommy is just very sick in her head right now. She didn't mean it," Alonzo soothed, his voice dripping with calculated, hypocritical warmth. "We are going to stay at the penthouse in the city for a few days so she can get the help she needs. Remember, we are the normal ones. We are a family."

The footsteps moved down the hall and faded away. Minutes later, the heavy thud of the front doors closing echoed through the house, followed by the low rumble of the Aston Martin driving away.

The massive estate fell into a suffocating, dead silence. Jenna was completely isolated.

She turned away from the door. Her eyes swept the room and found her smartphone still lying on the rumpled bed where she had tossed it earlier. She walked over, picked it up, and pressed it into her pocket. At least she had this.

Then her gaze fell on the scattered clothes near the busted suitcase. She crossed the room, knelt, and pulled a pair of her own faded jeans from the pile. She stepped into them, buttoned the waist, and smoothed the rough denim against her thighs. The old cotton shirt she was already wearing would do. If she was going to fight her way out, she needed proper clothes.

She then walked to the nightstand and picked up the landline phone receiver. She pressed it to her ear. There was no dial tone. Just dead air. She traced the plastic cord down to the wall. The wire had been cleanly snipped right at the jack—just as she'd heard from the hallway.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out her smartphone. She tapped the screen. In the top right corner, the signal bars were completely empty. It read: No Service.

Alonzo had activated the estate's internal signal jammers. He had severed her last remaining lifeline to the outside world.

Jenna walked over to the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. She grabbed the brass handles and pushed. They were locked tight. She tapped her knuckles against the glass. It was thick, reinforced bulletproof glass.

She looked down. The second-floor balcony was nearly twenty feet above the stone patio below. Jumping straight down would shatter her legs.

She turned around and looked at her clothes scattered across the floor. A heavy, crushing weight pressed down on her chest.

But then, the memory of lying on the hospital bed, gasping for air while the monitor flatlined, flashed violently in her mind.

She ground her teeth together. A fierce, predatory light sparked in her eyes. She refused to sit here and wait to die again.

She walked over to her vanity table and yanked the drawers open. She dug through the makeup brushes and velvet pouches, searching for anything that could be used as a tool.

Her fingers brushed against cold metal. She pulled out a pair of stainless steel eyebrow scissors. They were small, but the blades were razor-sharp.

She slipped the scissors into the tight front pocket of her jeans. It was a pathetic weapon, but it was all she had.

Time dragged on. The natural light outside the window slowly faded into a deep, bruising purple, and then finally into pitch black.

Jenna didn't turn on the lamps. She sat on the edge of the mattress in the dark, her posture rigid, waiting like a cornered animal.

Suddenly, the faint sound of leather shoes stepping softly on the carpeted hallway approached. The footsteps stopped right outside her door.

The footsteps outside the door halted. The faint, metallic scrape of a key sliding into the lock echoed in the quiet room.

The door didn't open. Instead, Hector the butler cleared his throat on the other side of the heavy wood.

"Mrs. Knight," Hector said. His voice was flat, carrying the practiced, robotic tone of a professional servant. "There will be no dinner service for you tonight."

Jenna walked silently to the door. She pressed her hands against the wood. "On whose authority, Hector?" she asked, her voice cold.

"Mr. Knight gave specific instructions before his departure," Hector replied. "Until you calm down from this hysterical episode and are ready to communicate reasonably, all services to your suite, including food and water, have been suspended."

Jenna's breath hitched. She was sickened that a grown man, the head of the household staff, was strictly enforcing such a cruel order. It crystallized her reality. In this house, even the staff saw her as nothing but livestock.

Jenna didn't beg. She didn't scream curses at the door. She simply turned her back and walked away.

She went straight to the master bathroom. Her throat was parched from the adrenaline and stress. She reached for the gold-plated faucet over the sink and twisted the handle.

A hollow, hissing sound echoed from deep within the pipes. Not a single drop of water came out.

She moved to the massive walk-in shower and twisted the heavy dials. Nothing. She checked the bathtub. Dry.

Alonzo hadn't just locked her in. He had ordered the maintenance staff to shut off the main water valve to the master suite.

A wave of dizziness washed over her. The lack of food and water was already beginning to drain her physical strength.

Jenna leaned her back against the cold bathroom tiles. The memory of her lungs burning for oxygen on her deathbed assaulted her mind again.

The fear instantly mutated into a violent, burning rage. She pushed herself off the wall. Her eyes were hard and focused.

She marched back into the bedroom and walked straight to the massive King-size bed.

She grabbed the edge of the thousand-dollar Egyptian cotton flat sheet and yanked it off the mattress. She bunched the fabric in her hands and pulled.

The high-thread-count cotton was incredibly durable. She pulled the stainless steel eyebrow scissors from her tight jeans pocket. She dug the sharp, tiny blades into the thick hem of the sheet, sawing frantically until she managed to snip a small, jagged slit into the tough fabric. Using that tiny tear as a starting point, she gripped both sides and ripped her hands apart.

Riiiip. The loud sound of tearing fabric filled the room. She tore the sheet into a long, thick strip.

She repeated the process over and over. The rough friction of the heavy cotton burned her fingers. Red welts formed on her skin, and tiny drops of blood seeped from her cuticles, but she didn't feel the pain.

She took the long strips of fabric and tied them together using tight, double-knotted square knots. She wrapped the fabric around her hands and pulled with her entire body weight to test the strength.

She had a makeshift rope.

She walked to the balcony's glass door. She ran her fingers along the bottom edge of the frame, feeling for the secondary mechanical latch.

The electronic lock was dead, but she pulled the eyebrow scissors from her pocket. She jammed the sharp tip of the scissors into the tiny gap of the mechanical latch and twisted hard. The metal scraped and groaned.

With a sharp click, the heavy deadbolt slid back.

She grabbed the handle and shoved the heavy bulletproof glass door open.

The cold night wind instantly rushed into the room, whipping her hair across her face.

She dragged her cotton rope out onto the balcony. She wrapped one end tightly around the thick, marble Roman pillar that supported the railing. She tied three consecutive dead knots, pulling them as tight as her bleeding fingers allowed.

She threw the rest of the rope over the edge. It unspooled and vanished into the darkness below.

Jenna took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the freezing air. She climbed over the stone railing, gripped the fabric tight, and lowered her body until she was hanging suspended in the night wind.

The freezing wind whipped against Jenna's face. She gripped the rough cotton rope tightly with both hands, the friction burning her raw palms.

She planted the soles of her bare feet against the rough stone exterior of the mansion. She took a shallow breath and began to walk her feet down the wall, lowering her body weight inch by inch.

Suddenly, a sharp tearing sound echoed above her head. One of the knots connecting the strips of fabric gave way slightly.

Her body dropped two feet in a split second.

Jenna's heart slammed against her ribs. She bit down on her lower lip so hard she tasted copper, forcing herself not to scream. Cold sweat instantly soaked the back of her shirt.

She couldn't afford to go slow anymore. She loosened her grip slightly and slid down faster. The rough fabric tore the skin off her palms, leaving smears of blood on the white cotton.

When she was about four feet from the ground, the rope simply ended.

She looked down at the dark, manicured lawn below. She let go of the rope and dropped.

She hit the grass with a heavy thud. A sharp, vicious twist wrenched her ankle, sending a searing flash of pain shooting straight up her calf.

She swallowed a groan. She couldn't stay in the open. She scrambled forward on her hands and one good knee, dragging her injured leg until she slid behind a dense row of tall hedges.

Seconds later, a sweeping beam of bright white light cut through the darkness. A security guard was walking the perimeter, sweeping his heavy flashlight right over the spot where she had just landed.

Jenna pressed her body flat against the damp earth. She held her breath. The smell of wet dirt and crushed grass filled her nose.

The guard didn't notice the dent in the grass. He kept walking, the beam of light fading into the distance.

Jenna waited until her lungs burned before she exhaled. She pushed herself up. Using the shadows of the massive oak trees to hide from the security cameras, she limped toward the outer perimeter of the estate.

Every step sent a jagged spike of agony up her left leg. She reached the low, wrought-iron decorative fence that separated the estate from the community roads. She hauled her body over the cold metal spikes and collapsed onto the hard asphalt on the other side.

She had escaped the house, but as she looked around, despair washed over her. She was inside a sprawling, ultra-exclusive gated community that spanned hundreds of acres.

It was a labyrinth of winding roads, towering trees, and identical stone walls. There were no street signs.

She dragged herself along the edge of the road, shivering violently in her thin shirt.

Suddenly, two blinding headlights swept around the curve of the road ahead.

The low hum of an engine grew louder. A white SUV with the community's private security logo plastered on the side rolled slowly toward her.

Jenna had nowhere to run. She froze, pressing her back against the rough bark of a massive tree trunk.

The patrol car rolled to a stop right next to the tree. The driver's side door popped open. A young security guard in a dark uniform stepped out.

The guard, Manny Correa, pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. As he struck his lighter, the brief flash of orange flame illuminated the shadows. He caught a glimpse of movement behind the tree out of the corner of his eye.

Manny dropped the cigarette. He unclipped his heavy tactical flashlight from his belt, aimed it at the tree, and clicked it on.

"Hey! Who's back there? Step out!" Manny shouted, his voice tight with adrenaline.

The blinding beam hit Jenna directly in the face. She squeezed her eyes shut and instinctively threw her hands up to shield her face.

Manny kept the light steady. He saw a woman with messy hair, wearing a thin shirt. Her hands were covered in dried blood. She was barefoot, and her left ankle was swollen to the size of a baseball. She looked pale and terrified.

Jenna's brain shifted into overdrive. She needed him to pity her, not report her.

She let her hands drop slightly. She allowed the genuine trauma of her past life's death to flood her eyes. She began to tremble violently.

"Please," Jenna whispered, her voice cracking with raw terror. "My husband... he's going to kill me. I just got out. Please don't call him. Please."

Manny stared at the blood on her hands and the sheer, broken panic in her eyes. His professional suspicion crumbled instantly. He was a working-class guy; he hated the rich abusers who lived in these mansions.

He clicked off the flashlight. He looked nervously up and down the empty road.

"Get in the back," Manny hissed, waving his hand toward the car. "Hurry."

Jenna let out a shaky breath. She limped quickly to the SUV, pulled open the rear door, and threw herself onto the floorboards. She grabbed a thick gray emergency blanket off the seat and pulled it completely over her head.