Lee Weston's backup armored vehicle had already been waiting at the other end of the bridge. After Arthur carefully placed Elsie into the secure cabin, he cast a cold, unforgiving glance at the crushed Aston Martin and the dented side of the Maybach. "Clean it up," he ordered the security team left behind. Half an hour later, the backup vehicle glided into the subterranean garage of Manhattan's most exclusive ultra-high-rise.

Arthur carried Elsie's limp, soaking wet body into the private elevator. The doors slid shut, sealing them in silence.

The elevator opened directly into the penthouse. Arthur bypassed the massive living area and laid Elsie down on the plush velvet mattress of the guest bedroom.

Her ruined couture gown was plastered to her skin, the fabric sticking to the fresh wound on her forehead.

Arthur stared down at her, his jaw clenching. He turned on his heel and strode out of the room.

He picked up the intercom on the wall. "Send the private doctor up immediately. And have the head housekeeper prepare to change her."

Half an hour later, the housekeeper had stripped away the wet gown and dressed Elsie in a set of dry, pure silk pajamas.

The doctor finished applying a neat white bandage to Elsie's forehead, bowed respectfully to Arthur, and quietly exited the penthouse.

Arthur stood by the bed, a crystal glass of amber whiskey in his hand.

He looked down at Elsie's pale, fragile face against the pillows. His dark eyes were unreadable, a stormy ocean of suppressed intensity.

Unbidden, the memory from three months ago clawed its way into his mind.

The chaos of that hotel room. The heat of her skin. The way she had cried and begged beneath him while the drugs burned through his veins, stripping away his control.

The image overlapped perfectly with the broken woman lying before him now.

Arthur let out a harsh breath. He yanked at the knot of his silk tie, loosening it.

He downed the whiskey in one brutal swallow, letting the alcohol burn away the violent, possessive urge rising in his chest. He walked over to the black leather sofa, sat heavily, and pressed a button on the intercom panel resting on the marble table. A few seconds later, his executive assistant, Lee Weston, stepped quietly into the living room holding a classified file folder.

"Sir," Lee said quietly. "We found out who rigged the screens at the banquet."

Arthur walked out of the guest room, pulling the door shut behind him.

He sat down on the black leather sofa and opened the file. As he read the pages, the temperature in the room seemed to drop by ten degrees.

"Kelvin Barr funded the hacker," Lee explained. "The video itself was purchased from the dark web by Belle Barr."

Arthur let out a low, dark laugh.

He threw the file onto the marble coffee table with a sharp smack. "Initiate Operation Vulture. Contact our proxies at Goldman Sachs and use the offshore accounts to short every single position the Barr family holds. I don't care what methods you have to use, by the time the market opens tomorrow, I want to see their stock plummet by at least thirty percent."

Lee hesitated, shifting his weight. "Sir, if we mobilize the Michael family's core funds for this, the board and your grandfather will notice."

Arthur's eyes snapped up, cutting through Lee like a serrated blade.

"I don't care," Arthur said, his voice dripping with ice. "Anyone who touches what is mine pays the price."

The morning sun pierced through the floor-to-ceiling windows, hitting Elsie's face.

A sharp throb in her forehead pulled her from the darkness. She groaned, her eyes fluttering open.

She stared at the unfamiliar, extravagant crystal chandelier above her. Panic hit her system like a shockwave. She bolted upright in the bed.

Elsie looked down. She was wearing men's silk pajamas.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. She frantically patted down her body, checking for pain, for violation. When she realized she was unharmed, a shaky breath escaped her lips.

She swung her bare feet over the edge of the bed, her toes sinking into the thick wool rug.

She crept toward the door, pushing it open just an inch to peer outside.

The massive, open-concept living room was completely empty.

The only sign of life was a steaming cup of black coffee resting on the marble table, next to a small piece of heavy cardstock.

Elsie walked over and picked up the note.

The handwriting was sharp, aggressive, and elegant.

Your clothes are in the closet. Stop trying to get yourself killed.

No name. No signature.

Elsie stared at the ink, her mind racing. Who was this man? Why did he save her?

She walked into the adjoining walk-in closet. Her breath caught.

Hanging on the racks was an entire row of brand-new, current-season designer clothing, all exactly her size. The price tags hadn't even been removed.

She pulled on a modest, black cashmere suit.

Standing in front of the full-length mirror, she stared at the white bandage on her forehead. The coldness in her eyes hardened into something unbreakable.

She remembered the wire transfer Eduardo had shown her. Her reckless drive last night was exactly what Fenton wanted-an easy way to get rid of her.

Elsie dug her fingernails so deeply into her palms that the skin nearly broke.

She looked at her reflection and made a silent vow. She would not let her parents die in vain.

She grabbed her old phone from the nightstand. Someone had charged it to a hundred percent.

She quickly uploaded the photo of the wire transfer to an encrypted cloud drive.

Elsie walked to the entryway and pulled open the heavy front door.

Two massive bodyguards in black suits stood like stone statues in the hallway.

They bowed deeply. "The boss instructed us to escort you anywhere you wish to go, Miss. For your safety."

Elsie didn't argue. She knew Fenton would be hunting her. She needed these men.

She stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the garage. She needed to go back to the estate. She needed her mother's diary.

Miles away, in a towering glass skyscraper, Arthur sat behind his desk. He watched the live security feed of Elsie leaving his building, a dark, predatory smile curving his lips.

The black Maybach rolled to a smooth stop outside the towering iron gates of the Phillips estate in Long Island.

Elsie took a deep breath, her chest tight, and pushed the car door open.

The two bodyguards immediately stepped out to follow her.

Elsie held up a hand, stopping them. "This is family business. Wait for me out here."

She punched the security code into the keypad. The heavy gates clicked open.

As she walked into the grand foyer, her stomach churned. Aisha had completely gutted her mother's elegant decor, replacing it with gaudy, gold-plated monstrosities that screamed new money.

Aisha was sitting on the velvet sofa, sipping afternoon tea.

When she saw Elsie, a cruel, mocking sneer twisted her perfectly botoxed face.

She set her teacup down with a clatter. "Well, look who it is. The disgraced little slut actually has the nerve to show her face here."

Elsie's jaw clenched. She didn't look at her. She walked straight toward the spiral staircase leading to the second-floor study. She just needed the diary.

"Looking for this?"

Belle appeared at the top of the stairs, blocking the landing. She looked down at Elsie, her eyes shining with malicious triumph.

In Belle's hand was a worn, brown leather notebook. Her mother's diary.

Elsie's blood ran cold. She took a step up the stairs, her voice dropping to a lethal octave. "Give that back to me. Now."

The heavy oak doors of the study swung open.

Fenton walked out, a thick Cuban cigar clamped between his teeth. He waved a hand, and four massive estate security guards stepped out from the shadows, completely cutting off Elsie's path back to the front door.

Fenton walked to the edge of the landing, pulling the cigar from his mouth. The fake, loving uncle routine was entirely gone.

"Everything in this house belongs to the Barr family now, Elsie," Fenton sneered.

Elsie didn't back down. She stared straight into Fenton's cold eyes.

"I know about the brakes, Fenton," she spat, her voice trembling with rage. "I know you paid to have them killed."

Fenton's face instantly darkened. The smugness vanished, replaced by a flash of genuine, murderous intent. He hadn't expected the stupid girl to dig that deep.

He gave a sharp nod to the guards.

Two of the massive men lunged forward. They grabbed Elsie's arms, violently twisting them behind her back.

"Let go of me!" Elsie screamed, thrashing wildly. Her heels kicked against the hardwood floor, echoing through the house. "There are men waiting for me outside! If I don't walk out of here, you're dead!"

Fenton walked over to the window and peered out at the gates. He saw the two men in black suits.

He let out a dark chuckle and walked over to the wall panel, slamming his hand over the estate's electromagnetic jammer switch.

The signal bars on Elsie's phone instantly vanished.

Fenton marched down the stairs. He reached into Elsie's cashmere coat, ripped the phone from her pocket, and smashed it onto the marble floor, crushing it under his heel.

Aisha strutted forward. She grabbed Elsie's jaw, her long acrylic nails digging into Elsie's cheeks.

"Since you love opening your legs so much," Aisha hissed, "you can finally do something useful for this family. Did you really think you were still the untouchable heiress? You're lower than a streetwalker now. I could throw you into the darkest underground brothel in Brooklyn and no one would blink an eye."

Aisha leaned in, her breath smelling of bitter tea. "But you're in luck. A very exclusive client loved your little performance on that screen last night. Mortimer Graves is willing to pay fifty million for one night with you."

The name hit Elsie like a physical blow. Mortimer Graves. The Wall Street psycho known for hospitalizing the women he hired.

Bile rose in Elsie's throat. She gathered the saliva in her mouth and spat directly into Aisha's face. "You're all sick animals!"

Aisha shrieked. She wiped her face and backhanded Elsie with all her strength.

The sharp edge of her diamond ring sliced three bloody scratches across Elsie's pale cheek.

Fenton waved his hand in disgust. "Throw her in the storage room upstairs. The one without the windows."

The guards dragged Elsie up the stairs by her arms. Her knees slammed against the wooden steps, sending sharp spikes of pain up her legs, but she bit her tongue to keep from crying out.

They threw her like a ragdoll into the dark, dusty storage room.

The heavy solid wood door slammed shut in her face. The deadbolt clicked into place.

Elsie threw herself against the wood, pounding her fists until her knuckles bled. "Let me out! Help!"

But the soundproofed walls swallowed her screams whole.

Through the thick wood, she could faintly hear Aisha barking orders at the maids. "Get the car ready for tonight. And find the sluttiest dress we have to put her in."

Elsie stumbled backward into the pitch-black room.

She felt along the cold walls. No phone. No windows. The air vent near the ceiling was too small for a cat to fit through.

Her legs gave out. She slid down the wall, pulling her knees tightly to her chest. Her entire body shook uncontrollably as the sheer, suffocating terror of what was coming settled over her.

Outside the estate gates, the two bodyguards checked their watches. Ten minutes had passed without any sign of Miss Phillips.

Sensing something was wrong, the two men exchanged a vigilant look before one of them tapped his earpiece, his voice dropping to a low, urgent murmur. "Mr. Weston. We have a situation. The target has been out of sight for ten minutes, and the property just went dark on comms. Requesting immediate instructions."

Hours bled away in the suffocating darkness.

Suddenly, the deadbolt on the storage room door snapped open with a loud click.

Two heavy-set maids marched into the room, their hands gripping thick strips of cloth.

Elsie scrambled backward, her heart hammering against her ribs. Her hand brushed against an old, ceramic vase on a dusty shelf. She grabbed it and hurled it at the closest maid.

The vase shattered against the floor, missing the woman by inches.

The second maid lunged. She tackled Elsie to the ground, shoving a foul-tasting rag into Elsie's mouth and tying it tight behind her head.

They dragged Elsie by her ankles out of the storage room and threw her onto the carpet of the sprawling guest bedroom next door.

Aisha walked in. In her hands, she held a piece of black lace lingerie so sheer it was practically transparent. Her eyes gleamed with a sick, twisted excitement.

"Strip her," Aisha commanded.

Elsie fought like a wild animal. She kicked, she twisted, she let out muffled screams through the gag, but the two maids pinned her down with their heavy knees.

They violently ripped the black cashmere coat from her body. The buttons popped off, scattering across the hardwood floor like teeth.

Tears of absolute humiliation spilled from Elsie's eyes, burning the fresh scratches on her cheek. She bit down on the gag so hard her jaw ached.

The maids forced her arms through the straps of the degrading lace dress, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. They hauled her up and shoved her roughly into the chair in front of the vanity mirror.

Aisha grabbed Elsie's chin, forcing her to look at her reflection.

Aisha picked up a tube of bright red lipstick and smeared it messily across Elsie's lips. "Look at you," Aisha mocked. "Cheaper than a club stripper."

Elsie stared at her exposed, trembling body in the mirror. Her stomach violently cramped. The trauma from the video, the feeling of being exposed and violated, slammed into her system. Her entire body began to shake with severe PTSD tremors.

Aisha clapped her hands together, looking pleased. "If you don't make Mr. Mortimer happy tonight, Elsie, I will personally flush your parents' ashes down the toilet."

Aisha turned and walked out, the maids following close behind. The bedroom door slammed and locked.

Elsie pulled the gag from her mouth, letting out a broken, animalistic sob.

She forced her shaking legs to stand. She stumbled toward the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, desperate for any way out.

She looked down. It was a two-story drop, at least twenty-five feet. Directly below was a walkway paved with jagged cobblestones. Jumping meant broken legs, or worse.

Just as despair threatened to drown her, the heavy iron gates of the estate slowly swung open.

A convoy of three massive, black armored SUVs rolled aggressively into the courtyard.

The door of the middle SUV opened. A tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out. He wore a perfectly tailored dark suit, his presence radiating an icy, terrifying authority. Beside him, Lee Weston lowered his phone and spoke in a tight, professional murmur. "Sir, just as you anticipated, we've tracked Mortimer Graves's signal to the vicinity of this estate. The evidence of their transaction is fully secured, and the FBI is standing by for your signal."

Elsie pressed her hands against the glass. She recognized the sharp line of his jaw immediately. It was the man from the bridge. The man who saved her.

Down below, Fenton rushed out the front door, his face plastered with a sickeningly eager smile. He reached out to shake the man's hand, but the assistant beside him coldly swatted Fenton's hand away.

Elsie's heart leaped into her throat. This was her only chance.

She slammed her fists against the reinforced glass, screaming for help. But the soundproofing was too thick. They couldn't hear her.

Arthur was already walking toward the front door.

Panic seized Elsie. She grabbed the heavy brass base of the vanity lamp. With a primal scream, she swung it as hard as she could against the window's locking mechanism.

The metal latch dented and gave way.

Ignoring the sharp pain in her hands, Elsie shoved the heavy glass window open. The freezing autumn wind ripped into the room, biting at her exposed skin.

She leaned halfway out the window. "Help me!" she screamed, her voice tearing through the quiet courtyard.

Down below, Arthur's footsteps stopped dead.

He whipped his head around, his sharp eyes instantly locking onto the second-floor window.

He saw the fragile silhouette clinging to the frame. Then, he saw the sheer, degrading lace dress she was forced into, and the tear-stained terror on her face.

The temperature in the courtyard plummeted. A murderous, apocalyptic rage ignited in Arthur's dark eyes.

Fenton followed his gaze and turned white as a sheet. "Mr. Michael, please, that's just my niece. She's... she's severely mentally ill-"

Upstairs, Elsie heard the heavy thud of the bodyguards throwing themselves against the locked bedroom door. They knew she had opened the window.

She looked down at the man staring up at her. She didn't know why, but looking into his eyes gave her a sudden, reckless surge of courage.

She swung her leg over the ornate balcony railing.

The bedroom door burst open behind her. The maids screamed, lunging forward to grab her.

Elsie closed her eyes, let go of the railing, and let herself fall into the empty air.