The cold rain of Manhattan hit Frieda the second she pushed through the fire exit into the alleyway.

She shivered violently. The icy water soaked through her thin trench coat in seconds. She dug into her clutch with trembling fingers and pulled out her phone to call a cab.

Her wet fingers slipped. The phone tumbled from her grasp. It hit the wet asphalt with a crack.

Before she could bend down to grab it, a garbage truck roared down the narrow alley. The massive tires rolled directly over the device.

Frieda stared at the crushed plastic and shattered glass. She closed her eyes. The rain mixed with the cold sweat on her face. She kicked the useless pieces into the metal storm drain.

She pulled her coat tighter around her body and walked toward the subway station.

An hour later, Frieda pushed open the heavy front door of the Dillard family villa in Long Island. She stood in the entryway, dripping water onto the marble floor.

The massive living room was fully lit, but the air was suffocating. The sharp smell of whiskey burned her nose.

Her adoptive father, Russell Dillard, paced across the Persian rug. He gripped a gold-plated phone to his ear, begging the bank executive on the other end for an extension.

The line went dead. Russell let out a roar of frustration and hurled the phone at the marble fireplace. It shattered into pieces.

Frieda shrank back into the shadows. She wanted to slip down the stairs to her basement room before anyone noticed her.

A glass shattered in the dining room. Blair Dillard hurled her red wine against the white wall. The liquid dripped down like fresh blood.

Blair stood there, her makeup flawless, screaming at her mother, Meredith Dillard.

"I'm not marrying some dying freak who could drop dead any minute!" Blair shrieked.

Meredith reached out, trying to soothe her daughter. "The Terrell family trust fund is endless, Blair. Think about the money."

"I don't care!" Blair yelled. "I am not throwing my life away just because Dad got caught by the FDA. I won't be a widow for Dillard Pharmaceuticals!"

Frieda stopped breathing. FDA scandal. The words clicked in her head. The family business was on the edge of bankruptcy.

Russell stormed into the dining room. He pointed a shaking finger at Blair. "You ungrateful brat. We raised you for this. You will do your duty to this family."

"You ruined the company!" Blair screamed back.

Meredith sobbed into her hands. The family was tearing itself apart.

Frieda felt sick to her stomach. The cold from her wet clothes seeped into her bones. She took a step back, trying to retreat.

Her elbow clipped a blue-and-white porcelain vase on the entryway table. It wobbled and tipped over, hitting the floor with a sharp crack.

The screaming stopped.

Three pairs of eyes snapped toward the entryway. They locked onto Frieda.

Blair's eyes swept over Frieda's soaked, shivering form. A nasty, calculating light sparked in Blair's eyes. The corners of her mouth curled up.

Russell straightened his tie. His face shifted instantly. The rage vanished, replaced by a sickeningly fake smile. He walked toward Frieda.

"Frieda, sweetheart," Russell said. His eyes assessed her like a piece of meat on a butcher's block. "Why are you out in the rain?"

Frieda avoided his gaze. "I had an accident. I just want to take a hot shower."

Meredith walked over. She shoved a dry towel into Frieda's hands. Her grip was tight. "Stay right here."

Blair's high heels clicked against the marble. She stopped right in front of Frieda and reached out. Her red fingernails tipped Frieda's chin up.

"You are a part of this family too, Frieda," Blair said. Her voice was sweet, dripping with venom. "It's time you did your part."

Frieda slapped Blair's hand away. "I'm a medical student. What can I possibly do?"

Blair turned to her father. "The Terrell family just wants a Dillard bride. The contract doesn't specify which one. And that dying freak hasn't left his room in years. He doesn't know what I look like."

Russell and Meredith froze. They looked at each other. A silent, horrifying agreement passed between them.

Frieda's heart slammed against her ribs. The air left her lungs. She was surrounded by predators.

Russell turned back to Frieda. His voice was soft, but heavy with a threat. "We need to talk about how you are going to repay us for raising you, Frieda."

The silence in the living room was absolute. Only the thunder rumbling outside the windows broke the quiet.

Frieda stared at Russell. She stepped back, her wet shoes squeaking on the marble.

"This is fraud," Frieda said. Her voice was cold. "It is illegal. I won't do it."

Blair sneered. She looked at Frieda like she was dirt on her shoe. "You ate our food for twelve years. This is your payback."

Frieda clenched her jaw. "I am on a full scholarship. I haven't taken a dime from this family since I turned eighteen."

Meredith gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. "You ungrateful wretch! We gave you a home!"

Russell held up a hand to silence his wife. He walked to the liquor cabinet and poured a glass of whiskey. He turned to Frieda, slipping into his negotiator persona.

"If you do this," Russell said, taking a sip, "I will fully fund your independent genetics lab when you graduate."

Frieda felt a bitter laugh rise in her throat. She knew his empty promises.

"No," Frieda said. She turned toward the stairs. "I am moving back to the dorms tomorrow morning. I'm done with this."

Blair shrieked. She grabbed a heavy crystal ashtray from the table and hurled it at Frieda's back.

Frieda twisted her body. The ashtray missed her spine but smashed against the wooden banister. A large shard of thick glass sliced across Frieda's calf.

Pain flared. Warm blood trickled down her cold skin.

Frieda did not look back. She limped down the stairs to the basement and slammed the door to her small, damp room. She threw the deadbolt.

She slid down the door until she hit the floor. Exhaustion crushed her chest.

She needed to call her medical school advisor. She reached into her pocket, but her fingers found nothing. Her phone was gone.

She scrambled to her desk and pulled open the bottom drawer. She found her old backup phone. She pressed the power button. Nothing happened. The battery was dead.

Frieda grabbed a charging cable and plugged it into the wall. The red battery icon slowly blinked onto the screen. Her hands shook as she waited.

She was completely cut off. The man in room 801 was out there somewhere, and she had no way to know if he was alive or dead.

Footsteps pounded on the floorboards above her head. Furniture scraped against the wood. Blair was yelling again.

Ten minutes later, the backup phone powered on. Frieda dialed 911.

The call failed.

She stared at the screen. "No Service." She opened the Wi-Fi settings. The network was gone.

Her stomach plummeted. Russell had turned on the villa's signal jammer. He had cut her off from the world.

She jumped up and ran to the door. She grabbed the handle and yanked. It stopped with a hard clunk. The door was locked from the outside.

Frieda pounded her fists against the wood. "Open the door! This is false imprisonment!"

The butler's voice came through the wood, flat and emotionless. "Get some rest, Miss Frieda. The stylists will be here for you in the morning."

Frieda backed away from the door. She looked at the only window in the basement. It was a small vent near the ceiling, covered by thick iron bars welded into the concrete.

She sat on the edge of her narrow bed. The faint flashes of lightning illuminated the damp walls. She pulled her knees to her chest, her mind racing for a way out.

Miles away, in a private hospital in Manhattan, Burke's eyes snapped open.

He ripped the IV needle out of the back of his hand. Blood dripped onto the white sheets.

He threw a crumpled paper napkin at the chest of his bodyguard. His voice was a raw, violent roar. "Find her. Now."

The bodyguard caught the napkin, his hands shaking. "Sir, we tried. The number is disconnected. It doesn't exist."

Burke's eyes darkened. The muscles in his jaw ticked. The air in the room turned freezing cold.

The pale morning light filtered through the iron bars of the basement window. Frieda sat on the floor, her back against the wall. Her eyes were bloodshot. She had not slept.

The lock on the door clicked. The heavy wood swung open, letting in a blinding slice of hallway light.

Meredith marched down the stairs. Her high heels snapped against the concrete. The fake sweetness from last night was gone. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with panic.

She grabbed Frieda by the arm. Her manicured nails dug deep into Frieda's skin. "Get up! Go wash your face and put the dress on!"

Frieda ripped her arm away. She glared at Meredith. "I am not doing anything until you turn the phones back on."

Meredith's face twisted with rage. She raised her hand and swung it hard toward Frieda's face.

Frieda shot her hand up. She caught Meredith's wrist in mid-air. Her grip was like a vise.

Frieda shoved the wrist back. "Do not touch me."

A terrified scream echoed from the living room upstairs. It was Russell. A heavy thud followed, shaking the ceiling.

The butler stumbled down the stairs. His face was the color of ash. He looked at Meredith. "Madam. The Terrell family convoy. They are here. Three hours early."

Meredith stopped breathing. She stumbled backward and hit the wall. "No. Blair isn't ready."

Frieda saw her chance. She pushed past them and sprinted up the stairs.

She ran into the living room and stopped dead.

Through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, ten armored black Rolls-Royces sat parked on the front lawn. They looked like a fleet of hearses. Dozens of men in black suits and sunglasses formed a solid wall around the exits.

Russell sat collapsed on the sofa. His hands shook violently as he held a piece of pink stationery. He looked like he was suffocating.

Frieda glanced at the paper. It was Blair's handwriting.

I am not marrying a corpse. I took a flight to Europe. Fix this yourself.

Frieda felt a dark satisfaction. Blair's selfishness had finally caught up to them.

Meredith ran into the room, saw the note, and let out a piercing wail. She collapsed onto the rug, sobbing hysterically.

The heavy oak front door swung open.

Pierce Montgomery Jr., the Chief Executive Assistant to the Terrell family, stepped inside. His face was carved from stone. He did not look at the crying woman on the floor. He looked at Russell.

"Is the bride ready?" Pierce asked. His voice carried no emotion.

Russell jumped up. He stammered, wiping sweat from his forehead. "She... she is just finishing her hair. Please, just a moment."

Pierce lifted his wrist and checked his Patek Philippe watch. "Mr. Terrell gives you fifteen minutes. If the bride is not in the car by then, Dillard Pharmaceuticals will be liquidated before the sun sets."

Pierce turned and walked out. The black-suited guards pulled the doors shut behind him with a heavy thud.

Russell spun around. His bloodshot eyes locked onto Frieda.

He charged at her like a wild animal. Before Frieda could step back, Russell dropped to his knees. His kneecaps hit the hardwood floor with a loud crack.

Frieda flinched. She stared down at him, her muscles tense.

Russell grabbed Frieda's ankles. Tears streamed down his face. "Please, Frieda. Save us. Save my life's work. I am begging you."

Meredith crawled across the floor. She grabbed the hem of Frieda's damp coat. "We fed you! We clothed you! You owe us your life!"

Frieda looked down at the two people who had made her life miserable for twelve years. Her chest felt hollow.

She tried to pull her legs free. "No. I am not paying for Blair's cowardice. I am not selling myself for your company."