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."

The clock ticked. Eight minutes left.

Russell stared at Frieda's cold face. The tears vanished from his eyes. The desperate father disappeared, replaced by the ruthless businessman.

He stood up and dusted off his knees. He looked at Meredith and gave a sharp nod.

Meredith stopped crying instantly. She reached into the cushions of the sofa and pulled out an iPad. She walked over to Frieda with a nasty smile.

She tapped the screen and turned the volume all the way up.

A video started playing. The footage was grainy, taken in a dark alley. But the audio was crystal clear.

Frieda frowned. The girl in the video had the exact same build as her. The girl was leaning against a brick wall, negotiating a disgusting transaction with three homeless men.

The girl in the video turned her face toward the camera.

Frieda's blood turned to ice. It was her face. Every feature, right down to the faint, petal-shaped birthmark on her earlobe, was identical.

Frieda snatched the iPad from Meredith's hands. She stared at the screen. Her heart hammered against her ribs. It was a Deepfake. A highly advanced, flawless AI forgery.

She threw the iPad onto the sofa. "This is fake! It won't hold up in court!"

Meredith laughed. It was a sharp, grating sound. "Do you think the internet cares if it's fake? Do you think the Ethics Committee at your Ivy League medical school will care?"

Russell stepped behind Frieda. His voice slithered into her ear like a snake. "The moment this video hits the internet, your full scholarship is gone. You will be expelled. You will never hold a medical license. You will be a whore to the whole world."

Frieda's hands began to shake. Her chest tightened so hard she could barely pull in a breath. All her late nights studying, all her perfect grades, her entire future-held hostage by a fake video.

Five minutes left.

The heavy fists of the bodyguards pounded on the front door. The sound echoed through the room like a death march.

Russell shoved a thick stack of papers into Frieda's chest. He forced a Montblanc pen into her cold, trembling fingers.

"Sign the prenuptial agreement," Russell whispered. "Sign it, and the video gets deleted. In three years, you can divorce him and walk away clean."

Frieda stared at the contract. She bit down on her lower lip so hard she tasted copper. The metallic tang of blood filled her mouth.

She thought of her advisor's proud smile. She thought of her lab. She could not let them destroy her life.

Three minutes left.

The doorknob rattled. Pierce's voice cut through the wood. "Time is up."

Frieda closed her eyes. A single, hot tear slid down her cheek. She opened her eyes. The fear was gone, replaced by a cold, hard hatred.

She gripped the pen and slashed her signature across the bottom line of the contract.

Russell snatched the papers from her hands, his eyes wide with greedy relief.

Meredith dragged a massive garment box from the corner. She ripped the lid off and pulled out Blair's custom haute couture wedding dress.

She grabbed Frieda's wet coat and yanked it off her shoulders. Two maids rushed in and forced the heavy, freezing layers of silk and lace over Frieda's head.

The front doors burst open. Pierce stood in the doorway. His eyes landed on Frieda in the white dress.

He didn't ask her name. He didn't check her ID. He just extended his hand toward the driveway.

The two maids grabbed Frieda's arms and marched her out the door.

Right before she stepped off the porch, Frieda turned her head. She looked at Russell and Meredith standing in the doorway. She memorized their relieved faces. She swore to herself that she would make them pay for every second of this humiliation.

A bodyguard shoved her into the back of the armored Rolls-Royce. The heavy door slammed shut, sealing her inside.

The black convoy pulled away from the curb, driving into the storm.