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.

The Rolls-Royce drove through the driving rain for two hours. It finally slowed, turning through a set of massive iron gates into a private estate on the eastern edge of Long Island.

Frieda looked out the tinted window. A colossal, gray stone manor loomed in the distance. It looked like a gothic fortress, cold and unforgiving.

The cars stopped in front of a giant stone fountain. Two rows of servants stood in the pouring rain, holding black umbrellas. No one spoke a word.

A guard pulled Frieda's door open. The freezing wind slapped her face. She grabbed the heavy, wet layers of her wedding dress and dragged herself out of the car.

She was led through towering oak doors into a grand foyer. The ceiling was thirty feet high. Dark oil paintings of dead Terrell ancestors stared down at her from the walls. The air felt heavy, pressing down on her lungs.

At the far end of the room, an old man sat on a velvet sofa. He held a cane with a solid gold lion's head. His silver hair was slicked back. His eyes were sharp and predatory.

This was Graves Terrell.

Standing next to him was a man in a dark, flowing robe. He held a brass compass in his hands. This was Silas Thorne, the family's private astrologer.

Graves struck his cane against the marble floor. The sound echoed like a gunshot. He glared at Frieda's wet hair and ruined dress. "Dillard sends me a bride who looks like a drowned rat."

Frieda kept her spine perfectly straight. She looked the old man right in the eyes. "There was a storm."

Graves raised an eyebrow. A flicker of surprise crossed his face. He was used to people trembling before him.

He turned to Silas and gave a short nod. "Test her."

Silas stepped forward. He held the brass compass out and walked slowly in a circle around Frieda.

The needle on the compass spun wildly. Silas frowned, then his eyes widened in shock.

He stopped in front of her. "Give me your left hand."

Frieda felt a surge of disgust. She was a medical student. This occult nonsense made her skin crawl. She tried to pull her hand back, but Silas grabbed her wrist. His grip was surprisingly strong.

He pressed his fingers against her pulse point and closed his eyes.

A second later, Silas let go. He spun around and bowed deeply to Graves. His voice shook with excitement.

"Sir. Her astrological chart is a flawless energy match for the young master. Her life force will suppress the destructive energy destroying his body. She is the perfect medicine."

Graves let out a long breath. The harsh lines on his face softened. He smiled. But Frieda caught the subtle, knowing glance exchanged between Graves and Silas. It was a performance. Graves didn't care about the stars; he needed a plausible, superstitious excuse to silence the Terrell board of directors while securing a bride with a pristine medical background to secretly monitor his grandson.

Frieda bit her tongue to keep from screaming at the absurdity of it all. She was being treated like a human blood bag, pawned off in a calculated corporate play dressed up as mysticism.

Graves waved his hand. "Take her to the master bedroom. Do your duty as a wife, girl. If my grandson's condition worsens, I will wipe the Dillard family off the face of the earth."

Frieda's stomach twisted. She was tied to the life of a dying man she had never met.

The butler picked up a dim lantern and led her to the elevator. They rode up to the eighth floor. The absolute top of the manor. The forbidden zone.

The hallway was lined with thick carpet that swallowed their footsteps. The air smelled strongly of bleach and bitter herbal medicine.

The butler stopped in front of a set of black double doors. He didn't knock. He pulled a key from his pocket, unlocked the door, and pushed it open.

He shoved Frieda inside and pulled the door shut.

The lock clicked.

Frieda stood in the dark room. She gripped the fabric of her dress. She took a deep breath and turned to face the monster she had just married.