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.

The master bedroom was swallowed in shadows. A single floor lamp cast a weak, yellow glow near the bed. The smell of bitter medicine was so thick it coated the back of Frieda's throat.

In the center of the room sat a massive, black four-poster bed. A man leaned against the headboard.

He was looking down at a tablet. The blue light from the screen illuminated his face. His skin was pale, almost translucent, stretching over a sharp, aggressive jawline.

Frieda took a step forward. Her bare feet made no sound on the thick rug. She squinted, trying to see her new husband's face clearly.

The man sighed in annoyance. He tossed the tablet onto the blankets and slowly turned his head toward the door.

Frieda's heart stopped.

She stared into his dark, violent eyes. She saw the faint, jagged scar running along his jaw.

The scent of sharp cedar cut through the smell of medicine.

Her blood turned to ice. It was him. The man from room 801.

Panic exploded in her chest. She spun around and slammed her hands against the heavy wooden door. She grabbed the brass handle and yanked it down with all her body weight.

It didn't move. She clawed at the wood, her breath coming in short, terrified gasps.

Burke watched her from the bed. A cruel, mocking sneer twisted his lips.

He picked up a heavy glass of water from his nightstand and hurled it across the room. It smashed against the floor inches from Frieda's feet.

The glass exploded. Shards flew against her ankles.

Frieda screamed and pressed her back flat against the door. She stared at him, her chest heaving.

Burke's voice was a low, gravelly rasp. "You took their money to be here. Don't act like a terrified virgin now."

Frieda's brain misfired. She blinked.

He didn't recognize her.

She realized it instantly. Last night, the room had been pitch black. Today, her hair was plastered to her face from the rain, and she wore no makeup. He thought she was just the greedy Dillard daughter.

Frieda forced her breathing to slow. She dropped her chin, letting her wet hair fall forward to hide the side of her face and the mole behind her ear.

She swallowed hard. "I'm just... not used to this place." Her voice shook, but she kept it quiet.

Burke scoffed. The sound was full of disgust. "Save the act. I know exactly what you are."

He threw the blankets off. He stepped out of bed, his bare feet landing dangerously close to the broken glass. He walked toward her. His massive frame blocked out the light.

Frieda bit the inside of her cheek. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but she forced her feet to stay planted. Her fingernails dug into her palms.

Burke stopped two feet away. He looked down at her. "You are a product bought and paid for to save a bankrupt company."

The insult burned, but Frieda swallowed the anger. She needed him to hate the 'Dillard bride' so he wouldn't look closer at her.

Burke reached out. His cold fingers clamped around her chin. He jerked her face up.

Frieda kept her eyes cast down, staring at his chest.

He studied her pale face for a second. His gaze flickered past her ear, and a faint, petal-shaped mark on her earlobe snagged his attention for a fraction of a second. He frowned. It was just like hers. The girl from the dark room. But he immediately dismissed the thought. The greedy, scheming daughter of the Dillard family couldn't possibly be her. The idea was a repulsive insult to his memory.

He released her with a shove, wiping his hand on his pants like she was diseased.

"The old man forced this marriage," Burke said coldly. "But I decide how long it lasts. You have three months. A trial period. If you are useless, I throw you out."

Frieda's pulse jumped. Three months. That was enough time. Enough time to find the original Deepfake file. Enough time to escape.

She lifted her eyes and looked directly into his violent stare. Her voice was steady.

"Deal."

Burke's eyes narrowed. Her calm acceptance irritated him. He expected tears. He expected begging.

He turned his back on her and walked to the nightstand. He pulled open the drawer, grabbed a thick stack of papers, and threw them across the room.

The papers hit Frieda's chest and scattered across the carpet.

"Look at them," Burke commanded.

Frieda looked down. The top page was a bank transfer receipt. The bold numbers $50,000,000 stared back at her, wired to Dillard Pharmaceuticals.

"That is your exact price tag," Burke sneered. "Every hair on your head belongs to me now."

Frieda stared at the zeroes on the paper. The humiliation burned in her stomach like acid, but she kept her face blank. She didn't say a word. Defending herself would only make him look closer.

Burke hated her silence. He paced in front of the bed.

"Rule number one," he barked. "You sleep on the floor. You do not touch my bed."

Frieda nodded slowly.

"Rule number two. You do not leave this room without my permission. You do not speak to my grandfather."

Frieda nodded again.

"Rule number three. You clean this room. No maids are allowed in my space. You do it."

Frieda looked up at him. Her eyes were dead and flat. "Understood."

Her obedience felt like a slap in the face to him. He wanted to break her. He pointed at the shattered glass on the floor.

"Clean it up. Now. Then go to the corner."

Frieda dropped to her knees. Her heavy wedding dress pooled around her. She began picking up the jagged pieces of glass with her bare hands.

She moved quickly and quietly.

A sharp edge sliced into her index finger. A bright bead of blood welled up instantly.

Frieda didn't gasp. Her medical training kicked in. She didn't put it in her mouth; that was a severe infection risk. Instead, she calmly pressed her thumb hard against the cut to stem the bleeding, her face a mask of absolute indifference, and used her other hand to keep picking up the glass.

Burke caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. He saw the red blood against her pale skin, and the chillingly clinical way she handled the pain.

His chest tightened. A strange, uncomfortable pull tugged at his heart. He hated it.

He cursed under his breath, climbed into bed, and pulled the heavy blanket over his head. But the faint smell of copper lingered in the air.

Half an hour later, Frieda threw the last piece of glass into the trash. She walked to the sofa, grabbed a decorative pillow, and curled up on the floor in the far corner of the room.

Her dress was still damp. The floor was freezing. She shivered, wrapping her arms around her knees.

Hours passed. The room was pitch black.

A violent coughing fit shattered the silence.

Burke hacked, his chest heaving. It sounded worse than the night in room 801. He sounded like he was choking on his own lungs.

Frieda woke up instantly. Her medical instincts kicked in. She scrambled off the floor and ran to the bathroom. She filled a glass with warm water and hurried to his side of the bed.

She held the glass out in the dark.

Burke thrashed. His arm swung out and smacked the glass.

The warm water splashed all over Frieda's chest. The glass hit the carpet with a dull thud.

"Get away from me!" Burke roared, his eyes wild and feverish in the dark. "Don't touch me with your filthy hands!"

Frieda stood there. The water soaked through her dress, making her even colder. The sting of his words hit her chest, but she pushed it down.

She picked up the empty glass. She walked to the bathroom, grabbed a towel, and dried the nightstand. She poured a fresh glass of water and set it down carefully next to him.

She didn't say a word. She walked back to her corner, curled into a tight ball, and turned her back to him.

Burke lay in the bed, his chest heaving. He looked at the steaming glass of water. Then he looked at the shivering girl in the corner. His jaw clenched, his mind swirling with a confusing mix of rage and guilt.