Abbey reached the side of the Escalade. She grabbed the heavy chrome handle of the rear door and pulled. Her shoulder socket popped with the effort.

Brecken blinked, caught off guard by her sudden pivot. He had not expected her to willingly get into his car after the scene she just caused. He quickly recovered his composure, turning on his heel and marching toward the driver's side.

Jeffery stood frozen on the gravel shoulder. He watched Abbey's retreating back. A dark, ugly flash of wounded pride and irritation twisted his handsome features. He quickly smoothed his expression back into a mask of polite concern before anyone could notice.

Abbey gripped the edge of the leather seat. She leaned her upper body into the cabin. She reached down with both hands, grabbed her numb right thigh, and physically hauled her ruined leg over the threshold. A cold sweat broke out across her forehead from the sheer exertion.

She pulled the door shut. The heavy thud sealed the cabin, completely cutting off the sight of Jeffery's hypocritical face behind the tinted, bullet-resistant glass.

Brecken slid into the driver's seat. He pushed the ignition button. The engine roared to life. He adjusted the rearview mirror, his eyes locking onto Abbey's reflection.

"Glad to see you still have a shred of self-awareness left," Brecken mocked, throwing the car into drive.

Abbey did not react to the insult. She pressed her spine hard against the door panel, curling herself into the furthest, darkest corner of the spacious backseat. She looked like a cornered animal preparing for a strike.

The cabin was suffocatingly warm. The air conditioning blew a steady stream of expensive, custom-blended cedarwood and vanilla fragrance into her face.

Abbey's eyes darted across the luxurious interior. Her gaze snagged on a pile of items carelessly tossed onto the middle seat.

There was a silk Hermes scarf. Three heavy, textured Bvlgari shopping bags. A limited-edition Chanel lambskin purse sat precariously on top of the pile.

The name "Emmie Dudley" was written in elegant calligraphy on a gift tag attached to one of the bags. It was a glaring, neon sign screaming who the real princess of the family was.

Brecken noticed where she was looking. His jaw tightened.

"Don't touch Emmie's things. Your filthy hands will ruin the leather," he warned, his voice sharp and protective.

Abbey jerked her head away. She wasn't looking out of jealousy. The bright, vibrant colors of the designer bags physically hurt her eyes. For five years, her entire world had been concrete gray, rust brown, and blood red.

Her breathing suddenly hitched. The air in the cabin felt too thick to inhale. The soft leather seats felt like they were closing in on her.

A violent wave of claustrophobia slammed into her chest.

She squeezed her eyes shut. The smell of the cedarwood perfume vanished. It was instantly replaced by the sharp, stinging stench of industrial bleach and raw sewage.

She was no longer in a luxury SUV. She was back in the windowless laundry room of the prison during her first month. There were no security cameras.

She felt the rough, bleach-soaked towel being shoved brutally into her mouth, gagging her screams. She felt the heavy, cold weight of the iron pipe swinging through the damp air. She heard the wet, sickening crunch of her own femur snapping in half.

Abbey's body began to shake. It started as a fine tremor in her fingers and quickly escalated into violent, uncontrollable shivers. She bit down on the back of her hand, her teeth sinking into her own flesh to keep the phantom screams trapped in her throat.

Brecken glanced at the rearview mirror. He saw her convulsing in the corner. He let out a loud, exasperated sigh.

"What the hell is wrong with you now? Are you seriously putting on a show to get my sympathy?" Brecken sneered. "Save the acting. It didn't work in court, and it's not going to work now."

The sheer cruelty of his words acted like a bucket of ice water to her face.

The flashback shattered. Abbey gasped for air, her lungs expanding painfully. She slowly lowered her hand from her mouth. Deep, crescent-shaped teeth marks bled sluggishly into her skin.

She opened her eyes. The terror was gone. The chilling, dead emptiness returned, freezing over her pupils like a layer of winter ice.

In the hellscape of the prison, she had learned the absolute rule of survival. Tears, shaking, and weakness only invited the predators to hit you harder.

She forced her spine straight. She carefully lifted her right leg and tucked it behind her left ankle, hiding the deformity from Brecken's view. She crossed her arms over her chest, staring at the back of his head with absolute, lethal guard.

Brecken caught her stare in the mirror. The intensity of her defense made his skin prickle. He felt a sudden, irrational urge to justify himself, which only made him angrier.

"I'm warning you right now," Brecken growled, his knuckles turning white on the steering wheel. "The family is throwing a welcome-home dinner for you tonight. Every important figure in New York will be there. You better behave yourself and not ruin the evening."

Abbey heard the words "welcome-home dinner."

The corner of her cracked mouth twitched upward. A slow, incredibly dark smile formed on her lips. It was the most terrifying expression Brecken had ever seen.

She turned her head to look out the window. The trees blurred past the glass. Her pale, hollowed-out reflection stared back at her.

A massive, extravagant dinner party for the disgraced, convicted felon daughter they hadn't spoken to in five years? It was a laughable, absurd lie.

She knew the Dudley family's playbook. This dinner was a trap. It was a stage perfectly set to humiliate her, to strip her bare and remind her of her place in the dirt.

Abbey's fingers drifted down to her lap. She gently stroked the rough canvas of her bag. Buried deep inside the lining was the only leverage she had managed to forge in blood and sweat over the last five years.

She took a slow, measured breath. She locked her trauma away in a steel box in her mind. Her eyes sharpened into the cold, calculating blades of an executioner. She was ready for the slaughter.

The temperature inside the Escalade plummeted. The silence in the cabin was heavy, thick, and suffocating. The only sound was the soft, rhythmic hum of the air conditioning vents blowing cold air against the windshield.

Brecken kept his eyes on the highway, but his peripheral vision constantly flicked to the rearview mirror. Abbey sat perfectly still in the corner. She looked like a wax figure, completely devoid of life, her dark eyes fixed on the passing trees. The absolute lack of emotion radiating from her was making his skin crawl.

He hated the silence. It made him feel like he was losing control of the narrative. He needed to re-establish his dominance, to remind her that she was the broken one, and he was the benevolent savior.

He cleared his throat. The sound was loud in the quiet car.

"You should be grateful for everything the family has done for you," Brecken said. He pitched his voice to sound authoritative and slightly exhausted, like a parent scolding a difficult child. "Dad and Mom have missed you terribly these past five years."

The words hung in the air, absurd and heavy.

Abbey slowly turned her head away from the window. She did not blink. She locked her gaze onto Brecken's eyes in the rearview mirror. She looked at him as if she were studying a fascinating, disgusting insect.

"Missed me?"

Her lips barely moved. The words slipped out of her mouth completely flat. There was no anger. There was no sadness. There was just a chilling, clinical observation.

Brecken's jaw tightened. Her tone felt like a physical slap.

"Yes. Mom cries over your pictures in the middle of the night. She's been emotionally exhausted dealing with the fallout of your actions," Brecken snapped, his voice rising in defense of his mother.

Abbey stared at him for a second longer. Then, she laughed.

It was a low, raspy sound that started in the back of her throat and spilled into the cabin. It was a broken, eerie noise that held absolutely zero humor.

Brecken slammed his foot on the brake pedal. The heavy SUV jerked violently, the tires screeching against the asphalt before he corrected the steering.

"What the hell are you laughing at? You cold-blooded freak!" Brecken shouted, his composure shattering.

Abbey leaned forward. She ignored the pain shooting up her right leg. She grabbed the headrest of the passenger seat with both hands. Her pale, gaunt face hovered just inches behind Brecken's right ear.

"She cries over my pictures?" Abbey whispered. Her voice was soft, sliding into his ear like a venomous snake. "Then why didn't she ever come see the daughter who exhausted her so much?"

Brecken swallowed hard. He instinctively leaned away from her. "Prison is a filthy place. Mom's health is fragile. She couldn't handle that kind of environment."

Abbey cut him off. Her voice dropped an octave, turning to pure ice.

"Five years. One thousand, eight hundred, and twenty-five days. Not a single visit on visiting day. Not a single five-minute phone call through the glass."

Her dark eyes bored into his reflection. Brecken tried to look away, but he was trapped by her stare.

"Not one letter. Not one postcard. Nothing," Abbey stated. The facts fell from her lips like heavy stones.

Brecken opened his mouth. He searched his brain for a PR-approved excuse, a lie he could use to cover the gaping hole in his family's facade. His throat felt tight. No words came out.

"The only time you people contacted me," Abbey continued, her breath ghosting over his neck, "was three years ago. You sent a corporate lawyer to slide a liability waiver and a severance agreement under the glass. You tried to force me to sign away my legal rights to the family name."

The cabin fell dead silent again.

Brecken's face flushed a deep, mottled red. The veins in his hands bulged against the leather steering wheel. He had spent five years convincing himself that his family was suffering, that they were the victims of Abbey's crimes. She had just taken a sledgehammer to his carefully constructed delusion.

"Don't sit there and play the victim!" Brecken exploded. He hit the steering wheel with his palm. "You brought this on yourself! You pushed Justine down those stairs! You deserve everything you got!"

He desperately threw her conviction in her face, trying to scramble back up to the moral high ground. He needed her to be the monster so he didn't have to feel the crushing weight of his own guilt.

Abbey heard Justine's name. Her expression did not change. Her heart rate did not spike. She had spent five years being beaten bloody for a crime she didn't commit. Words could no longer hurt her.

"I'll say this exactly once," Abbey said, her voice dropping to a dead whisper. "I didn't push her. Believe whatever helps you sleep at night."

She let go of the headrest. She slumped back into the dark corner of the seat. She closed her eyes, completely shutting off her presence. She severed the emotional connection, refusing to give him another ounce of her energy.

Brecken punched the steering wheel. The horn blared, a long, aggressive wail that echoed across the empty highway.

He felt a sickening wave of defeat. The criminal sitting in his backseat had just stripped him of his dignity without raising her voice.

He slammed his foot down on the gas pedal. The Escalade surged forward, the engine roaring as the speedometer climbed well past the legal limit. He drove recklessly, using the speed to burn off the frantic, buzzing anxiety in his chest.

Abbey grabbed the plastic handle above the door frame. Her knuckles turned white as the car swerved through lanes. Her stomach churned violently, but she clamped her jaw shut. She would bite her own tongue off before she let out a sound of distress.

In the distance, the sprawling, castle-like silhouette of the Dudley estate appeared on the horizon.

Abbey opened her eyes. She stared at the massive iron gates of the gilded cage that had destroyed her life. A terrifying, absolute resolve settled into her bones.

The Escalade tore up the long, winding driveway of the Dudley estate. It slammed on the brakes directly in front of the massive, tiered marble fountain. The heavy tires dug deep grooves into the pristine white gravel.

The estate was ablaze with light. Crystal chandeliers glowed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the main house. The circular driveway was already packed with a fleet of Maybachs, Rolls-Royces, and Bentleys. Men in tuxedos and women in glittering couture gowns stood on the manicured lawns, holding champagne flutes and laughing.

Brecken shoved his door open before the car even fully settled. He didn't cast a single glance into the backseat. He stepped out, aggressively adjusted his cuffs, and instantly plastered a flawless, charismatic smile onto his face as he walked toward a group of Wall Street executives.

Abbey was left alone in the dark cabin.

She pushed the heavy rear door open. The cold night air immediately sliced through her thin gray hoodie. She gripped the door frame, gritted her teeth, and hauled her dead right leg out of the vehicle. Her worn sneaker hit the gravel with a pathetic crunch.

A valet in a crisp uniform jogged up to the car. He stopped short when he saw Abbey. His eyes swept over her baggy, faded clothes and her messy hair. A look of blatant disdain flashed across his face. He rudely stepped around her, snatching the keys from the ignition without a word.

Abbey adjusted the strap of her canvas bag over her shoulder. She looked like a ghost haunting a billionaire's playground.

She turned away from the grand front entrance. She dragged her right foot, limping heavily as she walked around the side of the massive stone building. She navigated the dark bushes and pushed open the heavy oak door that led to the servants' corridor near the kitchens.

The hallway was chaos. Maids in black-and-white uniforms rushed past her, carrying silver trays piled high with caviar blinis and crystal flutes. No one spared her a second glance.

At the end of the corridor stood Martha Donovan, the estate's head housekeeper. Martha was a severe woman with a tight bun, currently barking orders into a walkie-talkie.

Abbey limped up to her.

"Where is my room?" Abbey asked. Her voice was raspy from disuse.

Martha's expression froze, her fingers tightening around her walkie-talkie until her knuckles turned white. She shot Abbey a rapid, sweeping glance, her eyes filled with restrained disgust and a flicker of genuine panic. She did not drop her device, nor did she scream, but her posture stiffened defensively.

"Miss Abbey," Martha said stiffly, her previous arrogance vanishing into a poorly concealed look of revulsion. "Madam instructed that you are to go straight to your room and change into your gown the moment you arrive."

"Is my room still the same one?" Abbey asked, ignoring the woman's horror.

Martha swallowed hard, looking away. "No. Your old room was converted into Miss Emmie's secondary walk-in closet three years ago. Your new room is in the attic. At the very end of the hall."

Abbey gave a single, slow nod. She didn't argue. She didn't yell. She turned and began the agonizing climb up the narrow, unlit servants' staircase.

Her right leg burned with every step. By the time she reached the fourth-floor attic, her hoodie was soaked in cold sweat.

She pushed open a flimsy wooden door. A cloud of dust and the sharp smell of mildew hit her face.

The room was smaller than her prison cell. It held a rusted iron cot, a single bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, and a rotting wooden wardrobe. There was no heating.

The wardrobe door hung open on a broken hinge. Inside, a single piece of clothing hung on a wire hanger.

It was not a designer gown. It was her old Seacrest Preparatory Academy school uniform from five years ago. The pleated skirt was frayed at the hem. The white button-down shirt was yellowed with age around the collar.

Abbey walked over. She reached out and ran her fingertips over the coarse fabric of the blazer. Her eyes narrowed into sharp, dangerous slits.

A sudden roar of applause and heavy bass music vibrated through the floorboards.

Abbey turned and walked to the tiny, slanted skylight. She pushed the glass open a crack and looked down.

The entire back gardens had been transformed into a sprawling, pink-themed wonderland. A massive, three-story-high holographic projection floated above the swimming pool.

The glowing letters read: Happy 23rd Birthday to our Princess, Emmie!

Abbey stared at the hologram. The final puzzle piece clicked into place.

This wasn't a welcome-home dinner. It was never about her. The family had timed her release perfectly. They brought her home today just to parade her around as a broken, convicted criminal. They wanted to use her absolute misery to highlight Emmie's pure, flawless perfection.

They wanted her to hide in the corner, wearing trash, feeling ashamed of her existence.

Abbey stepped back from the window. She reached down and grabbed the hem of her gray prison hoodie. She pulled it over her head and threw it onto the dusty floor.

She reached into the wardrobe and grabbed the yellowed white shirt.

If they wanted a freak show, she would give them one. She was going to walk right into the center of their glittering world and burn it to the ground.