Warren Hayes looked as if she had physically struck him. The color drained from his face, replaced by a blotchy, furious red. He surged to his feet, the heavy leather armchair groaning in protest.

"What did you just say to me?" he hissed, his voice trembling with a rage he could barely contain.

Avalon didn't flinch. She met his glare without blinking, her own expression a placid mask. "I said no. I won't apologize for something I don't remember doing."

"Warren, darling, don't be so harsh."

The voice, smooth as silk and just as cloying, drifted from the grand staircase. Lydia Hayes, her stepmother, descended in an elegant silk robe, her perfectly made—up face a mask of counterfeit concern. She glided into the room, placing a manicured hand on Warren's arm.

"Avalon is just... not feeling well," she cooed, her eyes flicking to Avalon with a glint of triumphant malice. "Avalon, dear, listen to your father. It's for the good of the family."

Lydia's "mediation" was like gasoline on a fire. Warren's rage, momentarily checked, erupted anew.

"Not feeling well?" he roared, shaking off Lydia's hand. "She drugged Clay Tate! The Tates could ruin us! They could file charges!"

Drugged. The word landed like a stone in Avalon's mind. Another piece of the ugly puzzle of the last year. She looked at Lydia's flawless performance, her stomach turning. This was the woman who had driven her own mother from this house, piece by calculated piece.

Lydia pressed her advantage, her voice laced with faux panic. "And don't forget her arranged marriage, Warren! If this scandal gets out, the Astor—Vance family will call it off! Think of the merger!"

Arranged marriage? The information was a blow, but Avalon's face remained impassive. They were discussing her life as if it were a business transaction. A liability to be managed.

She decided it was time to drop a bomb of her own.

She looked directly at her father, her voice cutting through his tirade. "I'm moving out."

The declaration fell into a sudden, dead silence. Even Lydia's practiced smile froze on her face. Then, Warren let out a short, harsh laugh.

"Moving out?" he sneered, his face a caricature of contempt. "With what? I've frozen all your accounts. Your credit cards, your trust fund access—everything. You have nothing."

She had expected as much. "That's my problem, not yours."

She turned, her back straight, and started for the stairs, intending to go to the room that was nominally hers.

"You ungrateful—" Warren's voice choked with fury. He snatched a heavy crystal ashtray from a side table, his arm tensing to throw it.

"Warren, no!" Lydia shrieked, grabbing his arm. It was a perfect performance of a concerned wife, but her grip was expertly placed to ensure he couldn't actually be restrained, only further enraged. "You'll give yourself a heart attack!"

Avalon didn't look back. She could feel the heat of their combined hatred on her skin. The pain in her head was a blinding white light now, and her steps felt unsteady on the plush runner of the stairs, but she would not show them weakness. Not now. Not ever again. This house wasn't a home; it was a prison, and she had to get out.

"You are not leaving this house!" Warren bellowed from behind her. "You will stay in your room until you agree to apologize to the Tates! Do you hear me? You are grounded!"

House arrest. A small, mirthless smile touched Avalon's lips, unseen by anyone. He thought he could lock her in. He had no idea who he was dealing with.

She continued up the stairs without a word.

Down below, Lydia was "soothing" her apoplectic husband, her eyes, shining with victory, following Avalon's retreating form. This was perfect. The defiant daughter, pushing her father to the absolute limit. Soon, he would give up on her completely.

Just as Avalon reached for the doorknob to her room, a sweet voice called her name.

"Ava?"

Her stepsister, Blair Hayes, stood a few feet down the hall, a picture of preppy perfection in her Sterling Prep uniform. Her face was arranged in an expression of deep, sisterly concern.

"Are you okay? Dad is just worried about you," Blair said, moving closer, reaching out to take Avalon's arm in a familiar, proprietary gesture.

Avalon shifted her weight, just enough for Blair's hand to miss its target. She looked at her stepsister, her eyes cold and assessing. "Do I look okay to you?"

Blair's smile faltered for a fraction of a second. A flicker of annoyance, of raw resentment, flashed in her eyes before being expertly masked again. "I know you're upset," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But apologizing to Clay is the easiest way. Just say sorry, and everything will go back to normal."

Normal. Avalon knew what Blair's "normal" meant. It meant Avalon as the embarrassing, unstable screw—up, the perfect foil to Blair's golden—girl persona. A walking cautionary tale that made Blair shine all the brighter.

She didn't have the time or energy for this. She turned, opened her door, and shut it quietly but firmly in Blair's face.

The room assaulted her senses. It was a pink and white nightmare of lace, ruffles, and posters of vapid—looking male celebrities. The air was thick with the cloying scent of vanilla body spray. This was the other one's sanctuary. It made Avalon's skin crawl.

She strode to the window and yanked back the heavy curtains, letting harsh sunlight flood the room, as if trying to bleach the cloying sweetness away. Her eyes scanned the space. On the cluttered vanity, a small, antique silver locket caught her eye. She picked it up. Empty. A fragment of memory supplied the context: the betrothal gift from the Astor—Vance family. A symbol of a contract she had no part in making. She opened a drawer and dropped it inside, the clatter of metal on wood a satisfyingly final sound.

Her priority was escape. She began a systematic search of the room, looking for any electronics the other one might have stashed. Finally, in the back of the cavernous walk—in closet, tucked inside a designer shoebox, she found it: a slim, top—of—the—line laptop.

She sat at the desk, powered it on, and bypassed the simple password—the name of the celebrity on the desktop wallpaper—with contemptuous ease. Notifications from a dozen social media apps began pinging, a cacophony of a life she didn't recognize. She ignored them all, opening an encrypted browser.

Her fingers flew across the keyboard, muscle memory taking over. She logged into an encrypted email account on a dark web forum, a secure channel she had used in her past life. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Please.

The inbox loaded. There was one new message, sent a week ago. The sender's handle was simple: S.

Still alive? I have a lead on the Ghost Orchid. Nevada desert. Interested?

Avalon's breath caught in her throat. The Ghost Orchid. A rare, almost mythical epiphyte known for its unique alkaloids, which had neuro—regenerative properties. It was the key. The potential cure for the fire in her brain.

S was a top—tier hacker she'd crossed paths with online years ago. They were rivals, occasionally allies, trading information in a world of shadows and code. She never thought he'd still be trying to reach her after a year of silence.

Her reply was three words.

Location. Details. Now.

She hit send. Less than thirty seconds later, a reply appeared. It contained a single, heavily encrypted file. As she downloaded it, another message popped up.

Careful. You're not the only one looking.

She decrypted the file. It was a set of coordinates. Not in Nevada. Here. On the outskirts of Sterling City, in a derelict industrial park.

Hope, sharp and fierce, surged through her, momentarily eclipsing the pain. She had a target. She had a chance.

Now, she just had to get out of this house.

The dull throb in her temple returned, a grim reminder that her time was running out. She closed the laptop and began to plan.