"What are you laughing at?" Harold snapped, her laugh getting under his skin.

Cleo lifted her head, eyes sharp, cutting straight to Nora—still playing weak.

"You love putting on a show, huh? Fine. I'll give you one."

Before anyone could move, she grabbed a metal pen off the vanity and drove it straight into the back of Nora's hand, pinning it to the floor.

"Ahhh!"

A sharp scream ripped through the room. The pen punched clean through her hand, blood spilling fast.

"You—You've lost your mind! You're insane!" Harold shook with rage, pointing at the door. "Get out! Get out of this house! There's no place for you here!"

He called the servants. They dragged her out, tossed her and her small suitcase past the gates.

Cleo stumbled, then steadied.

Face blank, she rubbed her sore arm, then crouched and pulled out her mom's sapphire necklace—the one she'd taken back earlier—and clenched it tight.

She gave the grand, cold mansion one last look, then turned and walked away. No hesitation.

She hadn't gone far before the sky just opened up.

Rain slammed down out of nowhere, soaking her in seconds.

The early spring chill cut through her clothes, straight to the bone. Shivering, she ducked under a shop awning, half-running.

Water dripped from her hair. She wrapped her arms around herself, staring at the blur of rain.

Her chest felt empty.

Just then, a familiar black Rolls-Royce pulled up in front of her.

The window slid down, revealing Damian's sharp profile.

The second he saw her—soaked, a mess under the awning—his brows tightened.

He shoved the door open and walked over. "Get in."

"I don't need you."

Damian didn't argue. He grabbed her arm, grip tight, and hauled her into the passenger seat.

The car was warm, heat chasing off the cold clinging to her.

He handed her a clean towel, then drove in silence back to his place.

Inside, he gave her one of his shirts and a pair of pants to change into. Then he brought out a first-aid kit and dabbed at the faint bruise on her cheek.

"What happened?" His voice stayed low, eyes on her swollen face, her damp hair making her look almost fragile.

Cleo pressed her lips together. Said nothing.

The doorbell rang.

Damian got up and opened it. Nora stood there—hand wrapped in thick bandages, face pale.

"Damian..." Her eyes went red the second she saw him. "Dad kicked Cleo out. I was worried... I mean, yeah, she almost killed me last time, and this time she stabbed my hand with a pen, but... we're still sisters. I couldn't stop thinking about her, so I came to take her home..."

From the living room, Cleo heard every word. Nora made her sick.

She walked over and stared her down. "Try that disgusting act in front of me again, and I'll rip your mouth apart."

"Cleo." Damian's face darkened. "How long are you gonna keep this up? Hitting people. Shoving them. Driving a pen through someone's hand. Which part of that screams 'proper lady'?

"Nora didn't hold it against you. She even came to take you home, and this is how you treat her?"

Nora rushed forward and grabbed his sleeve. "Damian, it's okay. As long as Cleo comes back with me..."

"Cleo, apologize to her."

"Not happening."

They started arguing right there in the doorway. Damian reached for Cleo. She shoved him off.

His arm hit a tea tray a maid had just set down.

Crash.

The porcelain pot shattered. Scalding tea splashed everywhere.

In that split second, Damian moved on instinct. He turned and pulled Nora tight against him, his back shielding her from the worst of it.

Cleo stood on the other side. No time to move. Boiling tea soaked half her body.

Pain tore through her—from calf to arm.

She doubled over, face white as paper.

Damian checked Nora first. Just a few red spots on her hand.

He let go, then finally saw Cleo curled on the floor.

Her skin was already swelling, flushed an angry red.

His pupils tightened. He stepped toward her.

"Damian!" Nora grabbed his arm, voice shaking. "I'm fine, it just stings... But Cleo... she looks really hurt. Shouldn't you check her first?"

He stopped.

His gaze flicked between Cleo's twisted face and Nora's soft, understanding look. Then he remembered Cleo's earlier "outburst," and his eyes hardened.

He looked away.

He bent down, scooped Nora into his arms. His voice went cold. "Forget her. Let her suffer. Maybe next time she'll think before hurting you."

He carried Nora out without a glance back.

Cleo collapsed onto the cold floor.

Her body burned, but inside felt hollow—like something had been ripped out, leaving nothing but cold rushing through.

She clenched her teeth, fighting the pain and the spin in her head. With her good hand, she dragged out her phone and called an ambulance herself.

***

Cleo got discharged from the hospital the same day as Nora's birthday banquet.

The Carrington house was glowing, packed with people.

As the so-called eldest daughter, Cleo had to show.

She stayed off to the side, out of sight, watching Harold grin as he held Nora's hand—showing her off, calling her his perfect daughter, announcing most of his assets would go to her.

Praise and envy buzzed around them.

Cleo watched, her heart flat and frozen.

All these years, she'd never had a real birthday.

Her mom died early. Her dad didn't care.

Every year, it was just her and a cold cake, making wishes no one heard.

The party hit its peak as gifts started rolling in.

Harold transferring property was already wild. Then Damian stepped up—velvet box in hand. He opened it, revealing a diamond necklace worth a fortune, and clasped it around Nora's neck himself.

The room gasped.

Nora lit up, glowing with pride. Her smug eyes flicked toward Cleo.

Cleo looked away. She walked to the bar, grabbed a drink, and downed it in one shot, trying to drown the noise in her head.

But trouble never missed her.

A pack of Nora's friends rolled up and "accidentally" slammed into her.

"Well, look who it is—Cleo. It's Nora's birthday. Everyone's vibing. Why do you look so pissed? Can't handle her winning?"

Cleo wasn't playing. She set her drink down and turned to go.

"Hey. We're talking to you. You deaf?" A girl grabbed her arm.

That did it.

Cleo ripped free, shoving her hard enough to make her stumble.

She grabbed a half-full wine bottle off the table, eyes cold as hell.

"I gave you a shot. You blew it."

No pause. No warning.

She swung.

The bottle cracked against the nearest girl's head.

Bang.

The bottle shattered—wine and blood spilling together.

Screams ripped through the room. Everything went chaotic.

Cleo didn't stop. She swung again and again, fast, brutal—until Damian rushed in and grabbed her wrist.

"Cleo, what the hell are you doing now?"

He took in the mess—the girls clutching their bleeding heads—his face going dark.

Cleo let out a cold laugh. "You saw it. They tried me. I hit back."

"You hit back?" Disappointment and anger burned in Damian's eyes. "That was straight-up assault. Revenge. And if they're talking about you, maybe fix yourself. Apologize."

"In your dreams."

That was it—his patience snapped.

He knew exactly what she feared: the dark, tight spaces.

"If you won't admit it, then think on it." He nodded to the guards. "Lock her in the basement. No one lets her out without my permission."

His voice went ice-cold. "Fear might teach you."

They dragged Cleo out of the party and tossed her into a narrow, windowless room.

The door slammed.

Darkness rushed in, swallowing everything.

Memories hit—being locked in the dark as a kid. She curled into the corner, shaking, cold sweat soaking her back.

Time dragged. Endless.

Hunger. Thirst. Cold. And that pitch-black pressure clawing at her nerves.

By day three, she was barely holding it together.

Then the door cracked open.

A thin slice of light cut through the dark.

Nora stood there, smiling like she won.

"I thought Damian would go harder. Guess locking you up was too soft."

She clapped. Two guys in black stepped in, faces blank.

"What are you doing?" Cleo's voice came out rough, barely there.

"Making it stick." Nora's smile went sharp. "Tie her to the chair."

"You seriously think you can get away with this?" Cleo snapped. "I'll kill you the second I'm out."

She thrashed, but the two guys locked her down like she weighed nothing.

"Kill me?" Nora let out a soft laugh, all smug ease. "You wouldn't even get close. Damian would shut you down first." She tilted her head, smiling. "Or did you forget? He picks me. Every. Single. Time."

That hit exactly where it hurt most.

Yeah. Every single time—right or wrong—Damian chose Nora.

The fight drained out of her, swallowed by that same old helpless drop.

They shoved her into a cold metal chair. Straps locked her wrists and ankles. Electrodes pressed to her skin.

Nora watched, satisfied, then tapped the controller.

"Ahhh!"

The shock ripped through her.

Pain and numbness hit at once. Her body jerked, out of control, a scream tearing out of her throat.

Her vision blacked out.

Her mind snapped loose under the pain.

***

When Cleo woke up, she was on a soft bed—no longer in that nightmare room.

Damian sat beside her, brows tight. "I said three days in the basement. How did it end like this?"

Cleo kept her eyes shut. She didn't want to see him. Didn't want to talk.

She didn't expect him to believe her anyway.

"Cleo." A hint of concern slipped into his voice. "I'm your fiancé. You should tell me everything."

'Fiancé? What a joke.'

She opened her eyes, looking straight at him, voice flat. "Fine. I'll tell you. Your precious Nora dragged people in on day three. Tied me to a chair. Lit me up until I ended up like this."

His pupils tightened. Shock flickered. "An electric chair? That's not possible. Nora... she wouldn't—"

"See?" A mocking smile pulled at her lips. "You don't believe me."

'Figures. Doesn't matter. If he won't believe me, I'll handle it myself.'

And she did.

That night, Cleo had people grab Nora—who was terrified of heights—strip her down, tie her up, and hang her off the edge of Joubert Tower's roof, leaving her out in the freezing wind all night.

The next day, Damian stormed in, fury burning in his eyes. "Cleo, what the hell is wrong with you? You hung Nora off a roof all night. Do you even get what could've happened? She panicked, she slipped—if there wasn't a net, she'd be dead."

Cleo sat by the window, eyes half-lidded, as if it had nothing to do with her.

That only made him angrier. "If our wedding wasn't in a few days, your family and I wouldn't let this slide. You're staying home. You're not going anywhere, and you're done causing problems. Got it?"

She didn't answer.

Like he wasn't even there.

The door slammed on his way out, cold air trailing behind him.

The night before the wedding, Nora finally came home, pale as hell.

The second Harold saw Cleo, he lost it—cursing, calling her vicious, heartless.

Cleo didn't flinch. "If I was that vicious, your precious daughter would've died eight times by now."

Harold shook with rage. "You ungrateful brat! How long are you going to keep this up?"

"You brought your mistress into this house and let her kid take my place." Cleo's voice stayed flat. "I'm still here—what do you expect me to do? Cook for you?"

"You—!" His face flushed, like he might drop on the spot. "Fine. I'm done arguing. Tomorrow's Nora and Damian's wedding. You're not showing up. Don't you dare embarrass us."

Cleo let out a quiet laugh. "Relax. That stiff, suffocating wedding? You couldn't drag me there."