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."

With that, she turned and went upstairs.

At dawn, her phone lit up.

The visa she'd been waiting on was finally approved.

She grabbed the suitcase she'd packed days ago and headed for the door—no hesitation.

The second she hit the bottom of the stairs, she saw Damian walking in with his groomsmen, there to pick up the bride.

At Nora's request, the ceremony leaned old-school.

The bride stood in a layered white gown, face hidden under a long veil, one arm held by a bridesmaid.

Damian couldn't see her clearly. Of course he thought it was Cleo.

He stepped up and took her hand. Maybe it was the wedding, but his voice softened.

"Hey. Don't be nervous. I've got you."

Cleo stood in the shadow of the stairs, silent. 'Damian, a guy like you—obsessed with rules—deserves a bride who's 'soft', 'proper', 'perfectly polished'. When you lift that veil and realize they swapped the bride, you're gonna love it. My wedding gift. No need to thank me.'

After he took the bride and left—and Harold and Rosalind followed, all smiles—the house went quiet.

Cleo grabbed her suitcase and walked out.

She waved down a cab and slid in.

"Miss, where to?" the driver asked, easygoing.

She didn't answer.

She pulled a small remote from her pocket and stared out at the mansion, glowing in the morning light.

It used to be her mom's place.

Her mom built it. Then she died. And her dad filled it with his side piece and her kid—turned it into something that made Cleo sick.

Her eyes went cold.

She hit the red button.

Boom!

The blast ripped through the air. Charges went off all at once. A fireball shot up, smoke swallowing the mansion—every bad memory with it. The shockwave shook the cab.

The driver almost lost the wheel, face going pale. "M-Miss... that's your house, right? Y-You just blew it up?!"

Cleo looked away, calm, clicking her seatbelt. "Yeah. I did. My mom built that place, and my dad turned it into a house for his side chick and her kid. I was over it."

She glanced at him. "Airport."

He glanced at her in the rearview—too calm for someone who just did that—then back at the fire in the distance. He swallowed, shock mixing with a flicker of respect.

"Uh—yeah, got it!"

He tightened his grip, hit the gas, and sped toward the airport.

Outside, the city blurred by. Behind them, the fire faded, painting half the sky red.