Zara Powell had been locked in the psych ward for five days already. She was burning up with a fever that hit 104, half-unconscious on the thin hospital bed. Her clothes were soaked clean through with sweat, and she shook so hard her teeth chattered from the bone-deep cold.

In the dim, flickering light, a handful of other patients crowded around her, gawking with wide, curious eyes.

Suddenly—*crash*!

The rotting old door flew right off its hinges. A crew of huge, rough-looking goons barged in, all of them looking ready to break something. The patients shrieked and scattered like spooked mice. The leader stepped straight over to Zara, tangled a fist in her hair, and wrenched her off the bed to the floor before kicking her hard into the corner.

Warm blood trickled down her thigh, her face drained to ghostly pale, and she clutched her abdomen, agony ripping through her.

She fought to pry her eyes open, staring up at the strangers looming over her. Her voice came out so thin it was barely a whisper: "Who are you?"

A man with a jagged scar slicing across his cheek stepped forward, and ground his lit cigarette out right into the meat of Zara's shoulder. The searing, blinding pain almost shoved her straight into unconsciousness.

He growled, low and menacing: "Where's the money? Samir gave you half a million. The Powell Corp owes us tens of thousands—you think you can play games with me?"

Half a million. What a sick joke, she thought bitterly.

When she huffed a bitter laugh, he kicked her again, hard. "Spit it out! Quit messing me around!"

The blow landed square on her jaw. Blood oozed from the corner of her mouth, mixing with the cold sweat dripping down her face.

She pulled her cracked lips into a smirk: "I don't have any money. If you want my life, take it."

"No money? Really?" He dropped to his knees, slapping her over and over with his greasy, calloused hand.

Just then, a voice crackled from the hidden phone tucked in her shirt—Samir Powell’s voice, cold as ice: "Don’t call me unless you’re dead."

The goons froze for a beat, then scrambled to yank the phone out of her clothes.

Another guy pulled their boss aside, hissing under his breath: "Boss, let’s bounce. If Samir shows up, we’re all screwed."

Grumbling, the boss pushed to his feet, spat right in Zara’s face, and stormed out.

Zara tried to scream, tried to beg. Her whole spirit was already shattered… but even now, she clung to one thin, fraying thread of hope.

"Samir, they’re here to kill me. Will you save me? Will you save our baby?"

The answer sliced through the air, cold and sharp as a blade: "Stop faking it. Even you dying to atone for Watson’s life, for the Rivera family—this is what you deserve."

The goons paused in the doorway, listening.

Samir went on, short and brutal: "And as for that brat? It deserves to go to hell right with you."

The men swapped knowing, sleazy grins and burst out laughing.

Why would they worry? Why would Samir bother saving the woman who killed his family?

Zara’s hand, clutching the phone to her trembling lips, finally went limp.

Her voice broke into a ragged whisper: "It’s our baby, Samir. No matter how much you hate me, just save the baby. Didn’t you say you always dreamed of having our child?"

"Samir, the doctor said my condition is rare. I can’t get pregnant again. If I lose this one, I’ll never have another chance."

"Samir, I’m begging you. Save me. Save this baby."

Silence.

Zara’s tears fell silent and hot, despair deeper than a frozen heart—no, worse than that. It was despair that wouldn’t let her die, wouldn’t let her fade.

She never should have called.

She hung up, letting the phone slip from her numb fingers and clatter to the floor.

The men came back. This time, the boss didn’t hesitate. He pressed his scuffed, dirty boot hard down on her already broken hand.

"Quit your whining! Hand over the money!"

Zara scraped together the last of her strength to speak: "I don’t have money. Only my life."

Suddenly, the boss’s eyes lit up with greed, locked right on Zara’s hand.

He bent down, yanking at her finger to get at the ring: "This thing looks like it’s worth a pretty penny."

Zara wrenched her hand back as hard as she could, gasping: "It’s fake."

A month ago, Samir had proposed to her with that ring.

The whole room burst out laughing.

The boss wrenched her hand back into view, sneering: "Bullshit. The fancy Powell heiress wearing a fake? Let’s see how much it’s worth."

"No, it’s worthless, it really is!" Zara’s voice was barely a breath as she pulled with everything she had left to get away.

The boss paused, surprised she still had any fight left in her.

He sneered again: "Oh? Which little lover boy gave this to you, huh?"

More cackles erupted.

Zara lifted her head weakly, panting: "Give me time. I’ll pay off every cent Powell Corp owes you."

The scarred man’s face darkened. He dragged Zara’s hand out from under her and snapped an order.

"Ungrateful bitch. You want to play hard to get? Fine, you get the consequences. Paul—cut her finger off."

Another man moved instantly, pulling a sharp switchblade out, holding it right over Zara’s knuckle, ready to slice.

Her heart hammered so hard she thought it would burst out of her chest. She whimpered, broken: "Okay, okay, I’ll give it to you, I’ll take it off for you—"

The scarred man laughed, dark and sinister: "Sorry, Miss Powell. Changed my mind. That finger of yours is worth more than any ring to Samir."

The sharp blade sliced down. White-hot agony tore through her, and everything went black.

A bucket of ice water slammed into her face, jerking her back to the pain. Even death wouldn’t let her have it.

Over the ringing in her ears, the scarred man leaned in close, his voice roaring right against her eardrum: "Samir wanted me to tell you—if you want out of here, stop taking it silent. Kill someone, and you get your escape."

"He’s real curious to see if Miss Powell can still walk free if she kills again."

Blood poured down her thigh, and her whole world narrowed down to a blinding, horrifying crimson.

The scarred man stood up, called the lingering patients lingering hovering outside the door in, and tossed a big bag of candy and chips onto the floor.

The simple-minded patients swarmed it immediately, grabbing for the treats: "Candy! Wow, so much candy!"

The scarred man grinned: "See that bleeding lady over there? Every day you make her cry, you get more of this. More than this."

The patients looked up, hungry for more: "Really, mister? I know what to do—I’ll put bugs in her bed, and worse stuff, lots of ways!"

The scarred man nodded: "Smart. Just don’t let the nurses catch you."

They nodded hard, grinning.

The scarred man stepped over to Zara, half-dead on the floor, and whispered soft and cruel right in her face: "Miss Powell, there’s a knife under your pillow. When it gets too bad, kill whoever you want. Thanks for the finger."

Zara closed her eyes, defeated.

The nightmare was over.

No.

This nightmare would replay, day after day, for the next 365 days. Every minute, every second.

Samir Powell. With every breath I have left, I pray that in the next life, and every life after that, I never have to see your face again.

Two years later…

A python coiled slow and tight around her neck, its forked tongue flickering in and out, squeezing harder with every little movement she made. Breathing got harder. Harder.

Zara Powell’s eyes flew open. Right in front of her, the snake’s head—big enough to cover an entire dinner plate—gaped open, sharp fangs bared, ready to sink into her throat.

"Ah!"

Zara screamed, jolting upright in bed, and stared as sunlight flooded in through the floor-to-ceiling window, spilling warm across the room. She wasn’t there. She wasn’t in that place.

A man in a white coat was on his feet immediately, stepping toward her, concern etched deep across his face. "You okay?" he asked.

Still dazed, Zara clutched her blanket so tight her knuckles whitened and scrambled back to the corner of the bed, terror plain on her face.

Dr. Simon Beck sighed, stepped back to give her space, and held out a warm mug of coffee from a respectful distance. "Here. Drink this. It’ll help you calm down."

Zara took the cup and sipped. It had been over a year since she escaped that place, but the memories wouldn’t let go. They clung to her like a second skin.

Clearing her fuzzy head, she apologized softly, "I’m sorry, Dr. Beck. Did I startle you?"

Dr. Beck smiled gently and sat down on the edge of her bed, his voice low and soothing. "No worries at all. And please—call me Simon. I’m not that old."

Zara pressed her lips together, looked down at her lap, and said nothing.

Simon went on, "I just finished your hypnosis session. You looked completely wiped out, so I let you sleep in a little. Feeling any better?"

Zara slipped out of bed, pulling on her gloves, her scarf, and her plain, round glasses, and answered quietly, "Much better. Thank you, Dr. Beck. I’ll be heading out now."

Simon stood to walk her to the door and advised gently, "Zara, you really should try to lose the scarf every once in a while, get more fresh air. Nervous breakdowns and depression don’t heal with treatment alone. You need to let go of the past, step out of your shell."

Zara hurried faster toward the door, and in her rush, she caught her foot on the threshold and stumbled forward.

Simon reached out to catch her, but she slapped his hand away hard, catching herself against the wall at the last second.

Her complexion was already pale—ashy white from exhaustion—but now fear leeched what little color she had left, leaving her face ghostly, bloodless.

She steadied herself, stammering apologetically, "Sorry… sorry."

Simon smoothly shifted the topic. "Your mom’s test results come out this afternoon. You’ll probably want to be there for that. It might not be good news, so brace yourself."

"Thank you," Zara replied quickly, and all but ran out of the room.

Outside the hospital, the bright midday sun was blinding. Zara shielded her eyes with a hand and pulled the hood of her white sweatshirt up higher, then climbed onto the 703 bus bound for Alpine Library.

This route took longer, but it was almost always less crowded. That was why she took it.

Settled into the very last row, she watched a young couple climb on, chattering and laughing as they made their way toward the back.

Zara coughed a couple of times and tugged her scarf tighter, tucking it up over the bottom of her face.

The girl’s laughter cut off. She glanced at Zara, all bundled up tight, and a frown of disgust tugged at her mouth. She whispered something to her boyfriend, and the pair moved all the way up to the front seats instead.

When the bus pulled up to Alpine Library, Zara got off and checked her watch. She had a little over ten minutes before her shift started, so she walked slow, dragging her feet.

A black sedan glided past her, and she automatically adjusted her hood, making sure it stayed pulled low over her face.

But when she glanced up, a cold chill raced straight up her spine.

The license plate matched that black Maybach she’d memorized, and it was parked right in front of the library entrance.

Her face went even paler under her mask, and she ducked behind a big old oak tree fast, her palms sweating even from this distance.

She’d helped Samir Powell swap that plate herself, two years ago. It was him. There was no mistaking it.

The library was out of the way, secluded. He never went places like this. How was she running into him now? After two whole years?

Working up every last bit of courage she had, she peeked cautiously out from behind the tree.

Two tall men got out of the car, drawing stares from everyone walking by.

Even after two years, Zara would know Samir anywhere. He was wearing a black button-down, leaning casual against the car door, talking to another guy in a white shirt. He watched the second man head into the library, then climbed back into his own car and drove off.

Zara felt like she’d just been thrown into an ice-cold lake in the middle of winter. She couldn’t stop trembling.

It wasn’t until her phone alarm blared—warning her she only had two minutes left before her shift started—that she snapped back to reality. She forced her panic down enough to hurry into the library.

Her coworker arched an eyebrow, glanced at her watch with a clear look of annoyance, then grabbed her bag and stormed out.

Zara slid into her spot at the front desk, relieved by the familiar quiet of the library. She pulled out sketch paper and a pencil and got to work.

This job had been Simon’s doing. It paid pretty well, the atmosphere was calm, and for some reason—probably Simon’s pulling strings—her supervisor let her work on personal stuff when it wasn’t busy.

Zara had majored in fine arts. She took occasional illustration commissions on the side to bring in extra cash, which her family desperately needed.

She finished a sketch, set it aside, and a second later, a stack of books was set gently down right in front of her.

She put her pencil down fast and stood to take the library card from the young man across the counter, ready to check his books out.

He picked up her sketch instead, and when Zara looked up with a frown, she was met with a charming, sharply polished face.

He looked to be in his late twenties, wore gold-rimmed glasses, a crisp white shirt, and a silver-grey tie, with sharp, regal features that looked like they’d been carved by a master.

He handed the sketch back, chuckling soft under his breath. "This is incredible work. You should be somewhere that actually appreciates your talent."

The second she saw his face, the first thing that popped into her head was Samir.

She handed back his card and the stamped books, her voice steady as she could make it, "Thank you. You’re too kind."

He took them, reached into his suit jacket pocket, and set a business card down on the desk between them.

"I don’t hand out compliments easily. I run a magazine that’s looking for new illustrators. Would you be interested?"

Zara hesitated to take it. Her hatred of being touched, of being close to people, had her shoulders tensing up tight.

"I’m sorry. I’m not interested. But thank you."

"Think about it. I can pay you $2,500 up front, and the same amount when you finish if it meets the brief."

His voice was gentle, insistent but not pushy—no pressure, just there.

Zara looked up again. With her mom’s medical bills piling up, an offer like that was impossible to ignore. It was tempting. So tempting.

While she was stuck hesitating, another patron stepped up with books to check out. The man slipped her sketch into his bag, saying, "I’ll show this to my editor. I’ll bring it back tomorrow. You can reach me anytime."

"Hey—" Zara called after him as he walked out, but she had to turn her attention back to the new customer waiting at the counter.

She sighed, tucked his business card into her pocket, and got back to work.

Meanwhile, the man holding her sketch left the library, a faint hint of satisfaction tugging at the corner of his mouth, and walked straight toward that black Maybach before climbing inside.

Inside the idling car, Samir Powell tapped impatiently at his laptop keyboard, the sharp click-click-click filling the silence.

When Jackson Holt slid into the backseat, he pulled off his gold-rimmed glasses and flopped back lazily into the leather seat. Samir’s voice came out clipped and cold: "Next time you need something, drive yourself. You’re wasting my time."

"Hey, c’mon—" Jackson protested, one eyebrow shooting up. He dragged his words out as he glanced at the stone-faced man beside him.

"Like your time is that goddamn precious. Walk around with that stick up your ass 24/7, you gonna end up a human popsicle one of these days, you know that?"

Samir didn’t bother answering. He just kept working, fingers flying over his keys.

Jackson shrugged it off and turned his attention back to the sketch paper in his lap. Then he looked up at Samir’s driver, Zach.

"Hey Zach, didn’t your family just launch that small publishing house? I dropped ten grand today on a set of illustrations and handed out your business card."

Zach jerked the steering wheel so hard the car swerved a little. He flicked a surprised glance up at the rearview mirror. "Ten grand for illustrations? Mr. Holt, our company mostly uses digital art—we’ve got in-house illustrators for that. And besides, ten grand is… that’s way too much…"

A full year’s salary for one of their artists didn’t even hit that number.

Jackson cut him off quickly: "Zach, you’re missing the whole point! Digital can’t hold a candle to hand-drawn, right? It’s done deal. If she calls you, just let me know and I’ll handle all the negotiations."

Zach still looked stressed, and he checked the rearview mirror again. "Mr. Holt, I get what you’re saying, but we’re just a tiny shop. Hand-drawn is great, don’t get me wrong, but ten grand a set is really more than we can afford."

"Relax, I’m covering the cost—all you have to do is get the art through your door and…"

"Her?"

Samir stopped typing mid-tap. He glanced sideways, cutting Jackson off cold.

Jackson froze for a split second, then slapped his knee triumphantly and slung an arm around Samir’s shoulders.

"See that, Zach? Your boss gets it!"

Zach was still confused, couldn’t keep up with what was happening.

Samir’s voice dropped into a sharp, icy edge: "Get your arm off me."

Jackson yanked it back fast, eyes bright with excitement. "Sam, trust me—my gut’s never wrong about this. I’ve been watching her for days. Her clothes are nothing special, her figure’s just average, she’s got her face hidden behind a mask and glasses… but there’s something magnetic about her. Something mysterious. I know she’s a total stunner under all that!"

Samir’s eyebrows pulled in just a little. His voice softened, almost too quiet to hear: "You already spent money on her?"

Jackson waved the sketch paper right in Samir’s face. "Hell no! She hasn’t taken a penny, hasn’t even said yes yet. And c’mon—look at this. Could a con artist pull off work this good?"

"Playing hard to get," Samir muttered, frowning as he shoved the paper away from his laptop.

Jackson pulled the sketch back, shaking his head with a dramatic sigh. "You just don’t get it."

He went back to studying the drawing carefully, and his gaze landed on the tiny initials scrawled at the bottom.

"Z. P. Is that an address? A name?"

Suddenly, the paper was ripped right out of his hand.

Jackson stared at Samir, irritated. "I thought you weren’t interested?"

"Turn the car around. Go back," Samir’s voice went cold as ice.

The driver wrenched the wheel to U-turn immediately.

Jackson blinked, caught off guard. "Go back where? Grandma’s waiting for us for dinner, remember?"

The car pulled to a stop outside the old library. Samir’s tone was icy: "Pull over. Drop Mr. Holt off first, and have Mr. King come pick me up."

Before anyone could react, he stepped out, slammed the door hard behind him, and marched straight toward the library’s entrance with his jaw set.

His eyes were cold, but a sharp, bitter little smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Nice work, Zara Powell. Two years gone, and you’re still playing the same old games. Flirting with every guy that crosses your path.

Samir searched the library, floor by floor.

On the fourth floor, he spotted her at a distant desk, completely absorbed in her drawing. She was dressed exactly how Jackson had described.

Just like Jackson said—even in the sweltering summer heat, she was wearing gloves and a hat indoors.

For a split second, something weird twisted in Samir’s chest. Then it was gone, swallowed up by a surge of hot, unnameable anger.

He walked straight up to her and wrenched her away from her sketchbook.

Zara Powell was caught completely off guard. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but she forced herself to stay silent.

She looked up at the man towering over her.

Memories of that year—every day of agony, every minute of slow, biting torment—came flooding back, crashing into her all at once.

Fear swam in her eyes. Her whole body trembled. Her pale lips moved, but no sound came out.

Samir’s gaze darkened, something wild and unhinged curling in his chest. How could this timid, lifeless ghost possibly be the sharp, fiery, eloquent Zara Powell he once knew?

He let go of her shoulder and ripped her mask and glasses off her face.

That face—thin almost to the point of distortion—but every line, every feature confirmed it: this was really the once proud eldest daughter of the Powell family.

Zara’s face went bone white. She fumbled for her phone with shaking hands and dialed, her voice barely a croak: "M-Mr. King… there’s someone causing trouble here."

Samir snatched the phone right out of her grip and dragged her out of the library by her arm.

By the time he pulled her through the doors, the manager was already hurrying over.

When he saw who it was, his face went white. He rushed straight toward them.

Zara clung to him like he was her last lifeline, her voice shaking so bad it barely came out: "Mr. King, I don’t know him, I swear… I really don’t know him."

Mr. King stepped forward and bowed respectfully. "Mr. Powell. What brings you here today?"

Samir glanced at him, cold and indifferent, and dragged Zara straight past him into the waiting elevator.

Zara scrabbled desperately to get free, but the elevator doors slid shut before she could escape.

Her hands and feet shook so bad she could barely fumble to put her mask and glasses back on. She kept muttering over and over: "I’m not her… you got the wrong person… I’m really not her…"

Samir reached out, knocked her mask clattering to the floor, and wrenched her closer before yanking her glove off her hand.

"You don’t know me? You really don’t know me? Then what’s this?"

Zara suddenly screamed: "NO!"

But it was too late. Her glove fell away, revealing a pale hand where the ring finger was gone.

For a moment, the whole world went dead silent. The elevator doors dinged open behind them, but neither of them moved.

It felt like an eternity before Samir’s trembling voice finally cut through the quiet: "Your finger. What happened?"

Zara scrambled back, terrified, until she hit the far corner of the elevator. She stared at him like he was a ghost come back to haunt her.

Samir forced his feet to move, then crouched down in front of her, his breath coming hard and fast: "Zara. Your finger. Where is it?"