Idella slammed her brakes, leaving the Toyota illegally parked on the curb outside the 24-hour veterinary clinic in downtown Chicago. She threw the door open and sprinted inside, carrying Buddy's heavy, bleeding body in her arms.

"Help him! Please!" she yelled, rushing the front desk.

A vet tech immediately grabbed a gurney, hauling the gasping dog away into the trauma room.

Idella stood at the reception desk, water dripping from her clothes onto the linoleum.

The receptionist clicked her mouse a few times and slid a long, itemized clipboard across the counter. "We need to drain the fluid from his lungs and stitch the lacerations. It requires a three-thousand-five-hundred-dollar emergency deposit upfront."

Idella's hands shook as she fumbled with her soaked leather wallet. She pulled out her Chase Sapphire credit card and handed it over.

The receptionist swiped the card. The machine let out a sharp, angry beep.

DECLINED.

"Try it again," Idella pleaded, panic rising in her chest. "The chip might be wet."

The receptionist typed the numbers in manually. Another beep.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. Insufficient funds."

Idella snatched her phone from her pocket and opened her banking app. A red banner flashed across the top of the screen. Every single joint credit card, every savings account, every checking account she had access to was marked with a bold FROZEN status.

Fount. He was cutting off her oxygen. He wanted her crawling back on her hands and knees.

From the back room, Buddy let out a weak, agonizing whimper.

Idella's breath hitched. She had no choice.

She reached over to her left wrist and unclasped the heavy, diamond-encrusted Patek Philippe watch. Fount had tossed it to her in a jewelry box two years ago, telling her to wear it so she wouldn't look cheap at a gala.

She slammed the twenty-thousand-dollar watch onto the counter.

"Start the surgery," Idella ordered, her voice trembling but fierce. "I am going to the pawnshop down the street. I will be back in twenty minutes with cash."

The receptionist looked at the watch, then at Idella's desperate eyes, and nodded.

Half an hour later, Idella ran back into the clinic, slamming four thousand dollars in crumpled bills onto the desk-a fraction of the watch's worth, but enough to save her dog.

Once the vet assured her Buddy was stable, Idella went to the clinic bathroom. She stripped off her freezing, wet clothes and pulled on a cheap, gray sweatpants set she kept in her car trunk for emergencies.

She had to go back to the Fitzgerald headquarters. She needed her personal research notebooks. The early patent drafts she had written before the marriage were her only leverage to find a new job.

Because her badge was dead, Idella had to endure the humiliating gaze of the lobby security guards as they escorted her to the freight elevator, treating her like a criminal.

The elevator groaned to a halt on the twelfth floor. Idella pushed open the glass doors to the Seattle branch's Chicago liaison office.

The moment she stepped inside, the hum of office chatter died instantly. Every eye turned to her.

By the water cooler, three of her former colleagues-people who had kissed up to her just yesterday-were openly laughing, pointing at her cheap sweatpants.

Idella ignored them. She marched straight to her cubicle.

Her stomach dropped. The lock on her desk drawer had been violently pried open. The metal was bent and scratched. Inside, her files were thrown everywhere.

She frantically dug through the mess. The blue leather-bound notebook containing her core molecular data had been brutally rifled through. The cover was bent, and several pages were carelessly crumpled, but it was left behind, tossed aside like garbage. They hadn't even bothered to take it, clearly believing her early, handwritten formulas were entirely worthless without the company's patented digital models.

"Who touched my desk?" Idella demanded, glaring at the floor supervisor.

The supervisor smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Compliance department did a routine sweep. Company property stays with the company."

Fount had anticipated her move. He was stripping her down to the bone.

Idella grabbed an empty cardboard box. She swept her remaining personal photos and a few useless pens into it, her chest tight with suppressed rage.

She held the heavy cardboard box in her arms. Blood slowly seeped from the wounds on the palms of her hands as she walked toward the elevator lobby.

Just as she pressed the down button, the private executive elevator next to her let out a soft ding.

The solid brass doors slid open.

Angelita stepped out, flanked by three senior executives. She wore a pristine, tailored white Chanel suit, looking every inch the untouchable goddess of high society.

Angelita's eyes drifted from Idella's messy hair down to her cheap gray sweatpants, and finally to the pathetic cardboard box in her arms. A slow, cruel smile spread across Angelita's perfect lips.

Angelita stopped walking. She looked at Idella with wide, overly sympathetic eyes.

"Idella," Angelita said, her voice dripping with fake pity. "If things are truly this desperate for you, the Fitzgerald Charity Foundation runs a soup kitchen on the South Side. I can make sure you get a hot meal."

The executives behind her let out a chorus of low, mocking chuckles.

Idella's grip on the cardboard box tightened until her knuckles ached. She didn't say a word. She just stared dead into Angelita's eyes, burning the image of that smug, fake face into her memory.

Idella forced herself to look away from Angelita's mocking smile. She turned toward the standard employee elevator, her arms burning from the weight of the cardboard box.

Before she could press the button, the sharp clatter of heels echoed down the hallway.

Susan Gable marched up, blocking the elevator doors. She held a thick, fifteen-page document in her hand, tapping her expensive pen against the paper.

"Not so fast," Susan said, her tone strictly business, but her eyes dancing with malice. "Your final severance and offboarding ledger."

Susan flipped to the second page. "Because you failed to provide a thirty-day written notice of resignation, the company is legally withholding your final month's salary."

Idella's eyes widened in disbelief. "You forced me to sign that resignation letter under duress two hours ago!"

Susan shrugged, tapping the paper again. "Compliance policy doesn't care about your feelings, Idella. It cares about signatures."

Susan flipped to the last page, delivering the final blow. "Furthermore, due to your breach of protocol, your accumulated year-end bonuses and unvested stock options from the past three years are officially voided."

The air vanished from Idella's lungs. That bonus was her only hope for her mother's post-operative care.

Idella slammed the heavy cardboard box down onto the lid of the nearby trash can. She snatched the document from Susan's hands.

The pages were filled with predatory legal jargon, stamped with Fount's electronic signature. It was a flawless execution of corporate theft.

"This violates Illinois labor laws," Idella hissed, her voice shaking with rage. "You can't steal my earned bonuses."

Susan let out a loud, condescending laugh. "Hire a lawyer, then. Let me know if you can find a single firm in Chicago willing to sue the Fitzgerald Group."

Susan leaned in, lowering her voice to a harsh whisper. "This is just Mr. Fitzgerald teaching you a lesson. Learn your place."

The realization hit Idella like a bucket of ice water. This wasn't HR protocol. This was a targeted, systematic execution. Fount was trying to starve her to death.

Idella's body trembled violently, but her mind suddenly went terrifyingly cold.

She looked Susan dead in the eye. She gripped the thick stack of papers and ripped them straight down the middle, tossing the halves into the trash can.

"I'm not signing your robbery," Idella said, her voice dropping an octave. "I'm going to ask Fount exactly how far he plans to push this."

Susan's face flushed with anger. She reached for the radio on her hip. "Security, we have a hostile-"

Before Susan could finish, Idella shoved hard past her shoulder. She bolted toward the heavy red fire exit door and threw her weight against the crash bar.

The metal door slammed shut behind her, cutting off Susan's shouts.

Idella stood in the dim, concrete stairwell. She looked up at the floor marker. Floor 12.

Fount's private executive office was on the 42nd floor. Thirty flights of stairs.

She didn't even pause to consider the burning ache already building in her legs. Wearing her cheap sneakers, she grabbed the cold metal railing and began to climb, taking the stairs two at a time. The rubber soles of her shoes slapped against the freezing concrete. By the twentieth flight, her lungs were burning, screaming for oxygen. By the thirtieth flight, the muscles in her calves were cramping so hard she almost stumbled.

But every time she wanted to stop, the image of her mother's pale face, Buddy's bleeding paws, and Fount's cold sneer flashed before her eyes. The anger was a physical fuel, pushing her upward.

Thirty minutes later, drenched in sweat, her chest heaving violently, Idella pushed open the heavy fire door to the 42nd floor.

The top-floor corridor was dead silent. Thick, plush wool carpets absorbed the sound of her footsteps. The executive assistants' desks were empty-they must have still been in the board meeting.

Idella walked like a ghost down the hallway toward the massive mahogany double doors of Fount's private office.

She raised her hand to push the door open, but stopped.

The door wasn't fully latched. A sliver of a gap remained, letting out a sliver of warm light.

And a voice.

"You were too gentle with her today, Fount."

It was Angelita's voice, thick with a sultry, whining tone.

Idella's hand froze in mid-air. Her heart plummeted into her stomach.

Idella stood completely still on the thick wool carpet, her toes numb inside her cheap sneakers. She held her breath and leaned closer to the millimeter-wide gap in the heavy mahogany door.

Inside the dimly lit office, the blinds were drawn. Angelita was perched sideways on the armrest of Fount's massive leather chair.

Angelita's long fingers were lazily tracing the collar of Fount's shirt, twisting his silk tie.

"Gentle?" Fount's deep voice rumbled. He reached up, wrapping his large hand around Angelita's waist and pulling her flush against his side. "I froze her accounts and took her dog's surgery money. She's broken."

Idella's pupils dilated. The cruelty in his voice wasn't business; it was sadistic pleasure.

Angelita rested her head on Fount's shoulder, sighing dramatically. "I know. But Austin is getting older. When are you going to give him a real, legal title? I'm so tired of watching that stupid woman parade around as Mrs. Fitzgerald."

Idella's brain short-circuited. Legal title?

Austin was born via an anonymous surrogate because Idella had been diagnosed with severe infertility right after the wedding. Why was Angelita demanding a title for a surrogate's child?

Fount stroked Angelita's back, his voice softening into a tone Idella had never, ever heard him use.

"Patience, Angie," Fount murmured. "Once the board elections are finalized next month, I'll dispose of Idella permanently. I only married her because the shareholders were threatening to oust me over my bachelor lifestyle. She was the perfect, pathetic shield."

Idella slapped both hands over her mouth to muffle the scream tearing up her throat. Tears of pure shock flooded her eyes.

Then, Angelita dropped the bomb that shattered Idella's entire universe.

"But Austin is our flesh and blood, Fount," Angelita whined, her voice tightening with jealousy. "He can't keep calling that barren loser 'Mom' in public."

Fount pressed a kiss to Angelita's forehead. "I know. He carries both our bloodlines. He is my only true heir."

Idella's knees buckled. She slammed her back against the cold wall of the corridor, sliding down until she hit the floor.

Her stomach violently convulsed. She clamped a hand over her mouth, fighting the physical urge to vomit.

Our flesh and blood.

The puzzle pieces violently slammed together in her mind. Austin's identical eyes. The maids' absolute deference to Angelita. Fount's complete lack of physical intimacy with Idella for three years.

Her infertility diagnosis. The doctor who delivered the news was Fount's private physician.

It was all a lie. Fount wasn't just cold; he was a monster. He had married her to cover up his incestuous affair with his adopted sister, using Idella as a legal incubator to legitimize their bastard child.

A soft, sultry moan from Angelita, followed by Fount's low, indulgent chuckle, slipped through the crack in the door. It was a sound of ultimate, sickening intimacy that echoed in the quiet hallway.

Idella's fingernails dug into the expensive wallpaper, tearing the fabric. She wanted to kick the door open. She wanted to grab the heavy bronze statue on the desk and smash it into their smiling faces.

But the cold, rational part of her scientist brain kicked in. If she walked in there now, she had nothing. She was broke, powerless, and alone. They would crush her like a bug.

A soft ding echoed from the far end of the hallway. The elevators. The secretaries were coming back.

Panic spiked in Idella's chest. She scrambled to her feet, her rubber soles silent on the carpet, and sprinted back to the heavy fire door.

She slipped into the concrete stairwell just as the chatter of voices filled the corridor.

The heavy metal door clicked shut. Idella collapsed onto the concrete stairs. She buried her face in her knees and let out a silent, agonizing sob. Her entire body shook as three years of her life were ripped away and burned to ash.

She cried until her throat was raw and her stomach cramped with dry heaves.

Slowly, the tears stopped. Idella lifted her head. The vulnerability in her eyes was gone, replaced by a terrifying, glacial emptiness.

She pulled her phone from her pocket. The lock screen was a photo of her mother.

She wiped her face. She was going to save her mother. And then, she was going to burn the Fitzgerald empire to the ground.

Suddenly, the phone in her hand vibrated violently.

An unknown number from Silicon Valley, California, flashed on the screen.