I woke to a blinding whiteness that stung my eyes.

The sharp, chemical tang of antiseptic and lemon cleaner assaulted my nose, instantly grounding me in a clinical reality.

My hand throbbed with a searing heat, as if the veins beneath the skin were filled with molten lead.

I tried to lift it, but the limb was dead weight, encased in layers of thick, sterile gauze.

A stifled sob broke the heavy silence.

I turned my head, fighting the stiffness in my neck.

Maria, our housekeeper, was huddled in the corner chair.

She was weeping into her apron, her shoulders shaking with silent tremors.

"Maria?" I croaked.

My voice was a wrecked thing, dry as sandpaper against stone.

She rushed to the bedside, her eyes red-rimmed.

"Oh, Miss Bella. You're awake."

She poured water into a flimsy plastic cup and held it to my cracked lips with trembling hands.

I drank greedily, the cool liquid soothing the fire in my throat.

"Where am I?"

"The family clinic," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

She glanced nervously at the door, as if expecting a monster to barge in.

"They brought you here after... after the incident."

The memories crashed back in.

The spider.

The venom.

"Where are they?" I asked, dread coiling in my stomach.

Maria looked down at her hands, twisting the fabric of her apron.

"They are at the penthouse."

"Why aren't you there?"

She took a shaky breath, her eyes darting away from mine.

"They left you on the floor, Miss Bella."

The words hung in the sterile air, heavy and suffocating.

"Mr. Jameson... he kicked you away from Miss Haleigh. They thought you pushed her."

I closed my eyes, letting the darkness wash over me.

The burning in my hand was nothing compared to the glacial cold spreading through my veins.

I was burning up with fever from the venom, delirious and dying, and they had kicked me.

Maria gripped my good hand, her fingers tight.

"I saw the bite," she whispered fiercely.

"I killed the spider. I told them."

"And?"

"They said you must have brought it in yourself. To terrorize her."

I laughed.

It was a broken, jagged sound, devoid of any humor.

"Of course they did."

I stayed in the clinic for two days.

Solitary confinement.

No one came.

Not my brothers.

Not Jameson.

On the third day, the fever finally broke, leaving me weak but lucid.

I discharged myself.

I put on the clothes Maria had smuggled in for me-a simple, shapeless grey dress-and hailed a cab back to the penthouse.

I walked in.

The penthouse had been transformed into a palace of celebration.

Balloons choked the ceiling.

Pink and gold everywhere.

A massive banner was draped across the floor-to-ceiling windows, blocking out the city skyline.

Happy Birthday Haleigh.

I froze in the entryway.

It was October 14th.

Our birthday.

Twins.

Jameson was standing by the fireplace, looking every bit the lord of the manor.

He was holding a velvet box.

Derrick and Blake were laughing nearby, clutching champagne flutes.

Haleigh was in the center of the room, crowned with a glittering tiara.

She looked at me.

Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second, a glitch in her perfect facade, before widening into something sharp.

"Oh, look! The ghost is back!"

Jameson turned.

His face was a mask of indifference, impervious as stone.

"Enjoy your vacation?" Blake called out, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"A spider bite isn't an excuse to disappear when your sister needs you."

He didn't know.

Or he simply didn't care.

I walked further into the room.

My bandaged hand throbbed in a painful rhythm with my heartbeat.

"Happy Birthday, Haleigh," I said softly.

Jameson stepped forward, ignoring me entirely.

He held out the velvet box to Haleigh.

"Open it," he said.

His voice was soft.

A tender tone I used to think was reserved only for me, in the dark.

Haleigh snapped the box open.

A diamond necklace.

It glittered violently under the chandelier lights.

"Oh, Jameson!" she squealed.

She threw her arms around his neck, claiming him.

Derrick handed her a set of keys.

"Vintage Porsche," he announced proudly.

Kane handed her a deed.

"The vineyard in Napa," he said.

I stood there.

Empty-handed.

Forgotten.

Jameson looked at me over Haleigh's shoulder, his eyes cold.

"You need to accept this, Isabella," he said.

"She is my wife."

I looked at him.

I looked at the man who had once promised to protect me from the world.

"You're right," I said.

My voice was calm.

Unnervingly so.

It unsettled him.

He frowned, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.

Haleigh clapped her hands, demanding attention.

"Time for the slideshow!" she announced.

She pointed a remote at the projector screen that had been set up in the corner.

"I made it myself! To celebrate my journey!"

The lights dimmed automatically.

Music started playing-an upbeat, sugary pop song.

Photos of Haleigh flashed on the screen.

Haleigh as a cherubic baby.

Haleigh posing at graduation.

Then, the atmosphere shifted.

The photos changed.

Haleigh, sloppy drunk in a nightclub.

Haleigh snorting a line of white powder off a glass table.

Haleigh sitting provocatively on the lap of a rival mob boss.

The room went deadly silent.

The silence was thick, suffocating.

The music kept playing-a cheerful soundtrack to a train wreck.

The final slide appeared.

It was a high-resolution photo of Haleigh passed out on a bathroom floor.

Text was superimposed over it in bright, dripping red letters:

Happy Birthday to New York's Favorite Whore.

The silence was shattered by Haleigh's blood-curdling scream.

Jameson roared.

"Kill it! Turn it off!"

Blake scrambled for the projector, ripping the cord violently from the wall.

The room plunged into darkness.

When the lights flickered back on, Haleigh was on the floor, sobbing hysterically.

She pointed a shaking finger at me.

"She did it!" she screamed, her face blotchy and ruined.

"She hates me! She wants to ruin me!"

I stood perfectly still.

I hadn't done it.

I had been rotting in a clinic with spider venom coursing through my veins.

But facts didn't matter in the Douglas family.

Only perception mattered.

Jameson turned to me.

His face was twisted into a snarl.

He looked like a wolf who had finally decided to devour the sheep.

He stalked toward me.

"You," he said.

His voice was a low rumble of thunder, vibrating in his chest.

"You are going to regret that."

"Get on your knees," Kane ordered.

I stood my ground.

"I didn't do it," I said.

My voice was quiet, but it didn't shake.

Jameson nodded to his bodyguards.

Two men I had known for years-men whose children's birthdays I had memorized-grabbed my arms.

They forced me down.

My knees hit the hardwood floor with a sickening crack.

Blake walked into the room.

He was holding something in his hand.

It was a dog whip.

Old leather, braided tight.

Our father used to use it on the hounds when they disobeyed.

Now, apparently, it was for the sister who didn't fit the script.

"This is for disrespecting the family," Blake said.

He sounded bored.

Like he was taking out the trash.

Jameson stood with his back to me.

He was holding Haleigh, stroking her hair while she sobbed fake tears into his chest.

He didn't look at me.

He gave the order with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Teach her."

The first lash hit my back.

It felt like a hot wire slicing through my skin.

I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper.

I wouldn't scream.

I wouldn't give her the satisfaction.

"Confess!" Derrick yelled.

"I didn't do it," I gasped.

Another lash.

This one tore the fabric of my dress.

I felt warm blood trickle down my spine.

"Disgrace," Kane spat.

"Poison."

"Useless spare."

The words hurt more than the leather.

Maria burst into the room.

"Stop! Please, stop! She's innocent!"

"Get her out," Jameson said.

He didn't turn around.

The guards dragged Maria away.

Her screams echoed down the hallway.

I took five lashes.

Five stripes of fire across my back.

Then they dragged me to the guest room.

They locked the door.

No food.

No water.

No doctor.

I lay on the floor in the dark.

My back throbbed.

My hand burned.

I listened to the sounds of the penthouse.

I heard them ordering dinner.

I heard champagne corks popping.

I heard Jameson laughing.

It was a deep, rich sound.

A sound I used to love.

Now it sounded like a death knell.

Three days passed.

I drank water from the bathroom tap.

I stared at the ceiling and counted the cracks.

On the third morning, the door opened.

Haleigh stood there.

She was wearing a white bikini and a sheer cover-up.

She looked radiant.

"Get up," she said.

"We're going on the yacht."

I tried to sit up.

The world spun.

"I'm not going," I whispered.

Jameson appeared behind her.

He looked at me with disgust.

"You're coming," he said.

"You're going to serve your sister. You're going to show her the respect she deserves."

They forced me into a long-sleeved dress to hide the bandages and the blood.

The car ride to the marina was silent.

The yacht was gleaming white against the grey water.

The Lady Haleigh.

He had renamed it.

It used to be the Isabella.

We sailed out into the harbor.

The salt air stung the open wounds on my back.

I was made to stand by the rail while they lounged on the sun deck.

"I'm hungry," Haleigh announced.

"I want barbecue."

The wind was picking up.

The sky was turning a bruised purple.

A storm was coming.

"It's too windy," the captain called down.

"I want it!" Haleigh whined.

She stomped her foot.

Jameson signaled the crew.

"Do it."

They set up the charcoal grill on the lower deck.

I was standing nearby, holding a tray of drinks like a waitress.

The boat hit a swell.

It lurched violently to the port side.

The grill tipped.

Glowing red coals scattered across the teak deck.

One of them hit the hem of my long dress.

The fabric was synthetic.

Cheap.

It caught fire instantly.

I dropped the tray.

Fire crawled up my legs.

I screamed.

It was a primal sound, ripped from the bottom of my lungs.

Jameson and my brothers were ten feet away.

Haleigh shrieked.

"A spark! A spark hit my hand!"

Jameson, Derrick, Blake, and Kane threw themselves around Haleigh.

They formed a human shield.

"Are you okay, baby?" Jameson yelled.

"Let me see! Let me see!"

They were checking her hand for a speck of ash.

While I was burning alive.

I fell to the deck, clawing at the flames.

The heat was searing my skin.

"Help me!" I screamed.

Jameson looked at me.

For a split second, our eyes met.

He saw the fire.

He saw me.

And he turned back to Haleigh.

A body slammed into me.

It wasn't Jameson.

It was a deckhand.

A boy of maybe twenty.

He threw his jacket over my legs and rolled me.

He beat the flames out with his bare hands.

I lay on the scorched wood, gasping for air.

The smell of burnt fabric and burnt skin filled my nose.

The boy was coughing.

I looked up.

Jameson was kissing Haleigh's forehead.

"Thank God you're safe," he whispered.

They gave me morphine from the yacht's emergency kit.

But it didn't stop the pain.

It just made the world feel like it was underwater, muffled and distant.

I was sitting in a deck chair, wrapped tightly in a blanket.

My legs were bandaged.

The burns were second-degree, or so the deckhand had said.

He was the only one who had dared to look at me.

The family was upstairs on the flybridge.

I could hear them above me, toasting the sunset.

My burner phone vibrated against my thigh.

I had hidden it in the lining of my dress before everything went wrong.

With trembling fingers, I pulled it out.

The screen was cracked, but the message was clear.

Sender: Abernathy

Transaction complete. Island secured. Jet is fueling at Teterboro. Waiting for your signal. Good luck, Ms. Hale.

I stared at the words.

Ms. Hale.

That was me now.

Isabella Douglas died the moment Jameson turned his back on the fire.

I heard footsteps.

Jameson came down the stairs.

He stopped abruptly when he saw me.

He looked at my bandaged legs.

A flicker of something crossed his face.

Horror?

Guilt?

It didn't matter.

It was too late.

"The wind was loud," he said.

His voice was tight, strained.

"I didn't hear you scream."

Liar.

I didn't say it.

I just looked at the horizon.

The storm clouds were breaking, revealing a blood-red sunset.

Haleigh called out from the upper deck.

"Jamie! Come make a wish! The sun is setting!"

Jameson hesitated.

He looked at me one last time.

He looked like a man waking up from a dream, but he squeezed his eyes shut against the reality of me.

He turned and walked back up the stairs.

Back to her.

I pushed myself up.

Pain shot up my legs, white-hot and searing, but the morphine dulled the edge just enough.

I limped to the stairs.

I climbed them, one by one.

I reached the top deck.

They were standing at the rail.

A perfect family portrait.

The brothers. The lover. The queen.

They turned when they heard me.

Haleigh smiled.

"Oh, look. She survived."

She held up her wine glass.

"Make a wish, Bella. It's our birthday, remember?"

Jameson wouldn't look at me.

He was staring intently at the water.

I gripped the railing.

\The metal was cold against my burned hands.

I looked at them.

I really looked at them.

I saw the cruelty in Derrick's eyes.

The stupidity in Blake's.

The blind loyalty in Kane's.

And the weakness in Jameson's.

I closed my eyes.

I felt the wind whip against my face.

I made a vow to the ocean.

A vow of silence.

A vow of vengeance.

A vow of self.

I opened my eyes.

I looked straight at Haleigh.

"I wish," I said, my voice cutting through the wind, "that I never have to see any of you again."

As the words left my mouth, a crack of thunder shook the sky.

The storm had arrived.

And so had I.