The darkness was absolute.

Suddenly, a sharp, metallic electronic voice echoed inside Cora's skull.

System initializing.

A violent sensation of weightlessness hit her. Cora's stomach lurched into her throat. She felt like she was falling from a ten-story building.

She gasped and her eyes snapped open.

Blinding light stabbed into her pupils. She squeezed her eyes shut and threw her hand up to shield her face. Her breathing was shallow and fast.

Slowly, she lowered her hand and squinted. A massive, ostentatious crystal chandelier hung directly above her.

She was lying on a bed. The mattress was incredibly soft, almost suffocating. She looked around. The room was huge, decorated in a heavy, oppressive Victorian style. Dark wood, thick velvet curtains, and gold accents everywhere.

Suddenly, a spike of pure agony drove through her temples.

Cora grabbed her head. She gritted her teeth to stop herself from screaming. Memories that didn't belong to her ripped through her brain.

Heloise Vance.

That was her name now. She saw flashes of a miserable life. A husband who smelled like cheap perfume and alcohol. A mother-in-law who spat insults daily. A life spent looking at the floor, apologizing for breathing.

The pain slowly faded, leaving a dull throbbing behind her eyes.

Cora pushed the heavy silk duvet off her body. She swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her bare feet hit the cold, intricate Persian rug.

She stood up. The room spun for a second. She steadied herself and walked toward the massive vanity mirror across the room. She gripped the cold marble edge of the table and stared at her reflection.

Cora sucked in a sharp breath.

The face looking back at her was a stranger. Pale skin, dark circles under terrified eyes, and a weak, trembling jawline. She looked exhausted and broken.

Cora raised her hand and pinched her own cheek, hard.

The sharp sting of pain radiated across her skin. Her heart hammered against her ribs. This wasn't a dream. The physical sensations were too real. The cold marble, the soft rug, the pain in her face.

She let go of the vanity and opened the top drawer.

A large, orange prescription bottle sat inside. Cora picked it up. Heavy antidepressants. The label had Heloise's name on it. She tossed the bottle back into the drawer with a look of disgust.

She opened the bottom drawer of the nightstand. A small leather diary lay hidden under a stack of tissues. It had a cheap metal combination lock on it.

Cora rummaged through the top drawer of the vanity, her eyes scanning a pile of useless hair accessories. She finally found an old, bent bobby pin hidden in the corner of a cheap jewelry box. She shoved the metal tip into the lock, twisted her wrist, and popped it open in three seconds.

She flipped through the pages. The handwriting was shaky. Page after page of desperate pleas. Fear of her husband, Leland. Terror of her mother-in-law.

Cora's upper lip curled into a sneer. She slammed the book shut.

Get me out of here, Cora demanded in her mind.

Silence.

System. End simulation.

The cold, metallic voice echoed in her head again.

Logout denied. You must complete the counterattack mission to exit the simulation.

Cora let out a harsh, bitter laugh.

Claudia. This was exactly the kind of sick, expensive, immersive torture her sister would design. A forced psychological stress test.

Cora's fear vanished, instantly replaced by a cold, calculating rage. If Claudia wanted to play games, Cora would burn this virtual house to the ground.

She straightened her spine. The weak, trembling posture of Heloise Vance disappeared. Cora's eyes hardened, turning into shards of ice.

She walked over to the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. She grabbed the heavy velvet curtains and yanked them apart.

Blinding morning sunlight flooded the dark room.

Outside, a sprawling, manicured estate stretched out as far as she could see. Cora stared down at the perfect lawns. She was going to tear this family apart piece by piece.

She turned and walked into the walk-in closet.

Row after row of dull, conservative dresses hung on the racks. Grays, browns, high collars. The wardrobe of a victim.

Cora grabbed handfuls of the ugly fabric and ripped them off the hangers, throwing them onto the floor in a massive pile.

In the very back corner, she found a sleek, black silk robe. She pulled it on and tied the belt tightly around her waist.

Suddenly, the heavy, rhythmic thud of angry footsteps echoed in the hallway outside.

Cora stopped moving. She tilted her head, listening. The footsteps were heavy, fast, and completely lacking in hesitation. Someone was coming to pick a fight.

The brass doorknob rattled violently. The metal scraped loudly as someone tried to force it open.

Cora crossed her arms over her chest. She stood dead center in the middle of the bedroom. She stared at the heavy mahogany door. Her breathing was perfectly even.

Bang.

The door was kicked open. It slammed against the wall, shaking the frame.

An older woman stormed into the room. She was dripping in heavy gold jewelry. Her face was pulled tight with anger, her lips painted a harsh, blood red.

This was Marge. The mother-in-law.

Marge stopped in her tracks. She looked at Cora standing in the middle of the room. A flicker of confusion crossed Marge's face. Heloise usually hid under the covers when she entered.

But the confusion only lasted a second. Marge's habitual arrogance took over. She opened her red mouth, her eyes flashing with malice.

Cora didn't flinch. She slightly raised her chin and looked down at the older woman. Her eyes were completely dead, filled with absolute, chilling contempt.

"You lazy, ungrateful bitch!" Marge shrieked. Specks of spit flew from her red lips. "It is eight in the morning! Why isn't breakfast on the table?"

Cora wrinkled her nose in disgust. She tilted her head slightly to the left, letting the spit fly past her face. She looked at Marge like she was a rotting piece of meat.

Marge's face turned purple. She wasn't used to being ignored. She raised her hand high in the air, her heavy gold rings catching the light, and swung her palm toward Cora's face.

Cora's muscle memory took over.

Her left hand shot out like a viper. She clamped her fingers around Marge's wrist, stopping the slap inches from her cheek.

Marge gasped. She tried to yank her arm back, but Cora's grip was like a steel vice.

Cora didn't change her expression. She twisted her wrist sharply downward, putting intense, grinding pressure on the joint.

A sharp, sickening crackle of strained ligaments echoed in the room. Marge let out a blood-curdling scream. Her knees buckled instantly, and she crashed onto the Persian rug, cradling her injured wrist against her chest.

Cora looked down at the woman kneeling before her.

"Move again," Cora whispered, her voice dangerously soft, "and I will shatter it completely."

Heavy, frantic footsteps pounded down the hallway.

Leland rushed into the bedroom. He was only wearing his suit trousers and an undershirt. His face was puffy from sleep and alcohol.

He stopped dead when he saw his mother kneeling on the floor, screaming in pain, while his wife stood over her holding her wrist.

Leland's face turned a violent shade of red. The veins in his neck bulged.

"You crazy bitch!" Leland roared. He lunged forward, pulling his right arm back. He threw a heavy, uncoordinated punch straight at Cora's head.

Cora released Marge's wrist. She didn't step back. She stepped inside his guard.

She ducked smoothly under his swinging fist. As Leland's momentum carried him forward, Cora dropped her weight and swung her right leg out in a brutal sweep.

Her shin slammed into Leland's ankle.

Leland yelled as his feet were ripped out from under him. His massive body crashed onto the floor. The impact shook the furniture.

Before he could even process what happened, Cora stepped forward. She planted the heel of her bare foot directly onto the center of his chest. She pressed down hard, pinning him to the floor.

Marge scrambled backward, still clutching her wrist, until her back hit the wall. She pointed a trembling finger at Cora with her good hand.

"I'm calling the police!" Marge babbled, her chest heaving, tears of pain and fury streaming down her face. "You're going to jail!"

Cora let out a short, cold laugh. She shifted her weight, pressing her heel deeper into Leland's sternum.

Leland's eyes bulged. He choked, his hands clawing uselessly at Cora's ankle. He couldn't draw a breath.

Cora leaned down. She patted Leland's red, sweating cheek.

"Stay out of my way, Leland," Cora said. Her voice was calm, almost conversational. "Or next time, I'll break your neck."

She lifted her foot off his chest. She stepped back and wiped the bottom of her foot on the silk bedsheets, looking thoroughly disgusted.

Leland gasped for air, coughing violently. He scrambled backward across the floor, pressing himself against his mother. He looked at Cora with pure terror in his eyes.

But his fragile male ego couldn't handle the humiliation. He rubbed his chest and glared at her.

"You think you're tough?" Leland spat, his voice raspy. "I'll cut off the payments. Your brother's medical bills? Gone. Let the little freak die."

Cora felt absolutely nothing. Heloise's brother meant nothing to her. But her brain instantly calculated the situation. She needed them to think they still had leverage.

Cora narrowed her eyes, faking a flash of panic.

Leland saw it and smiled, a nasty, triumphant grin spreading across his face.

"That's right," Leland sneered, gaining his confidence back. "You're going to put on a dress, and you're going to come to Veronica's wedding tomorrow. You will smile, and you will play the perfect wife. Or your brother is dead."

Cora's mind raced. A high-society wedding. The entire Vance family would be there—though the press and social circles still insisted on using the matriarchal empire's name, Mercer. It was a relic of old money branding, but for Cora, it was the perfect place to gather intel and map out the power dynamics of her enemies.

"Fine," Cora said coldly.

She turned her back on them and walked straight into the master bathroom. She didn't look back.

She slammed the heavy bathroom door shut, cutting off Leland's voice.

Outside, she could hear Marge whining and demanding Leland call the family doctor.

Cora walked over to the marble sink. She turned the silver handles. Freezing cold water blasted out of the faucet. She cupped her hands and splashed the ice water onto her face.

She grabbed a thick towel and patted her skin dry. She looked at herself in the mirror. The terrified Heloise was gone. A predator looked back at her.

A sharp ping echoed in her mind.

Achievement unlocked: Physical Deterrence. Plot deviation increased by 10%.

Cora dropped the towel onto the marble counter. She stared at her reflection, a cruel smile touching the corners of her mouth.

Tomorrow, the Vance family was going to have a very memorable wedding.

The interior of the Maybach smelled like expensive leather and stale cologne.

Cora sat stiffly in the back seat. Leland had forced her into a heavy, violet gown. The fabric was thick and conservative. The neckline choked her collarbone, and the tight sleeves restricted her arms. It was designed to make her look invisible.

Leland sat next to her. He adjusted his silk tie and glared at her.

"You keep your mouth shut today," Leland warned, his voice a low growl. "You stand next to me, you smile, and you don't speak unless spoken to."

Cora closed her eyes and leaned her head against the window. She ignored him completely. The dress was annoying, but she could work with it.

The Maybach slowed down as it approached a massive wrought-iron gate. They were in the Hamptons. The sprawling estate was packed with luxury cars. Outside the velvet ropes, a swarm of paparazzi flashed their cameras, desperate for a shot of the famed but brittle Vance family.

The car stopped. The driver opened the door.

Leland plastered a fake, loving smile on his face. He stepped out and turned around, holding his hand out to help Cora.

Cora stepped out of the car. She completely ignored his outstretched hand and walked right past him.

Leland's hand hung in the empty air. His smile twitched. He cursed under his breath, quickly dropping his arm and rushing to catch up with her. He grabbed her elbow, his fingers digging painfully into her skin, and marched her toward the grand ballroom.

The ballroom was suffocatingly crowded. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the elite guests.

Cora stood near a pillar, her eyes scanning the room. She memorized faces, watching who talked to whom, mapping out the family hierarchy. Her gaze flicked briefly to Marge, who was working the room with her usual venom, her injured wrist now wrapped in a discreet, flesh-colored compression brace that she tried to hide with a heavy gold bracelet. The injury was clearly still a problem, but Marge was masking it for the public.

A young man with bleached blonde hair and a flushed face stumbled toward her. He was holding a glass of champagne. His eyes were glassy and predatory.

This was Jagger. Leland's nephew.

Jagger stopped right in front of her. He looked her up and down, his eyes lingering on her chest. He didn't bother hiding his disgust.

"Well, if it isn't the family charity case," Jagger slurred, leaning in close. His breath smelled like expensive vodka and vomit.

Cora's eyes darkened. She tightened her jaw but didn't move.

Jagger leaned in closer. "You know, Heloise, you're looking a little tense. Maybe you need a real man to loosen you up."

Cora felt a surge of pure disgust. She took a half-step back.

Jagger laughed, a nasty, wet sound. He stepped forward, closing the distance. He reached his hand out and grabbed her thigh, his fingers squeezing the thick fabric of her dress.

Cora's reflexes flared. She slapped his hand away instantly. Her eyes burned with lethal intent.

Jagger looked shocked for a second, then his face twisted into an ugly sneer. He thought she was just the weak aunt he could bully.

Cora's eyes darted to the side. Through the large glass doors, she saw a group of paparazzi pressing their lenses against the glass, trying to get shots of the interior.

A plan formed in her mind instantly.

She didn't punch him. Instead, she reached out and grabbed a full glass of red wine from a passing waiter's tray.

Without a second of hesitation, she threw the dark red liquid directly into Jagger's face.

The wine splashed across his eyes and soaked into his pristine white tuxedo shirt.

Jagger gasped in shock. He wiped the wine from his eyes, his face turning purple with rage. "You stupid bitch!" he roared.

He raised his hand, balling it into a fist, ready to strike her.

Several guests nearby gasped and turned to look.

Cora didn't flinch. Instead, she grabbed the thick fabric of her violet dress right at the thigh.

As Jagger's fist started to come down, Cora's fingers accurately found the top of the stitching on the dress's high side slit. She yanked upward with all her strength. Riiiiiip. The already fragile seam snapped under the sudden tension, and the tear split violently all the way up to her upper thigh, exposing her bare leg.

The moment the fabric tore, Cora threw her head back and let out a piercing, terrified scream.

The sound cut through the ballroom music like a siren.

Every single head in the room snapped toward them. The paparazzi outside went crazy, their camera flashes strobing like lightning through the glass doors.

Cora dropped to her knees. She clutched the torn fabric of her dress against her chest. She pointed a trembling finger at Jagger, who was still standing there with his fist raised and wine dripping from his face.

She looked at the crowd with wide, tear-filled eyes, playing the perfect victim of a violent sexual assault.

The ballroom erupted into chaos.

"Oh my god, he attacked her!" a woman screamed.

Leland shoved his way through the crowd. His face was pale with horror. He saw the cameras flashing and realized the magnitude of the disaster.

He ripped off his suit jacket and lunged forward to cover Cora.

Cora scrambled backward, dodging his jacket, making sure the cameras got a clear shot of her torn dress and Jagger's aggressive stance.

Clarence, the elderly patriarch of the family, slammed his cane against the floor. "Get the press out of here! Now!" he bellowed, his face red with fury.

Security guards rushed in. Two of them grabbed Jagger, wrestling him to the ground as he screamed that he didn't do it.

Amidst the screaming and the flashing lights, Cora kept her head down. She pressed her face into her hands, pretending to sob.

Behind her hands, a cold, satisfied smile spread across her lips. The Vance family's public image was bleeding out on the floor.