Ciera sat in the back of her stretched Lincoln Town Car. The rain hammered against the tinted windows.

She stared out at the entrance of the restaurant, her manicured fingers tapping anxiously against the stem of her champagne flute.

The glass doors pushed open. Declan walked out.

He didn't wait for the valet. He ignored the doorman holding out a massive black umbrella. He just walked straight out into the torrential rain.

Under the harsh glare of the streetlights, Ciera saw his face. His expression was hollow, violent, and completely isolated. She saw the faint smear of blood on his bottom lip.

Ciera gripped her glass so hard the crystal groaned.

Her mind violently snapped back to a thunderstorm five years ago.

She remembered the frantic phone call from the Carter estate manager. She remembered running into Declan's penthouse.

The massive living room had looked like a war zone. Priceless antique vases were shattered into dust. Paintings were ripped from the walls.

Declan had been standing in the middle of the room. He was barefoot. He was standing on a carpet of jagged glass shards. The thick Persian rug was soaked in his blood.

He was clutching his phone in his bleeding hands, staring at a video. It was the security footage Annette had faked-footage of her walking into a hotel room with a wealthy older man.

Ciera had tried to touch his arm. Declan had shoved her away so hard she hit the wall. He had thrown himself against the floor-to-ceiling windows, screaming a sound so guttural and broken it didn't even sound human.

For three months after that night, Declan didn't eat. He didn't speak. The Carter family had to hire a private medical team to hook him up to IV bags just to keep his organs from shutting down. He was placed on a 24-hour suicide watch.

A cheap, nobody girl from Brooklyn had almost killed the heir to the Carter empire.

Ciera blinked, pulling herself out of the memory. She took a deep breath and pulled out her phone.

She dialed her private investigator.

"Find out where Annette is working," Ciera ordered, her voice cold and sharp. "And find out exactly where she lives. Now."

Inside the restaurant lobby, Annette finally pulled herself together. She walked to the coat check, grabbed her wet trench coat, and practically ran out the front doors.

Leo chased after her, holding an umbrella.

"Annette, wait! I'm so sorry about tonight," Leo said, handing her the umbrella.

Annette forced the corners of her mouth up into a painful, fake smile. "It's fine, Leo. I'll be at the church tomorrow for the rehearsal."

She turned and walked into the freezing rain.

She didn't walk toward the subway. She walked three blocks south, her shoes squishing with cold water, until she found a 24-hour pharmacy.

The fluorescent lights inside the store burned her eyes. She walked straight to the cosmetics aisle and grabbed a tube of heavy-duty, industrial concealer.

She stood in front of the small security mirror, her hands shaking as she dabbed the thick paste over the violent, red bite mark on her swollen lip.

Suddenly, her phone vibrated violently in her pocket.

She pulled it out. The caller ID showed a specific 1-800 number. It was the direct line to the Intensive Care Unit billing department.

Annette's heart stopped. She swiped the screen, pressing the phone to her ear.

"Is it my dad? Did his heart rate drop?" Annette asked, her voice cracking with panic.

"Ms. Park," a cold, robotic female voice said. "Due to the severe overdue balance, we can no longer sustain his care in our private ICU. If payment isn't received, we will have to initiate a transfer to a state-funded long-term care facility by tomorrow."

Annette's knees buckled. She leaned her weight against the glass display case.

"Please," Annette begged, tears finally spilling over her eyelashes. "Please, give me three more days. I'll get the money. I promise."

"Tomorrow morning, Ms. Park."

The line went dead. The dial tone buzzed in Annette's ear like a flatline.

She dropped the phone. She pressed her forehead against the cold glass of the pharmacy window, staring out at the dark, wet street. She was drowning, and there was no one left to save her.

Across the street, parked in the shadows of an alley, a black Range Rover idled quietly.

The driver's side window rolled down halfway.

A massive man with a thick neck covered in gang tattoos sat in the driver's seat. He chewed on a cheap cigar. His dark, predatory eyes were locked onto Annette's crying figure in the pharmacy window.

The smell of bleach and sterile alcohol burned Annette's nostrils.

It was 6:00 AM. Annette stood outside the glass wall of the Brooklyn Public Hospital's Intensive Care Unit. She hadn't slept for a single second. Dark purple bags hung heavily under her eyes.

Through the glass, she stared at her father, Douglas Park. He looked like a hollowed-out shell. Tubes snaked down his throat and into his arms. The rhythmic hiss of the ventilator was the only proof he was still alive.

The attending physician walked up to her. He didn't look her in the eye. He just handed her a long, itemized printout.

"Noon, Annette," the doctor said quietly. "If the funds aren't in the system by noon, the nutritional IVs stop."

Annette took the paper. Her fingers trembled. Fifty thousand dollars. It was a mountain she couldn't climb.

She turned and walked blindly down the hallway, pushing open the heavy door to the emergency stairwell.

She sat on the concrete steps and pulled out her phone. She scrolled through her contacts, staring at the names of people she could no longer ask for help.

Suddenly, the heavy metal door at the bottom of the stairs was kicked open.

The loud bang echoed up the concrete shaft.

A thick cloud of cheap cigar smoke floated up the stairs.

Mitch Kozlowski walked up the steps. He was the man from the black Range Rover. Two massive men in cheap leather jackets followed closely behind him.

Annette shot up to her feet. Her back hit the cold concrete wall. Her heart hammered wildly against her ribs.

Mitch stopped two steps below her. He blew a ring of smoke directly into her face. His eyes slowly dragged up and down her body, stripping her naked with his gaze. It made Annette's skin crawl with physical revulsion.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded, thick legal document. He tossed it. It hit Annette's chest and fell to the floor.

It was the civil restitution order.

"Three million dollars, sweetheart," Mitch sneered, his gold tooth flashing in the dim light. "That's what the judge said your daddy owes my family for putting a bullet in my uncle's head."

"He didn't do it," Annette hissed, her voice shaking with rage. "He was framed. And I'm going to prove it."

Mitch threw his head back and laughed. The sound was harsh and grating.

"A public defender making minimum wage is gonna beat the system?" Mitch mocked.

His laughter stopped instantly. He lunged forward.

His thick, calloused hand shot out and gripped Annette's jaw. His fingers dug into her skin so hard she felt her teeth grind together.

"Marry me. Sign the papers. Be a good, obedient little wife. My family thinks a pretty lawyer wife would look good for business. You're smart, you're beautiful, and you owe us. This is a way for you to pay your debt in full. You do that, and I sign a waiver for the three million. I'll even pay the fifty grand to keep your old man breathing today."

Annette's stomach violently revolted. She raised her hands and shoved his chest with all her might.

"You're out of your mind," Annette spat, wiping her jaw where he had touched her.

Mitch's eyes turned pitch black.

He pointed a thick finger toward the heavy door leading to the ICU. "Without my money, he dies like a dog today. You really gonna let that happen?"

Annette's chest heaved. Her fingernails bit into her palms until the skin broke again.

"I would rather sell my blood," Annette said, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "I would rather borrow from the devil himself than sell my life to a piece of trash like you."

Mitch's face twisted into an ugly snarl.

He pulled his fist back and slammed it into the concrete wall, right next to Annette's head.

The impact sent a shower of sharp concrete dust and gravel flying. A jagged piece of stone sliced across Annette's cheekbone. A thin line of bright red blood instantly welled up on her pale skin.

Annette didn't flinch. She stared him down.

Mitch leaned in until his nose almost touched hers. "You have twenty-four hours. Tomorrow morning, I want a yes."

He turned and walked down the stairs, his goons following him.

The stairwell fell dead silent.

Annette's legs gave out. She collapsed onto the concrete step. She pressed her hands over her face, and a single, broken sob tore out of her throat.

She wiped her eyes aggressively. She picked up her phone.

She didn't hesitate. She dialed a number she had sworn she would never call. A number for a violent, underground loan shark in Queens.

The phone rang twice. A gruff voice answered.

The interest rate they demanded was financial suicide. They wanted the deed to her rundown apartment and a lien on her future wages.

"Yes," Annette said, her voice completely dead. "I accept the terms. I need the money wired in one hour."

She hung up the phone. She stood up, wiped the blood from her cheek, and walked out of the stairwell. She had sold her soul, but her father would live another day.

The Legal Aid Society office in lower Manhattan was a chaotic, suffocating mess. Phones rang constantly. The smell of stale coffee and cheap printer ink hung heavy in the air.

Annette sat at her cramped desk. Her supervisor had just dropped three massive, overstuffed manila folders onto her keyboard.

"Public defense cases. I need the briefs filed by Friday," her boss barked before walking away.

Annette didn't complain. She opened the first file and stared at the blurry security footage of a juvenile robbery.

A coworker leaned over the cubicle wall and handed her a paper cup of black coffee.

"Jesus, Annie. What happened to your face?" he asked, pointing at the angry red scratch on her cheekbone.

Annette quickly pulled a strand of dark hair forward to cover the wound. "I tripped coming out of the subway. Hit the turnstile."

When the clock hit noon, the office emptied out for lunch.

Annette didn't eat. She stood up, locked her office door, and pulled down the blinds.

She got down on her knees and pulled a heavy, black briefcase from the very bottom of her filing cabinet. It had a physical combination lock.

She spun the dials. Click.

She opened the case. Inside were hundreds of documents, crime scene photos, and trial transcripts. It was the complete, unredacted file of her father's murder conviction.

She pulled out a glossy photo of Beth Vargas, the victim's wife. She pinned it to the corkboard hidden behind her office door.

She took a red marker and drew a thick, aggressive line connecting Beth's face to the name of the prosecution's star witness.

She knew they were lying. She knew Beth was sleeping with the witnesses to buy their testimony. But she needed hard, physical proof to break the perjury ring.

Suddenly, her cell phone vibrated violently against the desk.

Annette quickly flipped the corkboard around to hide the photos. She picked up the phone. It was Clara.

"Hey, the rehearsal isn't until-"

"He wants me to sign a prenup!" Clara screamed into the phone. Her voice was thick with tears and alcohol.

Annette frowned. "Clara? Where are you?"

"Fifty pages, Annette!" Clara sobbed. "His family lawyers sent it this morning. If we divorce, I get nothing. No shares in the trust. They even put a clause in about child custody. He doesn't trust me!"

Annette's lawyer instincts kicked in. "Clara, listen to me. Do not sign anything. Let me read the clauses first. Where are you right now?"

"I left. I'm at that gross dive bar we used to go to in Williamsburg. I'm drinking tequila," Clara cried.

Annette looked at the clock. It was 3:00 PM. She couldn't leave her best friend alone in a dangerous Brooklyn dive bar while she was drunk and emotional.

"Stay right there. I'm coming," Annette said.

She grabbed her trench coat and ran out of the building.

The rain had turned into a freezing, miserable drizzle. It took Annette three different subway transfers to reach the edge of Williamsburg.

She pushed open the heavy, rotting wooden door of the dive bar.

The smell of stale beer, sweat, and vomit hit her like a physical wall. Heavy metal music blasted from the blown-out speakers, vibrating the floorboards beneath her feet.

The bar was dark, lit only by flickering neon beer signs.

Annette pushed through the crowd of leather-clad bikers and drunk college students. She scanned the sticky booths.

She spotted Clara slumped over a table in the darkest corner of the bar, a shot glass in her hand.

Annette rushed over. She grabbed Clara's wrist and pried the glass from her fingers.

"Clara, get up. We are leaving right now," Annette ordered, pulling on her arm.

Clara whined and tried to pull away. "No! I'm not marrying a man who thinks I'm a gold digger!"

Before Annette could pull Clara to her feet, a massive shadow fell over the table, blocking out the red neon light.

Annette looked up.

Standing right in front of her, looking completely out of place in a bespoke, charcoal-gray Tom Ford suit, was Declan.

He looked like a god of destruction standing in a garbage dump.

He looked down at Annette, his gray eyes sweeping over her wet hair and the panicked look on her face.

The corner of his mouth curled into a cruel, razor-sharp smirk.

"What a coincidence," Declan said, his voice cutting through the heavy metal music like a knife.