Bailey POV

I woke up to the rhythmic, monotone beep of a monitor.

The light was harsh and fluorescent, burning against my retinas.

It wasn't a private suite at the Blair family clinic, with its high thread-count sheets and discretion.

It was a curtained partition in a public city hospital.

"She's awake," a soft voice said.

Maria.

The housekeeper.

She was sitting in a hard plastic chair, clutching her rosary so tightly her knuckles were white.

Her eyes were red and swollen.

"Maria?" I croaked.

My throat felt like shredded sandpaper.

"I found you," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I came to clean the kitchen. You were on the floor. Foam at your mouth."

She reached out, her calloused, warm hand stroking my hair.

"I called the ambulance. Not the family doctor. The ambulance."

"Where are they?" I asked.

I already knew the answer.

"With Haleigh," Maria said, looking away. "She... she told them she had palpitations."

"And me?"

Maria looked down at her lap.

"Mr. Jameson said you were seeking attention."

A tear leaked out of my eye.

It was hot and angry, burning a track down my cheek.

"How long?" I asked.

"Two days," Maria said.

"Today is my birthday," I whispered.

Maria squeezed my hand.

"I know, bambina. I know."

She reached into her bag and pulled out a cupcake.

It was smashed against the wrapper, but it had a single unlit candle stuck in the ruined frosting.

"Happy birthday, Bailey."

I ate the cupcake.

It tasted like salt and grief.

I signed the AMA forms an hour later.

The doctors protested, warning me about residual toxins and cardiac stress, but I walked out.

I had a flight to catch tomorrow.

I had to get my passport.

I took a taxi back to the estate.

The bass was thumping from the house, vibrating through the soles of my shoes as I stepped onto the pavement.

Luxury cars lined the driveway.

It was a party.

I walked through the front door.

The living room was packed with soldiers, associates, and high-ranking mobsters.

A massive banner hung across the staircase.

Welcome Home Haleigh.

Not Happy Birthday Bailey.

Just Haleigh.

Haleigh was in the center of the room, holding court.

She was wearing a scandalous red dress.

She was opening gifts.

Diamond earrings from Derrick.

A new car key from Blake.

Jameson stood behind her, his hand possessively on her shoulder.

The perfect Don.

The perfect husband.

\ The room went quiet when they saw me.

I was still wearing my hospital clothes—scrubs and a thin jacket.

I looked like a wreck.

"You're alive," Kane said.

He sounded disappointed.

"Stop making a scene, Bailey," Jameson said. His voice was low, dangerous. "Go change."

"It's our birthday," I said, my voice hollow.

Haleigh laughed, a tinkling, cruel sound.

"Oh, Bailey. Always making it about you. I almost died of a heart attack because of your prank."

"My prank?" I asked.

"The spider," she said, rolling her eyes. "Everyone knows you collect weird things."

The room murmured.

They believed her.

Of course they believed her.

She was the star.

"Let's watch the video!" Haleigh squealed, clapping her hands. "Jameson made a montage of my time in Europe!"

She pointed the remote at the massive screen on the wall.

Jameson smiled.

He had edited it himself.

A labor of love.

The screen flickered to life.

But it wasn't Haleigh in front of the Eiffel Tower.

It was grainy footage.

A bedroom.

Haleigh was there.

And so was the son of the Russian Bratva leader.

Our sworn enemies.

The audio crackled through the surround sound speakers.

"The Douglas family is a joke," Haleigh's voice rang out, crystal clear. "Jameson is a boring stiff. I'm just waiting for the old man to die so I can sell the territory codes."

The room froze.

The air was sucked out of the space.

Haleigh dropped her wine glass.

It shattered, the sound like a gunshot in the silence.

Jameson stared at the screen.

His face went pale, then dark red.

This was treason.

This was a death sentence.

I stared at the screen.

I didn't do this.

I didn't switch the video.

Haleigh spun around.

Her eyes locked on me.

Panic flared in her gaze.

She pointed a shaking finger at me.

"She did it!" Haleigh screamed. "She faked it! It's AI! It’s a deepfake! She's trying to frame me because she's jealous!"

Jameson turned to me.

His eyes were black holes.

The logic didn't matter.

The truth didn't matter.

He needed a target for his rage.

He needed to protect the image of his wife, even if she was a traitor.

"Bailey," Jameson said.

It was a growl.

"What have you done?"

Derrick stepped forward.

"She's trying to destroy the family honor," he said.

"She needs to be taught a lesson," Blake added.

They were closing in on me.

Like wolves.

I backed up until I hit the wall.

"It's her voice," I said, my voice shaking. "Jameson, listen to it."

"Silence!" Jameson roared.

He grabbed my arm.

His grip was bruising.

"Get everyone out," he ordered the guards. "Now."

The guests scrambled for the exits.

They knew what happened behind closed doors when the Blair family was angry.

I looked at Jameson.

"Please," I whispered.

"You wanted attention, Bailey?" he hissed, dragging me toward the basement door. "Now you have it."

Bailey POV

The soundproof room reeked of rust and bleach.

It was a space designed for breaking people, usually reserved for interrogating rivals.

Now, however, they were using it on me.

Kane shoved me, sending me crashing to my knees on the unforgiving concrete.

"Admit it," Kane snarled. "You faked the video."

"I didn't," I gasped, my voice trembling.

"She betrayed you. She sold the codes."

Blake unbuckled his belt.

As the Enforcer, it was his job to punish disobedience.

"Don't lie to us," Blake said, his voice deceptively calm. "Haleigh is sick. She wouldn't hurt the family."

He folded the heavy leather strap.

"This is for your own good, Bailey. To cleanse the envy out of you."

Suddenly, Maria burst into the room at the top of the stairs.

"Stop!" she screamed. "She is your sister!"

Derrick grabbed Maria instantly.

"Get her out of here," Jameson said from the shadows.

He was leaning against the wall, watching with cold detachment.

He wasn't stopping them.

He was letting it happen.

He was the Underboss, and he had to uphold order—even if it meant breaking me.

Maria was dragged away, screaming my name, until the heavy door slammed shut, cutting off her plea.

The first lash hit my back.

I bit my lip until it bled.

I wouldn't give them the satisfaction of screaming.

Instead, I focused on the island. I focused on the coordinates.

I just had to survive.

Three days later.

I was lying in my bed, my body throbbing.

My back was a landscape of fire.

I hadn't eaten since that night.

The door opened, and Jameson walked in.

He didn't ask how I was.

Without a word, he threw a dress on the bed.

"Get up," he said. "We're going on the yacht."

"I can't move," I whispered, my throat dry.

"Haleigh wants a family barbecue," he said, his tone final. "She wants to forgive you. You will be there."

It wasn't a request.

Fighting the agony, I put on the dress.

It was long-sleeved and high-necked.

Designed to hide the bruises.

Designed to hide their shame.

The yacht was docked at the private marina.

The sun was shining brightly.

It was a beautiful day for a torture session.

Haleigh was lounging on the deck, looking pristine in a bikini.

She looked perfect.

"Bailey!" she chirped, her voice dripping with saccharine sweetness. "I'm so glad you came. I told Jameson we couldn't leave you behind."

She winked at me.

She knew.

She knew I had taken her punishment.

The brothers were grilling steaks nearby.

They acted like nothing happened.

Like they hadn't whipped their sister in a basement only three days ago.

I sat on a bench, far away from them.

Suddenly, the wind picked up, and the sky turned gray.

A sudden squall hit the harbor, causing the boat to rock violently.

"Whoa!" Derrick yelled.

The heavy gas grill on the stern wasn't secured properly.

The boat lurched hard.

The grill tipped over.

Hot coals spilled across the teak deck, and the propane tank hissed.

A wall of fire erupted.

And I was sitting right next to it.

The flames caught the hem of my dress.

Cheap synthetic fabric.

It didn't just burn; it melted instantly.

"Help!" I screamed.

I batted frantically at the flames climbing up my legs.

"Haleigh!" Jameson shouted.

He wasn't looking at me.

Haleigh had fallen off her lounge chair.

She had a small scratch on her knee.

"My knee!" she cried. "Jameson, it hurts!"

Jameson, Derrick, Blake, and Kane.

All four of them rushed to Haleigh.

They formed a human shield around her.

They turned their backs on the fire.

They turned their backs on me.

I was burning.

The heat seared my skin.

The smell of burning hair and flesh filled my nose.

They didn't even look.

They were too busy checking Haleigh's knee.

I realized then, as the fire ate through my clothes, that I was already dead to them.

I rolled onto the deck in desperation.

I screamed, but the wind swallowed the sound.

Or maybe they just chose not to hear it.

Bailey POV

A sudden blast of white foam hit me.

It was cold.

It was suffocating.

Then, the fire died.

I lay on the wet deck, shivering uncontrollably as the adrenaline began to crash. A young deckhand stood over me, clutching a fire extinguisher like a weapon.

His eyes were wide with horror.

"Miss Douglas!" he yelled. "Are you okay?"

He was shaking.

And he was the only one who moved.

I looked across the deck.

Jameson was helping Haleigh stand up.

He was kissing her forehead.

Derrick was already getting her a towel.

They hadn't even noticed the fire was out.

"I'm fine," I whispered to the deckhand, though my voice was barely a rasp.

My leg was a mess of blistered red skin.

My dress was ruined.

But the pain clarified everything.

I limped to my cabin.

I locked the door.

I pulled the burner phone from my hidden pocket.

It had survived.

I had one text message.

Jet is fueled. Ready for departure at 0600 hours.

I typed back: I'll be there.

I went into the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror.

My hair was singed.

My face was soot-stained.

But my eyes were dry.

The door handle jiggled.

Then, a key turned in the lock.

Jameson entered.

He stopped dead when he saw me.

His gaze dropped to my leg.

To the angry red burns.

To the melted fabric stuck to my skin.

His face paled.

A flicker of something like horror crossed his eyes.

"Bailey," he said.

He took a step forward.

"Why didn't you scream?"

I laughed.

It was a broken, jagged sound.

"I did scream, Jameson."

He froze.

"I didn't hear you," he said.

"No," I said. "You just weren't listening for me. You were listening for her."

He looked at his hands, shame coloring his cheeks.

"We thought... the grill... Haleigh fell."

"Haleigh scratched her knee," I said, my voice devoid of warmth. "I was on fire."

He looked sick.

Good.

"Let me call the doctor," he said.

He reached for his phone.

"Jameson!" Haleigh's voice drifted down from the deck, bright and oblivious. "Come look! There are dolphins!"

Jameson paused.

He looked at the door.

Then he looked at me.

The choice hung in the air.

Heavy.

Suffocating.

"Go," I said.

"I'll send the medic down," he said.

He turned and left.

He chose the dolphins.

He chose the lie.

I bandaged my leg with the first aid kit under the sink.

I changed into black jeans and a hoodie.

I packed my bag.

I walked up to the deck.

They were all leaning over the railing.

Laughing.

Pointing at the sea.

Jameson had his arm around Haleigh.

The brothers were smoking cigars.

I stood behind them.

The sun was setting.

"Make a wish!" Haleigh shouted to the ocean.

"I wish for a hundred years of this," she said.

Jameson kissed her cheek.

"I wish for loyalty," Derrick said.

I closed my eyes.

I gripped the railing until my knuckles turned white.

I didn't say my wish out loud.

But the universe heard it.

I wish to never see any of you again.

I turned and walked toward the gangplank.

The boat was docking.

They didn't turn around.

They didn't see me leave.

I walked down the pier.

I didn't run.

I walked.

One step after another.

Away from the Blair family.

Away from the Douglas honor.

Away from the man who watched me burn and asked why I was so quiet.

I hailed a cab at the end of the marina.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

"The airport," I said.

I looked back one last time.

The yacht was glowing with lights.

It looked beautiful.

It looked like a funeral pyre.

And in a way, it was.

Bailey Douglas died on that boat.

The woman sitting in the back of the taxi was someone else entirely.

And she was never looking back.