Aliana POV
Hadley's scream tore through the sterile air.
It was a shrill, practiced sound, evocative of a B-list actress trying too hard to hit her mark. She lay crumpled on the floor of the exam room, clutching a cheek I hadn't even grazed, wailing about assault.
The door slammed open, rebounding off the wall.
Damien stood in the threshold, his chest heaving. His eyes darted from Hadley's theatrical tears to the blood dripping steadily from my fingertips.
He didn't ask what happened. He didn't look at the puncture wound he had just inflicted on me. He saw only his precious porcelain doll broken on the floor.
"Get her out of here," he snarled at Keith, who hovered like a shadow in the hallway. "Take her to the basement at the estate. Lock her in the wine cellar until I get home. I'll deal with her insolence then."
He meant me.
Keith stepped into the room. He was a massive man, broad-shouldered, with a face that looked as if it had been hewn from granite. He wore the Crawford crest on his uniform, a symbol of absolute loyalty, but as he looked at me, his eyes were startlingly human.
He glanced down at my hand. The blood was pooling on the linoleum, bright and accusing.
"Move," Keith said, his voice gruff.
He grabbed my arm, but his grip wasn't tight. It was a guide, not a shackle. He marched me down the hallway, away from the VIP suite, away from Damien's shouting and Hadley's fraudulent sobbing.
We didn't go to the elevators that led to the parking garage. Instead, Keith turned left, shoving open the heavy door to the emergency exit stairwell.
The cool, stagnant air of the stairwell hit my face, smelling of concrete and old dust. The door clicked shut behind us, cutting off the hospital sounds.
Keith let go of my arm.
Without a word, he reached down and began to unlace his heavy combat boots.
"What are you doing?" I asked, my voice trembling.
He kicked the boots aside. Then, he peeled off his thick wool socks.
"Put them on, Miss Ali," he said, thrusting them toward me. "You can't run barefoot."
I stared at him, stunned. The man who was supposed to be my jailer was offering me his socks.
"Why?" I whispered.
He looked away, a flush of shame creeping up his neck. "I saw your back, Miss. In the dining room. I was there the night of the fire. I drove the lead car. I know who pulled him out."
He shoved the socks into my hands, his urgency mounting.
"Run," he said. "Go out the side door. Don't go back to the estate."
I pulled the socks on. They were huge, warm, and smelled faintly of cedar. I didn't take the boots; they would only slow me down.
I looked up at Keith. I bowed my head—a small gesture, but it was the only currency I had left.
"Thank you," I said.
I pushed through the exit door and burst into the alley behind the hospital. The city noise was a sudden roar in my ears. Rain was starting to fall, a cold drizzle mixing with the grime on the pavement.
I fumbled for my phone with my good hand. My left hand was throbbing, the needle wound sending a pulse of hot agony up my arm with every heartbeat.
I dialed the contact saved simply as a dot.
It rang once.
"He's dead," I choked out. The words felt like broken glass in my throat. "They killed him."
There was a silence on the other end that felt heavier than the sky.
"I'm already en route," Anderson said. His voice was calm. Lethal.
I hung up. I knew I should run to the nearest subway station. I should disappear. But my father's heart medicine, his watch, the only surviving photo of my mother—they were still in the staff quarters. I couldn't leave him behind completely. I couldn't let them take those last pieces of him.
I hailed a cab. The driver looked skeptically at my bloodied hand and the oversized wool socks, but he took the wad of cash I had shoved in my pocket earlier.
When the cab pulled up to the Crawford estate gates, my heart stopped.
Damien was there.
He must have driven like a maniac to beat me back, or perhaps he had sensed the shift in the air, the scent of Keith's betrayal.
The heavy iron gates were closed. Keith was on his knees in the gravel driveway. Damien was standing over him, wielding a heavy metal flashlight like a club.
I screamed at the cab to stop. I scrambled out before it fully halted, my socks slipping on the wet asphalt.
Damien was screaming at Keith, his voice cracking with rage. "You let her go? You disobeyed a direct order?"
Keith didn't answer. He just stared at the ground, accepting his fate.
"Show me your loyalty," Damien spat. "Break it. Break the hand that opened the door for her."
I ran toward the gate. I squeezed through the pedestrian gap just as Damien raised the flashlight high.
"Stop!" I screamed.
Damien froze. He turned slowly to look at me. A cruel, incredulous smile spread across his face.
"Look who came crawling back," he sneered. "The stray dog."
I ran to Keith and stood in front of him. I was small, shaking, and bleeding, but in that moment, I felt like a wall of iron.
"Don't touch him," I said.
Damien laughed. It was a hollow, terrifying sound. "You think you can give orders? You are nothing. You are the help."
"I am Aliana Morrison," I said.
The name tasted strange on my tongue. Powerful. Dangerous.
Damien blinked, momentarily taken aback. Then he threw his head back and laughed harder.
"You're delusional," he said, his amusement vanishing instantly. "You're Rodriguez's brat. And now you're going to watch what happens to traitors."
He stepped forward, raising the flashlight again.
Keith looked up at me. His eyes were wide with fear—not for himself, but for his family. Damien held their livelihood, their very existence, in his hands.
"Do it, Keith," Damien commanded, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "Or your wife loses her job tomorrow. And that will only be the beginning."
Keith let out a sob. He placed his left hand flat on the rough asphalt.
"No!" I screamed, grabbing Damien's arm.
He backhanded me without looking. The force of it sent me sprawling into the gravel, tasting copper and dirt.
Keith brought the flashlight down.
The sickening crack of bone was louder than the thunder rolling overhead.
