The diner smelled of rancid frying oil and burnt coffee.
Briana slid into the cracked vinyl booth. Her hands were shaking so badly she had to press them flat against the sticky table. She dug into the pocket of her wet jeans. Her fingers brushed past the cheap, cracked-screen smartphone that had belonged to this body's previous owner—dead battery, useless until she could find a charger—and closed around a crumpled, blood-stained twenty-dollar bill.
A heavy-set waiter approached, his nose wrinkling at the sight of her. Briana slid the bill across the table.
"I need to borrow your tablet," she said, her voice raspy. "Just for five minutes."
The waiter eyed the blood, then the money. Greed won. He pulled a cracked iPad from his apron and shoved it toward her.
Briana wiped her bloody fingers on a napkin. She connected to the diner's unsecured Wi-Fi and opened the browser.
Her fingertips hovered over the glass screen. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, painful rhythm. She typed in the name: Imogen Montgomery.
The loading icon spun. Every second felt like glass grinding against her nerves. She prayed her parents were safe.
The page loaded. The top headline felt like a physical punch to her gut.
Two-Year Anniversary of Montgomery Heiress's Tragic Drowning.
She clicked the article. A massive photo filled the screen. It was her cousin, Kathleen, dressed in custom black couture, weeping beautifully at a memorial service.
Rage, hot and blinding, surged through Briana's veins. Her knuckles turned stark white as she gripped the edges of the tablet.
She scrolled down frantically, searching for any mention of her parents.
She found a financial piece from six months ago. Montgomery Couple Steps Down Due to Severe Grief. Niece Kathleen Johnston Assumes Full Control of Montgomery Group.
The article mentioned her parents had retired to a private, highly secure sanatorium in Switzerland, refusing all visitors.
Briana stopped breathing. Her lungs seized. Sanatorium? It was a prison. Kathleen had locked them away to steal the company.
She opened a new tab and pulled up Kathleen's social media. The screen exploded with photos of Kathleen dripping in Montgomery diamonds, attending galas, drinking champagne on yachts.
The most recent photo was posted yesterday. Kathleen was standing in front of the massive iron gates of the Ellis Manor. The caption read: Looking forward to the future. The comments were flooded with congratulations on her upcoming engagement to Clark Ellis.
A wave of nausea hit Briana so hard she gagged. The betrayal tasted like battery acid in her mouth.
She slammed the tablet face-down onto the table. The loud smack echoed in the quiet diner.
The waiter jumped. "Hey! Break it and you buy it, psycho!" he yelled, marching over.
Briana slowly lifted her head. She locked eyes with the waiter. The sheer, murderous intent radiating from her gaze made the man stop dead in his tracks. The color drained from his face, and he quickly backed away.
Briana took a deep, shuddering breath. She had nothing. No money, no identity, no power. If she went after Kathleen now, she would be crushed like an insect.
She needed a weapon. A weapon so terrifying that Kathleen would beg for mercy.
Clark Ellis's cold, ruthless face flashed in her mind. A crazy, desperate plan began to form in her head.
She handed the tablet back to the waiter and ordered a black coffee. The bitter liquid burned its way down her throat, grounding her.
She grabbed a pen from the table and pulled a napkin toward her. She began writing down the debts Doyle owed, the names of the men chasing her, and the timeline of Kathleen's takeover.
The bell above the diner door jingled.
Three men in leather jackets walked in. They smelled of cheap beer and weed. Their eyes scanned the room and locked onto Briana sitting alone in the corner.
They swaggered over. The leader, a guy with a neck tattoo, leaned over her table. He reached out to grab her chin. "Rough night, sweetheart?"
Briana didn't even look up. Her hand shot out. She drove the ballpoint pen straight down into the back of his hand, pinning it to the table.
The man screamed, a wet, tearing sound, and yanked his hand back. Blood spurted onto the napkin.
The other two men cursed, reaching into their jackets for switchblades.
Suddenly, blinding high beams flooded the diner windows. Two black Range Rovers slammed into park right outside the glass doors.
Four men in immaculate black suits stepped out and pushed into the diner. The lead security guard didn't say a word. He simply stepped forward and let his suit jacket fall open, revealing the cold, black steel of a handgun holstered snugly under his arm. The thugs' bravado vanished instantly. They stumbled backward, their faces draining of color, and scrambled out the back door in sheer terror.
The lead security guard walked up to Briana's booth. He didn't look at the blood on the table. "Mr. Ellis wants to see you."
Briana looked down at her napkin, a cold, sharp smile stretching across her lips. She stood up and walked out into the rain.
