The bodyguards immediately released Briana and stepped back.
Briana pushed herself off the floor. She dusted off her ruined sequin dress, completely ignoring the terrified stares of the maids.
She turned and walked barefoot up the grand oak staircase, her steps heavy and deliberate. She walked straight to the second floor and pushed open the heavy double doors to Clark's study.
The room smelled of rich tobacco and leather. Clark was sitting behind a massive mahogany desk, an unlit cigar pinched between his fingers.
Briana walked right up to the desk, planted her hands on the polished wood, and leaned in. "I did my job. Now pay up."
Clark's eyes dragged over her smeared lipstick and the faint scratch on her neck. A rare, genuine gleam of amusement flickered in his cold eyes.
He opened a drawer, pulled out a solid black titanium credit card, and slid it across the desk. Unlimited limit.
Briana snatched the card and shoved it down her cleavage. She opened her mouth to demand a secure room.
Suddenly, her phone vibrated violently against her thigh. She had found a charger in the guest room and finally powered the cracked-screen device back on while scrubbing the grime from her skin. Now it buzzed with an incoming message.
She frowned and pulled it out. It was a picture message from Doyle.
She clicked open the image. Her pupils shrank to pinpricks. All the blood drained from her face in a single second.
It was a photo of Eleonora, her mother in this life. She was tied to a rusted pipe with thick, coarse rope. Her face was a mass of purple bruises, her lip split open. Her worn sweater was soaked in fresh blood.
Below the photo was a text: Bring the money in 30 minutes, or you can come collect the bitch's corpse.
Even though this body's memories were filled with the trauma of being sold by a deadbeat father, Eleonora was different. Eleonora's eyes, always filled with sorrow but never lacking in gentle care, were the only source of warmth the original Briana had ever known in that broken home. That profound, inherited sense of familial love seared into Briana's soul like a branding iron. A wave of primal terror and blinding rage hit Briana so hard her knees buckled slightly. Her hands began to shake uncontrollably. The phone rattled against her palm.
Clark's eyes sharpened instantly. He leaned forward, his voice dropping an octave. "What is it?"
Briana's brain scrambled. Clark was a ruthless businessman. He wouldn't risk his men for a slum dispute. If she asked for help, he would see her as a liability.
She hit the power button, turning the screen black. She forced her facial muscles into a stiff, unnatural smile. "Nothing. Just an old debt collector trying to scare me."
Clark's eyes narrowed. He stared at her white knuckles gripping the phone. He didn't believe a word of it.
"I need to go clean up," Briana blurted out, spinning around.
She didn't look back. She forced her weight onto her good leg, dragging her throbbing ankle as she limped frantically down the hall, biting her lip to keep from crying out.
Clark stared at the empty doorway, his jaw clenched tight. He hit the intercom button on his desk. "Jairo. Track her phone. Now."
Briana burst into her guest room. She tore off the sequin dress, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She pulled on a pair of black sweatpants, a hoodie, and sneakers.
She ran into the bathroom, ripped open the first aid kit, and grabbed a pair of heavy medical scissors and a roll of bandages. She shoved them into her pocket.
She didn't go to the front door. She opened the window, grabbed the thick metal drainage pipe, and slid down into the dark bushes below, landing heavily. A sickening jolt of pain shot up her injured ankle, forcing a choked gasp from her throat, but she swallowed the agony.
She dodged the security patrols, scaled the low stone wall at the back of the estate, and dropped into the shadows of Beverly Hills.
Ten minutes later, Jairo walked into the study. "She jumped the wall, sir. GPS shows her heading straight for Skid Row."
Clark's eyes flashed with dark fury. She had just secured his protection, and now she was running off to get herself killed.
He snapped the unlit cigar in half and threw it in the trash. He grabbed his trench coat from the chair and strode toward the door.
He was going to find out exactly what made this calculating woman lose her mind.
