The next morning, the clinic doctor walked into the suite. He checked Sera's vitals, removed the IV needle from the back of her hand, and officially cleared her for discharge.
Sera changed out of the hospital gown. She pulled her torn silk dress back on, covering the ripped shoulder with a dark blue medical scrub jacket a nurse had quietly provided.
She walked out of the suite and headed straight for the private VIP elevator bank in the clinic lobby. She stood in the quiet hallway, watching the digital numbers descend.
The heavy stainless steel doors slid open.
Kian Sinclair IV stood inside the small metal box. He was dressed in casual dark jeans and a black henley, holding a cup of black coffee.
Sera stepped into the elevator. Her posture immediately stiffened. She moved to the far opposite corner, maintaining a strict, calculated physical distance between them.
Kian noticed her defensive stance immediately. He didn't crowd her. He casually leaned his back against the cool metal wall, giving her maximum space.
"Do you have a safe ride back to Los Angeles?" Kian asked. His tone was polite, but entirely detached.
"I called an Uber Black," Sera replied curtly, staring straight ahead at the doors. She shut down any further avenue of conversation.
The elevator arrived at the ground floor with a soft ding. Kian nodded slightly. He gestured with his coffee cup for her to exit first.
Sera walked out into the bright California sun without looking back. Kian stood in the elevator, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he watched her retreating figure.
An hour later, the black SUV dropped Sera off at her luxurious Los Angeles penthouse. It was a massive, sterile property paid for by the Beaumont family to keep her out of their main estate.
She walked inside and immediately headed to the master bathroom. She turned the shower on scalding hot, scrubbing the remnants of the hotel, Lars, and the clinic off her skin until it turned pink.
She stepped out, wrapping herself in a thick robe.
The front door of the penthouse banged open.
Meg Foster, Sera's aggressive, high-strung Hollywood agent, barged into the living room. She was wearing loud designer heels and clutching a thick stack of manila folders.
"Where the hell have you been?" Meg yelled, pacing the glass-and-steel living room. "You missed three of my calls! Lars Donovan's office said you never showed up for the audition!"
Meg didn't wait for an answer. She marched over to the glass coffee table and slammed a thick contract down on the surface.
"Sign this," Meg demanded. "It's a new dating reality show. The network loves your 'spoiled brat' angle."
Sera stared at the paper. She recognized the logo. In her past life, she had signed that exact contract. The show's producers had maliciously edited her footage, painting her as a homewrecker and destroying her public image, making her an easy target for Ethan's later abuse.
Sera walked over to the table. She picked up the contract. She flipped directly to the final signature page.
Without a word, she gripped the top and bottom of the thick paper stack and calmly tore it entirely in half.
The loud, sharp sound of ripping paper echoed in the large room.
Meg gasped. Her jaw dropped open in absolute shock. She stared at the shredded pieces of paper falling onto the glass table.
"Are you insane?" Meg shrieked, her face turning red. "Your mother will cut off your funding if you don't cooperate! You are nothing without the Beaumont money!"
Sera slowly raised her head. She fixed Meg with a dead, unblinking stare. The temperature in the room seemed to plummet. Her aura shifted instantly, radiating the heavy, terrifying menace of a seasoned cartel boss.
"I am done playing my family's obedient little puppet," Sera said. Her voice was a low, dangerous whisper that cut straight through Meg's screaming. "Do not ever threaten me with them again."
Meg physically stepped back. Her high heel caught on the rug. She was genuinely intimidated by the sudden, chilling shift in her usually whiny, submissive client. Meg swallowed hard, her mind racing frantically to process the threat. This wasn't the easily manipulated girl she knew. For a brief, desperate moment, she considered calling Patricia Beaumont to force Sera into line, but something in Sera's dead, soulless eyes told her that would be a catastrophic mistake that could cost Meg her own career.
"Open your briefcase," Sera ordered, pointing at the leather bag in Meg's hand. "Show me the alternative casting calls you hid."
Trembling slightly, Meg fumbled with the brass latches. "Fine," Meg snapped, trying to regain some pathetic semblance of control as she opened the bag. "You want career suicide? Here it is." She pulled out a thin, rejected pitch folder.
"It's a global travel survival show," Meg stammered, holding it out like a shield. "Called 'Global Challenge.' It's grueling. Underfunded. They only want you as a 'Team Manager' to cause friction and act like a diva. It's career suicide."
Sera snatched the folder. She scanned the printed guest roster.
Her eyes locked onto a specific name halfway down the page: Ethan Vance.
A slow, predatory smile spread across Sera's face. It was a smile that promised absolute violence. A cold shiver ran violently down Meg's spine.
Sera grabbed a pen from the table. She signed the "Global Challenge" contract with sharp, decisive strokes, pressing so hard the ink nearly bled through the page.
She shoved the clipboard back into Meg's chest.
"Tell production," Sera said, her eyes gleaming with dark anticipation, "their new manager is ready to work."
Meg stumbled out of the penthouse in a daze, wondering if her client had suffered a secret, severe head injury.
