From Prison Cell To Billionaire's Target

The sky turned a bruised, sickly gray. The rain had finally stopped, but the morning air was thick and biting.

Dorothea's lips were a pale, dead blue. Her entire body was locked in a rigid tremor. She couldn't feel her feet anymore.

The heavy gears of the iron gate groaned. The metal doors slowly swung inward.

Dorothea's heart gave a weak, painful thump. She tried to step forward, but her legs wouldn't bend. She stumbled, nearly falling face-first into the gravel.

It wasn't Alfredo walking down the driveway.

It was Mr. Beach.

"Uncle Beach," Dorothea rasped. Her voice was completely gone, reduced to a dry scrape. She looked at him with wide, hopeful eyes. He was Emery's father. He knew her. He would help her.

Mr. Beach stopped three feet away. His posture was rigidly straight, his hands clamped together. The look in his eyes made Dorothea's stomach drop. It was a chilling, bottomless grief that had frozen into something harder than hatred.

He unzipped a clear, waterproof evidence bag he was holding. He pulled out a familiar silver smartphone. Emery's phone.

He stepped closer, shoving the bright screen directly into Dorothea's face.

"Read it," he said, his voice devoid of any warmth, like stones grinding together.

Dorothea forced her blurry eyes to focus. It was a text message from Emery to her.

Dottie, I'm at The Velvet Room. You need to get here. I'm a little scared.

Dorothea nodded frantically. "I know! But I told her I couldn't go! I had a family dinner!"

Mr. Beach let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. He swiped his thumb up on the screen.

Dorothea's reply was there: Sorry Em, stuck at this family thing.

But right beneath it, timestamped ten minutes later, was another message sent from Dorothea's phone.

Fine. Since you're being such a baby, I'll come keep you company. Wait for me there.

All the blood drained from Dorothea's head. The world tilted sideways.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head so hard her neck cracked. "No, I never sent that! Someone took my phone! Or it's fake!"

"Still lying," Mr. Beach spat, his voice vibrating with a father's raw agony. "She waited for you in that hellhole because you told her to. She waited until those animals found her."

"It wasn't me!" Dorothea cried, trying to reach for the phone.

Her arms were too heavy. She couldn't lift them.

Mr. Beach snatched the phone back, stepping away from her as if she carried a disease.

"Mr. Hendrix will not see you," he said, his voice turning to ice. "He told me to give you a message. Get out of New York. Never show your face to him again."

The words hit her like a physical blow to the chest. The entire night of torture-the freezing rain, the humiliation-it was all for nothing. It was just a joke to him.

"Please," she gasped, her vision going dark at the edges.

"The biggest regret of my life," Mr. Beach said, staring down at her, "is watching my daughter befriend a poisonous snake like you."

That was the final strike.

Dorothea's legs gave out completely. She collapsed onto the wet, sharp gravel, her knees slamming into the ground.

Mr. Beach turned his back on her. He walked up the driveway, and the heavy iron gates slammed shut behind him with a deafening clang.

Dorothea knelt in the dirt. The morning sun finally broke through the clouds, hitting her back, but she couldn't feel the heat. Her brain was a flatline of panic. The evidence was there. It was fake, but it was there.

She didn't know how long she stayed on her knees.

The crunch of tires on gravel snapped her back to reality. A sleek black sedan pulled to a stop inches from her legs.