Rising From Ruin: The Billionaire's Lethal Roommate

Aspen slid the brass key into the lock. It clicked. She pulled the metal door open.

Inside hung a black oversized hoodie and a pair of faded, ripped jeans. She stripped off the thin hospital gown, letting it drop to the floor. She pulled the jeans up over her hips and slid the heavy cotton hoodie over her head. She gathered her long, tangled black hair and tied it into a tight, practical ponytail.

She reached into the bottom of the locker and found a black medical mask and a blue Los Angeles Dodgers baseball cap. She put them both on, pulling the brim low over her eyes.

She did not look back at Brenda, who was still dry-heaving on the floor. Aspen walked out the door.

She slipped into the hallway. Fifty feet away, two security guards were laughing by the elevator bank. Aspen turned her back to them and pushed open the heavy fire door leading to the stairwell.

Her muscle memory took over. She moved down the concrete steps without making a single sound. Four flights down.

She exited through the hospital's rear loading dock, slipping past a stack of wooden pallets. She pushed open the chain-link gate and stepped out onto the humid Los Angeles street.

A group of nurses in scrubs walked past her. Aspen merged into their group, matching their pace for two blocks until they reached Sunset Boulevard.

She stepped off the curb and raised her hand. A yellow cab slammed on its brakes, pulling over.

Aspen opened the back door and slid onto the cracked leather seat. She kept her head down. "Beverly Hills. The Estates," she said.

She pulled her phone out. She popped off the plastic case. Folded neatly against the back of the phone was a crisp fifty-dollar bill. She handed it over the plastic divider to the driver. As she stared out the window at the passing city lights, the fragmented pieces of her stolen life finally locked into place. The foreign presence that had taken over her body finally had a name, pulled from the depths of her hijacked consciousness. Lucy Stone. A crazed, obsessive fan. Lucy had orchestrated the crash on the Pacific Coast Highway, a desperate, psychotic bid to merge their lives. And it had worked, temporarily. Lucy had worn Aspen's skin like a cheap suit, destroying everything Aspen had built. But Lucy was gone now, her weak spirit shattered by the sheer willpower of Aspen's return.

Thirty minutes later, the cab idled outside the massive stone walls of the Beverly Hills gated community.

Aspen stepped out. The night air was cool. She walked along the perimeter, staying in the shadows of the thick landscaping bushes until she reached a blind spot between two security cameras.

She looked up. The wrought-iron fence was ten feet tall, topped with sharp, anti-climb spikes.

She took two steps back. She sprinted forward, planting the toe of her sneaker against the brick pillar. She pushed off with explosive force.

She pulled her body weight up. Her shoulders screamed in protest, the underused tendons stretching dangerously close to their breaking point, but she forced her body to obey, swinging her legs over the top in one fluid, silent motion. She dropped down, bending her knees to absorb the impact. She landed on the manicured grass without a sound, though a sharp ache radiated up her shins.

She hugged the shadows, avoiding the sweeping red lines of the infrared motion sensors. She crept around to the back patio of the massive, modern mansion.

She approached the heavy glass kitchen door. She crouched down and lifted a fake decorative rock from a potted plant. Underneath was a digital keypad.

She punched in a six-digit override code she had programmed into the motherboard three years ago. The lock clicked green.

Aspen pushed the door open and stepped into the dark kitchen.

The air felt wrong. It smelled different.

She looked down. Sitting on her custom Italian rug in the hallway was a pair of men's leather dress shoes.

She inhaled slowly. The scent of expensive cedarwood cologne hung in the air. Beneath it, her trained nose picked up the faint, metallic tang of fresh blood.

From the second floor, she heard the muffled sound of a shower running.

The new owner was home. And based on the blood, he was not having a normal night.

Aspen walked silently to the massive marble kitchen island. She stared at the wooden knife block.

She slid out a black ceramic boning knife. The blade was razor-sharp. She flipped the knife, holding it in a reverse grip, hiding the blade flush against her forearm inside the sleeve of her hoodie.

She walked toward the grand staircase, her bare feet making no sound on the marble steps.