Alyce Brennan shoved open the heavy glass doors of Mount Sinai Hospital's emergency room, her bare feet slipping on the wet marble steps. Rain soaked her dark brown hair, plastering it to her pale cheeks as her chest heaved for air. Two burly security guards stepped forward, crossing their batons to block her path. They grabbed her shoulders and shoved her back toward the pouring rain. "No visitation clearance! Get out!" the taller guard barked, sneering at her muddy hem. "The Brennan family gave strict orders. Even if you're the biological daughter brought back from the slums, you're nothing here!" Alyce bit down hard on her lower lip until blood pooled on her tongue. Dropping her center of gravity, she ducked under the guard's thick arm. Her shoulder clipped a metal medical cart, sending stainless steel trays crashing to the tile floor with a deafening clatter. Blinding white light spilled from the resuscitation room at the end of the hall. Alyce stumbled forward and threw herself against the frosted glass door. Her fingers clawed at the metal frame, her nails bending backward and bleeding from the force. The door swung open. A doctor stepped out, looked at her bleeding hands, and slowly shook his head. "Time of death, 11:42 PM. The oxygen line was disconnected." Alyce's knees buckled. She dropped straight onto the freezing tiles, a raw, strangled wail tearing from her throat as her fists twisted the soaked fabric over her chest. Dragging herself across the floor on her hands and knees, she crawled into the room. A white sheet covered the small hospital bed. Hanging over the edge was a tiny, bloodless hand covered in dark needle bruises—her three-year-old daughter. She reached out a trembling hand to touch those cold little fingers, then froze mid-air. Hot tears spilled over her lashes, soaking into the white linen. Measured clicks of high heels echoed down the corridor, mingled with the heavy thud of leather shoes. The footsteps stopped right outside the open door. Alyce turned her head stiffly. Through the dim light, her gaze locked onto the man standing in the doorway in a tailored charcoal suit—her husband, Jacoby Mercer, heir to the Mercer family. Beside him, Charisse Brennan—the adopted sister who had stolen Alyce's identity and luxury for twenty years—slid her arm intimately through his, wearing a pristine white couture gown. Alyce lunged to her feet, her bloodshot eyes fixed on Jacoby as she grabbed his silk tie. "You pulled her oxygen tube?!" Her voice rasped like torn sandpaper. "She was only three years old! She was your own daughter!" Jacoby yanked her hand off and swung his palm forcefully across her face. The strike sent her crashing into a heart monitor, blood trickling from her lip. "My daughter?" Jacoby spat, his face twisted in disgust as he wiped his hands with a handkerchief. "She's just a bastard you birthed from some stray in the gutter before returning to the Brennans! I gave her three years of shelter, and that was mercy. The Mercer family doesn't raise wild bastards!" Alyce froze, her stomach churning violently. "What... what did you say? She was yours!" Charisse glided forward, her stiletto heel stepping directly onto Alyce's trembling, bloody fingers on the floor. She leaned down, whispering with dark malice into Alyce's ear. "Stop dreaming, Alyce. Jacoby never loved a dirty girl from the slums. And don't bother waiting for your parents to save you—Katherine and Edward died in that highway crash a year ago, after you married into the Mercer family. It wasn't an accident. We cut their brakes." Alyce's pupils shrank to pinpricks, her breath catching in her throat. "You... you murdered my biological parents?!" "If your biological parents didn't die, how could the Brennan family's billions in trust funds fall entirely into my hands?" Charisse let out a delicate, mocking laugh. "You lost your biological parents, your bastard kid, and your place in high society. You're nothing." Blood rushed to Alyce's ears. Snatching a pair of surgical scissors from a tray beside her, she let out a guttural roar and plunged the blades straight toward Charisse's neck. "Die! Both of you!" Jacoby lashed out, his heavy boot slamming straight into Alyce's stomach. The blow lifted her off her feet and threw her violently against the concrete wall. The scissors clattered to the floor. Two bodyguards rushed in, wrenching Alyce's arms behind her back and dragging her out of the room. Alyce thrashed violently, her bare feet scraping red streaks across the floor as she stared at the white sheet covering her daughter, screaming until her vocal cords tore. The guards hurled her out of the main entrance. Her body rolled twice across the rough asphalt before the icy downpour swallowed her whole. Lying in a muddy puddle, she looked back into the warm, lit lobby. Jacoby gently draped his coat over Charisse's shoulders, the two of them smiling softly at each other. Her child was called a bastard and murdered on life support. Her biological parents were murdered in a rigged car crash. Her entire life was stolen and ground into the mud. Alyce dug her bloody fingers into the asphalt until her nails snapped against the stone. She pushed herself up, swaying as she walked into the blinding Manhattan storm. Rain washed the blood from her chin, but it couldn't cool the roaring hell inside her chest. She walked until she reached a dark, unlit intersection. A semi-truck horn blared through the deluge. Two blinding high beams locked onto her frail silhouette. She didn't run. Turning toward the blinding light, the bloody corners of her mouth curved into a cold, terrifying smile. "If there's a next life... I'll drag all of you down to hell with me." Tires screeched. The massive steel bumper slammed into her body, flinging her high into the air. As her bones snapped and her vision faded into bloody darkness, the images of her daughter's cold hand and her biological parents' loving faces flashed behind her eyes...

Alyce floated twenty feet above the intersection, the cold rain passing straight through her translucent hands. Below her, her mangled body lay twisted in a widening pool of red. Suddenly, five heavy black Escalades tore through the rain and screeched to a halt outside the police tape. A bodyguard snapped open a black umbrella over the rear door of the armored Maybach, and a custom matte-black wheelchair lowered onto the asphalt via a hydraulic lift. Flanked by eight imposing guards sat a man clad in a pitch-black three-piece suit—Barclay Reid, the ruthless CEO of the Reid conglomerate and absolute ruler of Wall Street's oldest dynasty. In her past life, that name had been a living nightmare.The crash that crippled his legs had twisted his mind into something cruel—a cold-blooded tyrant who tortured those who crossed him. Ever since she was dragged back from the slums, Charisse had poisoned her ears daily: "That crippled monster is a savage! If you marry him, he'll torture you to death! Mom and Dad only adopted you back to use you as a human shield against his wrath!" With her emotionally distant parents turning a blind eye, the timid, affection-starved Alyce had fallen into absolute despair. Yet, looking down from above at this very moment, Alyce saw the truth. Barclay’s slate-gray eyes bypassed the police tape and locked entirely onto her corpse. He lifted his chin slightly, his deep, resonant voice cutting through the downpour: "Take her. And retrieve the child's remains from Mount Sinai Hospital as well." His chief assistant, Ira Perkins, waved the bodyguards past the police line and lifted Alyce's body into a black velvet mortuary bag with utmost reverence. Alyce stared from above, her chest tightening. In life, she had died a thousand deaths trying to escape this terrifying tyrant. Yet in death—after her family betrayed her and her husband murdered her daughter—the only person who came to collect her broken body and lay her child to rest was the very "monster" she had feared the most. Barclay's hands gripped the armrests so hard the veins bulged on his knuckles. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, swallowing his grief, then spoke a single, chilling word: "Go." As the convoy roared away into the night, a violent suction yanked Alyce's floating form backward into a pitch-black vortex. Then, a searing, slicing pain tore across her left wrist, slamming her back violently into solid flesh! "Gasp—!" Alyce bolted upright, cold sweat soaking clean through her silk nightgown. Bright afternoon sunlight streamed across a thick Persian rug. She looked down—bright red blood was welling rapidly from a deep gash on her left wrist, a shard of broken glass lying inches away on the carpet. In the vanity mirror across the room, a pale, unscarred face stared back at her. It was three years ago—the exact afternoon she had slit her wrist to protest her forced engagement to Barclay Reid! Vivid flashes of her daughter's cold, bruised hand, Charisse's mocking smile, and Barclay's trembling hands holding her body in the rain crashed through her mind. Reaching up with her right hand, she ripped a silk tie-back off the curtain, wrapped the cord tightly above the wound with her teeth, and tied it off into a solid knot without uttering a single whimper. The bleeding slowed. Since heaven had given her a second chance, every single debt owed to her would be paid back in blood! Hurried footsteps pounded in the hallway outside, followed by a maid's shrill voice: "Miss Alyce locked her bedroom door from the inside! Get the spare key! Don't let that dirty rat from the slums die in our house and ruin the floors!" Alyce's gaze turned as cold as glacial ice. In the Brennan household, even the servants treated the true heiress like dirt—over the past six months, whenever Charisse bullied her, she had only cowered in her room and cried. Not this time. She shoved the bloody glass shard into the bottom of the trash bin, hid her bleeding left hand behind her back, and opened the door. Three maids and two burly Brennan guards froze mid-action, staring in disbelief. The head maid's eyes locked onto the crimson drops staining the cream carpet, and she shrieked: "Oh God! She really cut her wrist! Somebody call Dr. Arthur right now! What a shameless piece of trash, always trying to kill herself and make trouble for the family!" Ignoring the paralyzed servants, Alyce walked straight up to the towering guard standing by the wall. The moment his heavy hand reached for her shoulder, she pivoted. Her right hand shot out like a striking viper, locking onto his wrist joint and violently twisting it backward. CRACK! The two-hundred-pound guard collapsed onto one knee, screaming as excruciating pain paralyzed him. Alyce smoothly snatched the smartphone clipped to his belt. Dead silence fell over the hallway. The maids stared with their jaws hanging—was this really the same timid, stuttering slum-girl who used to tremble at the sound of a raised voice?! Alyce tapped the phone screen. The date stared back in bright white digital numbers—October 15, 2021. She tossed the phone back into the kneeling guard's lap, a terrifying, bloodthirsty smile curving her lips. Then she turned, dragging her bleeding wrist, and strode down the grand staircase, leaving a trail of vivid red drops on the cream carpet. This time, not only would she accept the marriage, but she would also tear off Charisse's fake saintly mask piece by piece, walk proudly over the spines of the Brennan family, and become the lawful wife of the terrifying tyrant everyone feared!

Alyce ran barefoot across the rough gravel driveway of the Brennan estate, sharp stones cutting into her soles as she sprinted toward the line of black cars pulling out of the main gates. It was Barclay Reid's convoy. In her past life, after she cut her wrist upstairs, Barclay had called off the engagement in disgust and left, leaving her unprotected against Charisse's traps. "Stop! Stop the car!" She threw herself directly in front of the lead armored Maybach, spreading her arms wide. The driver slammed on the brakes. Tires screeched across the gravel, the heavy chrome grille stopping four inches from her knees. The front passenger window rolled down halfway. Chief assistant Ira Perkins leaned out, his brows drawn tight. "Miss Alyce, step aside. Mr. Reid is on a tight schedule." Alyce ignored Ira completely. She lunged to the rear door and slapped her bloodstained right hand against the bulletproof glass, leaving a red handprint. "Barclay! Open the door!" The tinted window slid down smoothly, revealing Barclay's sharp profile. Sitting in his wheelchair inside the cabin, his slate-gray eyes looked down at her with cold annoyance. "Is this how the Brennan family teaches manners?" His voice was low, his right index finger tapping impatiently against the armrest. Alyce met his gaze without blinking, grabbed the chrome handle, and pulled the door open before the guards could reach her, diving straight into the spacious backseat. The cabin smelled of crisp cedarwood. Barclay's brows knitted together, his eyes narrowing. "Get out." Instead of retreating, Alyce gripped his lapels with her right hand and pulled her pale face inches from his. "Marry me. Right now. Immediately." Barclay paused for half a second, then let out a short, mocking laugh. "Slitting your wrists upstairs half an hour ago, and now begging for marriage? Your acting is pathetic, Alyce." He raised his large hand and wrapped his fingers around her right wrist, preparing to shove her out of the car. The moment his muscles tensed, Alyce ducked her head, opened her mouth, and sank her teeth straight into his broad shoulder. Her teeth pierced the fine wool of his suit jacket and bit deep into the hard muscle beneath. The metallic tang of blood filled her mouth. In the front seat, Ira gasped and drew the handgun from his holster, turning around to aim. "Boss!" "Shut up. Hold your fire," Barclay rasped, veins standing out on his forehead. He didn't push the trembling woman away, raising a hand to stop his loyal assistant. He looked down at the woman shivering against his chest, her left wrist still seeping blood through a curtain cord while her teeth stayed locked on his shoulder. A dark flicker crossed his gray eyes. Alyce bit down with everything she had until his blood coated her tongue. Slowly, she unclenched her jaws and raised her head, his red blood smearing her lips. Breathing hard, she stared straight into his eyes. "If you throw me out today, tomorrow all of New York will know that the head of the Reid conglomerate is a coward who couldn't even fight back when bitten by a woman." Barclay stared at her stained lips, his Adam's apple bobbing once before a low, dangerous laugh rumbled from his chest. He reached out and gripped her chin, forcing her head up as his rough thumb wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth. "A cheap provocation." His warm breath brushed the tip of her nose. "But I admit, you have my attention." Alyce endured the ache in her jaw without flinching. "Then let's go to City Hall. Now." Barclay released her chin and smoothed his bitten lapel. "City Hall," he ordered the front seat. Ira's hands slipped on the steering wheel. "Sir, are you sure? The family elders..." "Do I need to repeat myself?" Barclay's voice dropped ten degrees. The Maybach glided forward through the iron gates. Alyce's spine finally loosened, and she slumped back against the leather seat. Turning her head toward the window, the cut on her left wrist split open again from the struggle, dripping blood onto the plush floor mat. A black silk handkerchief landed in her lap. In the front seat, Ira reached into the cabin's built-in medical compartment and passed back a sterile pressure bandage. "Bind it properly," Barclay said flatly, his eyes still closed. "Press the wound. I have no use for a bride who bleeds out before the paperwork is done." Alyce looked down at the silk square, her throat tightening. She pressed the gauze pad hard over the gash, wound the elastic wrap around her wrist in firm, even layers, then wrapped the black silk handkerchief over the bandage and pulled it tight with her teeth, tying a firm military square knot. Though his eyes remained shut, Barclay's brow twitched slightly at the crisp, practiced sound of the knot tightening. With police cruisers clearing the Manhattan traffic ahead, the convoy sped straight downtown. Alyce looked out the windshield at the stone columns of City Hall rising ahead, her fingers curling over the silk knot on her wrist.