Chapter 3

Aliana POV

I went straight to my room in the attic.

Or rather, the space they allowed me to occupy. It wasn't really a room. It was a converted storage closet with a sloped ceiling that punished me if I stood up too straight.

I opened the door and stopped.

The closet was empty. My drawers were pulled out, their contents vomited onto the floor. My bed was stripped to the mattress.

My books, my few clothes, the photo of my mother-all of it gone.

I walked to the window and looked down into the courtyard. Near the service entrance, by the industrial dumpsters, lay a pile of fabric and paper.

They had thrown my life in the trash.

I didn't feel the sting of tears. Instead, I felt a strange, cold lightness. It was as if they had done the packing for me.

I turned and walked back downstairs, out the service door, and to the dumpsters. I found my old servant's uniform-the black dress with the white collar. It was stained with coffee grounds.

I put it on over my clothes. I didn't care about the filth. If they wanted a servant, I would give them a servant one last time before I burned their house down.

I walked into the staff quarters.

My father, Mr. Rodriguez, was sitting in his small armchair, wheezing. His face was gray. He had been an Associate for the family for thirty years, a glorified bookkeeper who kept his mouth shut. Now, his heart was failing, and the Crawfords refused to approve the surgery.

"Ali?" he rasped. "Why are you wearing that?"

"We're leaving, Papa," I said, kneeling beside him. "Tonight. Anderson is coming."

His eyes widened. "The Reaper? Ali, that is dangerous."

"Staying here is death," I said. "Pack your pills. I'm going to get the car."

I kissed his forehead and marched back into the main house.

I found them in the dining room. They were eating lunch. The air smelled of sherry and cream. Lobster bisque.

Cecil looked up, a piece of bread in her hand. "Finally. You look appropriate for once. Clear the table."

I didn't move. I stood at the head of the table, a stain on their perfect picture.

"I need the keys to the station wagon," I said. "My father is sick. I'm taking him to the hospital, and then we are not coming back."

Cecil laughed. It was a dry, brittle sound. "The station wagon is for staff use only. And since you just tried to walk out on my son, you are no longer staff. You are trespassing."

"Give me the keys," I said, my voice dead flat.

Cecil stood up. She walked over to me, her heels clicking on the parquet floor. She was a small woman, but she was constructed entirely of malice.

"You are trash, Aliana," she hissed. "Just like your father."

She shoved me. Hard.

I wasn't expecting it. I stumbled back, catching my heel on the edge of the rug. I fell, hitting the floor with a bone-jarring thud.

The back of my uniform dress, old and worn, tore open with a sharp *riiiip*. My shirt underneath rode up.

The room went silent.

For the first time in five years, the air touched the skin of my back.

"Oh my god," Hadley shrieked. "That's disgusting!"

I scrambled to my knees, pulling my shirt down, but it was too late. They had seen it.

The map of agony. The thick, rippled, purple and white keloid scars that covered my entire back from neck to waist. The skin that had melted off when I shielded Damien from the fire.

Damien was staring at me. His face wasn't filled with recognition. It was filled with revulsion.

He covered his mouth. "Jesus, Ali. Cover that up. I'm trying to eat."

He didn't know. He looked at the scars *he* caused, the scars that saved his life, and he wanted to vomit.

Cecil sneered, looking down at me like I was a cockroach. "Damaged goods. No wonder you hide in the attic. Who would want to touch *that*?"

A sound bubbled up in my throat. I thought it was a sob.

It was a laugh.

I laughed, wild and manic. I stood up, shaking.

"Does it repulse you, Damien?" I asked, stepping toward him. "Does it make you sick?"

He held up a hand, shielding his eyes. "Get away from me. You're a freak."

Keith, the security guard by the door, took a step forward. Keith was a low-level soldier, but he had kind eyes. He had been there the night of the accident. He suspected.

"Mr. Crawford," Keith said, his voice trembling. "Those scars... she got them when-"

"Silence!" I snapped. I wouldn't let him tell them. They didn't deserve to know. Not yet.

Damien looked from me to Keith. His eyes narrowed.

"You're sleeping with the guard?" Damien accused, his jealousy flaring up despite his disgust. "Is that it? You let the help touch your freak skin?"

"You're insane," I whispered.

"You're fired," Damien barked at Keith. "Get out. And you-" He pointed at me. "Go to your room. You don't leave until I decide what to do with you."

"I am leaving," I said.

"No," Damien smiled, cruel and cold. "You aren't."