Chapter 2

Jerri pushed open the heavy door to her penthouse apartment. She kicked off her black stilettos, leaving them scattered on the expensive entryway rug.

She didn't turn on the main lights. She walked straight into the master bathroom and reached into the glass shower enclosure. She cranked the silver handle all the way to the left.

Scalding hot water blasted from the rain showerhead.

She stripped off her clothes and stepped under the stream. Thick white steam quickly filled the room. Through the haze, she looked at the large fogged mirror. She turned slightly, looking over her shoulder.

There it was. The massive, jagged cross of a scar cutting across her pale back.

The hot water hitting her skin suddenly felt wrong. The temperature twisted in her brain. It didn't feel like hot water anymore. It felt like freezing, ice-cold champagne.

Her mind was violently dragged back to the night of her eighteenth birthday. The heavy bass of the club music vibrated in her skull.

She saw her younger self, wearing a pristine white dress, walking toward Emerson with her heart full of hope. He was surrounded by the city's elite.

Emerson turned to look at her. The look in his eyes wasn't love. It was a disgust so pure it made her stomach drop.

"She is nothing but a dog raised by the Oneal family," Emerson's voice echoed in her memory, loud enough for everyone to hear. "She doesn't belong here."

The crowd erupted. The shrill, mocking laughter of the socialites stabbed into her eardrums like needles.

She stepped back in pure shock. Someone in the crowd stuck their foot out.

She tripped. She fell backward, crashing hard into the massive, ten-tier champagne tower. The sound of hundreds of crystal glasses shattering was deafening.

Huge, razor-sharp shards of glass sliced deep into her back. Warm blood instantly soaked through her white dress, turning it a horrifying red.

She looked up from the floor, gasping in pain. Emerson stood there, looking down at her. He didn't reach out a hand. Instead, he wrapped his arm around the waist of a blonde heiress standing next to him.

Jerri forced herself to stand up. Blood dripped down her legs. She stumbled out of the club, running into the pouring rain, trying to escape the stares.

The memory shifted violently. A dark, rain-slicked highway. The blinding headlights of a massive freight truck swerving into her lane. The sickening crunch of metal crushing her taxi.

Then, dead silence. The thick, metallic smell of blood filling her nose.

Jerri slammed her hand against the shower wall. She reached out and violently twisted the water off. She stood there, gripping the edge of the marble sink, gasping for air as if she had been drowning.

She grabbed her toothbrush. She squeezed a massive, thick layer of heavy mint toothpaste onto the bristles and shoved it into her mouth. She brushed aggressively, scrubbing her teeth and tongue until her gums ached.

Thick, chemical foam filled her mouth. But there was nothing else.

No sharp sting of peppermint. No cooling sensation. Nothing.

She spat the white foam into the sink and stared blankly at her reflection. She remembered the cold, clinical voice of the doctor after she woke up from the coma.

Her naive love for Emerson had died on the floor of that club. The car crash that followed only served to seal her past in a tomb of physical pain, severing her olfactory and gustatory nerves.

Her sense of taste was dead.

A soft knock sounded on the bathroom door.

"Ms. McMahon?" Gladys, her housekeeper, called out softly. "I brought you a fresh cup of black coffee."

Jerri quickly grabbed a thick white bathrobe and tied it tightly around her waist. She took a deep breath, rearranged her facial muscles into a calm expression, and opened the door.

Gladys stood there holding a steaming mug. Jerri took it with a smile.

She lifted the mug to her lips and took a massive gulp of the scalding, pitch-black liquid. She didn't add sugar. She didn't add cream.

"Oh, please be careful," Gladys said, her brow wrinkling with worry. "That roast is incredibly bitter today. It will ruin your stomach."

Jerri lowered the mug. She offered Gladys a perfect, warm smile.

"Don't worry, Gladys," Jerri lied smoothly. "I actually love how rich and bitter it is now. It wakes me up."

Gladys smiled, looking relieved, and turned to walk back to the kitchen. She had no idea that Jerri was drinking something that tasted exactly like hot tap water.

Jerri walked back to the bathroom sink and poured the rest of the coffee down the drain. She rinsed the mug until it was spotless, leaving no trace of her lie.

She walked out to the floor-to-ceiling windows of her living room. She looked down at the glittering lights of Manhattan. The vulnerability in her eyes hardened into sharp glass.

She picked up her phone and dialed her VP.

"Prepare the defense strategy," Jerri ordered. "If the Oneal Group wants a war, we give them one."