Chapter 3

A custom, armored black Rolls-Royce Phantom idled in the circular driveway of the sanatorium. The exhaust plumed into the freezing morning air.

Arthur Sterling, the Campbell family's longtime driver, stood by the rear door. He wore pristine white gloves.

As Leland approached, Arthur pulled the heavy door open and bowed his head slightly. Leland slid into the spacious, plush leather main seat.

Ella stepped forward, clutching her cardboard box. She moved to follow Leland into the back.

Arthur's arm shot out. His elbow subtly but firmly blocked her chest.

Ella looked up. Arthur's face was a mask of polite indifference, but his eyes were filled with disgust. He jerked his chin toward the rear-facing jump seat-the cramped, narrow fold-out chair meant for assistants or luggage.

Ella didn't argue. She didn't waste her breath. She squeezed past Arthur's blocking arm, bent her knees, and sat on the hard jump seat.

Arthur slammed the door shut. The heavy thud sealed them in a soundproof bubble.

The engine purred. The limo glided forward, leaving the iron gates of Pine Ridge behind.

The air inside the car was suffocating. The heat was turned up too high.

Leland opened the crystal decanter in the center console. He poured himself two fingers of amber whiskey. He didn't offer Ella water. He didn't even look to see if she was comfortable.

He took a slow sip, letting the ice clink against the glass.

"The entire board of directors will be there tonight," Leland said, staring at the passing trees. "The Mayor. The Thorne family. The media."

He swirled the whiskey.

"Don't think about pulling a stunt, Ella. You are a ghost tonight. You exist only to make Ashlyn shine brighter. You will show them how sick you were, and how gracious she is for forgiving you."

Leland reached into his tailored jacket and pulled out a heavy, embossed card. He tossed it onto her lap, the sharp corner grazing her thigh. "Memorize every single word on this card," he commanded, his eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. "If you miss one syllable, I will personally drag you back to that isolation room."

Ella stared out the tinted window. The bare trees blurred into a gray streak. Her face was completely numb.

Her lack of reaction made a muscle in Leland's jaw twitch. He hated when she didn't cry.

He reached onto the seat beside him. He picked up a thick, glossy black paper shopping bag and threw it hard at Ella.

The sharp, stiff edge of the bag struck the back of Ella's hand.

A sharp sting flared across her skin. A thin red line appeared on her knuckles, welling with a tiny bead of blood.

"Put that on when we get to the hotel," Leland snapped. "You look like a beggar who crawled out of a dumpster. I won't have you embarrassing us before you even get on stage."

Ella looked down at the bag. She reached inside and pulled out the fabric.

It was a dress. It was a dull, lifeless, ash-gray color. The cut was shapeless and conservative, designed to make the wearer look entirely invisible. It was the perfect garment to contrast with whatever glittering gown Ashlyn would be wearing.

Ella folded the ugly fabric over her bleeding hand.

"Thank you, brother," she said. Her voice was flat, mechanical, and entirely empty.

Leland scoffed. He turned his head and stared out his window for the rest of the ride.

Hours passed. The gray landscape shifted to the towering steel and glass of Manhattan. The neon lights from the city streets bled through the tinted windows, washing over Ella's pale face.

She looked up at the glowing spire of the Empire State Building.

Her fingers tightened around the thick paper bag. The sharp edge dug into her palm, but she welcomed the pain. She swallowed the thick lump of humiliation blocking her throat.

The limo slowed down. It didn't pull up to the grand, red-carpeted front entrance of the Four Seasons. Instead, it veered into a dark, narrow alleyway, stopping abruptly by the hotel's service door.