Chapter 3

Gravity vanished.

Felicity felt a violent yank upward. She looked down and gasped.

She was floating near the ceiling of the cabin. Below her, Collins was rocking back and forth, clutching her dead body, his face buried in her neck.

"Collins!" she screamed.

No sound came out. She had no vocal cords. She watched in absolute horror as the most powerful man in New York broke down into a sobbing, broken mess.

Suddenly, a terrifying vacuum force grabbed her ethereal form. The snowy cabin dissolved into a blur of blinding light and rushing colors.

She was pulled across thousands of miles in a fraction of a second.

Her feet hit a solid surface. She stumbled forward, instinctively shielding her eyes from the blinding crystal chandeliers.

She was standing in the center of her own living room in her Bel Air mansion.

Brandt stood by the massive marble fireplace. He held a crystal champagne flute, his face flushed with triumph. There was no grief in his eyes.

Brinley was draped over his arm. She was wearing Felicity's custom-made, limited-edition Dior gown.

"To the Klein trust fund," Brandt smirked, raising his glass. "God, she was so stupid. Believed every word I said."

Brinley giggled, a sharp, grating sound that made Felicity's ghostly stomach churn. "Hollywood is finally mine. No more living in her shadow."

Brandt grabbed Brinley's waist and pulled her into a deep, filthy kiss right in the middle of Felicity's living room.

Felicity's soul vibrated with a rage so intense it felt like nuclear fission. She lunged forward, swinging her hand to slap Brandt across his smug face.

Her hand phased right through his jaw.

She stared at her translucent fingers. A suffocating wave of helplessness crashed over her. She was a ghost. A spectator to her own desecration.

On the massive flat-screen TV, a TMZ breaking news banner flashed red: FELICITY KLEIN MISSING? FLEEING SCANDAL?

Brandt pulled away from Brinley and smirked at the TV. He pulled out his phone. "Time to call the PR team. Let's make sure she's remembered as a homewrecker who ran away."

Before his thumb could hit the screen, a deafening screech of tires tore through the quiet Bel Air night.

The heavy, custom-built mahogany double doors of the mansion exploded inward.

An armored, matte-black SUV smashed through the entrance, sending massive chunks of wood and shattered glass flying across the marble foyer.

Brandt and Brinley screamed. The champagne flute slipped from Brandt's hand, shattering on the floor.

The SUV's high beams flooded the living room, blinding them. The engine roared like a mechanical beast.

The driver's side door was kicked open.

Collins Saunders stepped out. He wore a black trench coat soaked in melted snow and dark blood. He looked like a demon crawling out of hell.

A dozen heavily armed men in tactical gear swarmed into the house behind him, instantly securing every exit and cutting the phone lines.

Collins held a heavy Glock 19 in his right hand. The sharp, metallic smell of gunpowder instantly filled the room.

He locked his dead, bloodshot eyes onto Brandt. The temperature in the room seemed to drop twenty degrees.

"What the hell is this?!" Brandt stammered, his voice cracking. He stumbled backward, his knees knocking together.

Brinley shrieked and dove behind the white leather sofa. She frantically tapped her phone, but the screen showed zero signal.

Collins didn't say a word. He stalked forward. His heavy boots crushed the broken champagne glass into fine powder.

He stopped two feet away from Brandt. He raised his left hand and violently whipped something directly into Brandt's face.

It was a diamond necklace, heavily coated in dark, dried blood. It sliced a thin cut across Brandt's cheek.

Brandt looked down at the floor. He recognized Felicity's lucky charm. His pupils shrank to pinpricks.

"She's dead," Collins rasped. His voice was a terrifying, hollow scrape of metal on metal.

"No... I didn't..." Brandt babbled, holding his hands up in surrender.

Felicity hovered in the air, staring at Collins. The sheer magnitude of his violence, all for her, sent shockwaves through her ghostly form.

Collins slowly raised the Glock. He pressed the cold steel barrel directly against the center of Brandt's forehead.

His finger curled around the trigger.

Time stopped in the Bel Air mansion. The slaughter was about to begin.