Chapter 3

Clinton bent down. His pristine hands reached out, aggressively prying at Genevieve's arms. He wanted to tear the lifeless infant from her desperate grip.

"Let go of it, you crazy bitch," Clinton hissed.

Genevieve lunged forward. She bit his hand like a wild animal. Her teeth sank deep into the flesh between his thumb and index finger. She was driven by pure, unadulterated maternal madness.

Clinton shouted in pain. He violently yanked his hand back, tearing his own skin against her teeth. He swung his other arm, delivering a brutal, closed-fist strike to the side of her head.

Genevieve's vision swam. The damp walls of the cellar spun wildly. Her grip loosened just enough.

Clinton snatched the stillborn child from her arms. He ruthlessly tossed the tiny body onto a pile of dirty rags in the far corner of the room.

Genevieve screamed. It was a raw, inhuman sound that tore her vocal cords. She scrambled on her hands and knees, trying to crawl toward the corner.

Clinton stepped heavily onto the center of her back. He pinned her flat against the freezing stone. His heavy weight crushed her already broken ribs, forcing a wet gasp from her lips.

He leaned down. His breath was hot against her ear.

"Your father will receive a fake ransom note tomorrow," Clinton whispered. "He'll drain the rest of your accounts trying to save you. And then, you'll just be a tragic memory."

Genevieve turned her head slightly, her cheek pressed against the dirt. "My family will hunt you," she cursed, her voice a ragged wheeze. "To the ends of the earth."

Clinton laughed dismissively. He stepped off her back, only to drop to his knees beside her. He wrapped his large hands around her throat. His thumbs pressed brutally into her windpipe, cutting off her air supply instantly.

Genevieve clawed frantically at his wrists. Her nails tore at his skin, drawing fresh blood. But her oxygen-starved muscles quickly lost power. Her movements grew sluggish.

The dim lightbulb above flickered one last time and died. The cellar was plunged into absolute darkness. Her lungs screamed for air that wouldn't come.

Her desperate thrashing slowed. The icy cold of the stone floor faded into a numb, consuming blackness. Her heart gave one final, weak flutter, and then stopped beating entirely.

A sudden, deafening blast of classical symphony music shattered the silence.

A violent shockwave tore through Genevieve's nervous system. She gasped. Her lungs expanded greedily, pulling in fresh, heavily perfumed air.

Her eyes snapped open in pure terror.

She was staring straight up at a massive crystal chandelier. The blinding light forced her to blink rapidly against the sudden glare. The freezing cellar was gone. The smell of blood was gone.

Genevieve touched her neck frantically. She expected to feel the deep, painful bruises from Clinton's thumbs. Her skin was perfectly smooth.

She dropped her hands to her stomach. Her pregnant belly was completely gone. Her stomach was flat.

She looked down at herself. She was wearing an emerald silk gown. It was the exact dress she had worn to the elite charity gala in Washington D. C. -an event that took place a month before she even announced her pregnancy.

The realization hit her like a speeding freight train. She had returned to the night of her originally planned kidnapping. This was the night the nightmare began. In her previous life, this gala was the true starting point of Clinton and Carolynn's conspiracy. When this initial kidnapping plot had ultimately failed to break her spirit or force the family to abandon her, they had resorted to the long, agonizing backup plan-keeping her trapped in that mansion until her pregnancy, only to murder her in the cellar.

Before she could process the impossibility of it, a heavy hand clamped down onto her bare shoulder. The rough texture of the grip sent a familiar, sickening chill straight down her spine.

Cletus Tucker. The hired kidnapper disguised as a valet. He leaned in close, his sour breath brushing her ear.

"Come quietly if you want to live, Miss Merritt," Cletus whispered.

In her past life, Genevieve had frozen in terror. She had let him lead her out the side door.

Not this time.

The trauma of her murder ignited into pure, explosive rage. The naive socialite was dead. Only the vicious instinct of a survivor remained.

Genevieve lifted her right foot and stomped her sharp stiletto heel down with all her might directly onto Cletus's foot.

Cletus grunted loudly in pain. His grip on her shoulder loosened just enough for the heavy fabric of the silk gown to slip through his fingers.

Genevieve spun around. A waiter was passing by with a tray of drinks. She grabbed a heavy crystal champagne flute from the tray. The glass felt cold and solid in her hand.

She didn't hesitate. She smashed the heavy base of the flute directly into Cletus's face.

The impact shattered his nose in a sudden spray of crimson. Cletus stumbled backward, blinded by pain and blood. He crashed hard into a table of hors d'oeuvres, sending plates and food clattering to the marble floor.

Gasps and screams erupted from the surrounding elite guests.

Genevieve didn't look back. She kicked off her restrictive high heels. The cold marble floor shocked her bare feet.

She reached down and grabbed the hem of her emerald gown. She tore the restrictive side slit higher, ripping the expensive silk to free her legs for a dead sprint.

She pushed past confused socialites and bewildered security guards. She burst through the grand exit doors of the ballroom, hitting the push-bar with both hands.

The cool night air of Washington D. C. hit her flushed face. She ran into the darkness, her bare feet slapping against the pavement. Her heart pounded with the terrifying, intoxicating thrill of a second chance.