Chapter 3

The journey back was a nightmare. My hands shook so badly I could barely hold the steering wheel. Every passing truck felt like it was going to run me off the road. Sweat pasted my thin shirt to my skin, and the memory of twisted metal and breaking glass played on a loop in my head.

It took me the entire day. By the time I reached the Sinclair mansion in New Orleans, the sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. I managed to park the car, my body trembling with exhaustion and residual terror. I stumbled out and collapsed right there at the massive iron gates.

I woke up in a small, damp room in the servants' quarters. The air smelled of mildew. My loyal friend from back home, Sarah, was sitting by the bed, her face etched with worry. She was the only one I had managed to bring with me to this gilded cage, the only person I trusted.

"Elena, you're awake," she said, relief in her voice. "They said you collapsed from exhaustion."

Before I could answer, the door opened. My parents, Richard and Eleanor, swept in, followed by Julian. Their faces were masks of cold fury.

"What was that little performance at the gates?" my mother, Eleanor, demanded, her voice dripping with disdain. "Did you want the whole neighborhood to see the poor, neglected heiress? To make us look bad?"

"You are a Sinclair now," my father added, his voice a low growl. "Start acting like it. We took you out of that miserable hovel, and this is how you repay us? With cheap theatrics?"

I tried to speak, to defend myself, but Julian cut me off.

"I warned you not to make trouble," he said, his eyes hard. "Don't think I won't take you back to that cabin. You got lucky once. You won't get lucky again."

They saw my scraped hands, my torn clothes, my pale face. They didn't care. They sided with Cassandra, their perfect daughter, who was probably upstairs resting her "sprained" ankle on silk pillows.

They berated me, calling me ungrateful, low-class, a constant source of embarrassment. They told me I was to stay in this room, out of sight, until after Cassandra's wedding. It was for the best, they said. It would stop my presence from "spoiling the happy occasion."

After they swept out, leaving me in the suffocating silence, I looked at Sarah. Her eyes were filled with tears of rage on my behalf.

"Forget them, Elena," she whispered fiercely.

I took a deep breath, the anger and humiliation solidifying into a cold, hard resolve in my chest. "Sarah," I said, my voice steady. "I need you to do something for me. Secretly. I need you to buy me some fabric. White silk. And thread. I need to make a wedding dress."

Sarah stared at me, confused. "A wedding dress? But..."

"My groom is not Carter Vanderbilt," I said, a strange calm settling over me. "And my wedding is very soon."