Chapter 2

I don't know how I made it out of the playhouse.

It was pouring outside, and I was soaked to the bone when my older brother, Mason Henson, pulled up beside me in his car.

Mason's face went ashen. He took off his coat and wrapped it around me.

"I've already had the story killed. That bastard from the Sanchez family—I will never let him get away with this,"

Mason said through gritted teeth.

I leaned against the car window, trembling all over.

"Mason, I want to go back to the Hillside," I said softly.

He frowned. "What do you want to go back there for? Come home with me. Dad and Mom are worried sick."

"I still have some things there. I want to go get them," I insisted.

He couldn't talk me out of it, so he told the driver to turn around.

I pushed open the door of the Hillside mansion.

Bruce Sanchez was lounging in a recliner in a bathrobe, swirling a glass of red wine in his hand.

A woman with a smoking-hot body was draped across his lap, feeding him grapes.

She was Maria Finch, this year's Harbor District beauty queen freshly crowned by Metro Broadcasting Network, the crown not even settled steady on her head yet.

I stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, and my blood ran cold in an instant.

Maria saw me.

She picked up a bathrobe and draped it over herself.

It was the one Bruce had a craftsman custom-make just for me.

She pulled it snug around herself, swaying her hips as she walked up to me.

"So Miss Henson is back. Mr. Sanchez said you wouldn't be coming home tonight, so I borrowed your robe to wear. You don't mind, do you, Miss Henson?"

Humiliation washed over me.

I stared at that bathrobe, my breathing going ragged.

My chest felt tight and heavy, and a wheezing sound came from my throat.

My asthma was flaring up.

I clutched my chest, my legs gave out, and I collapsed to the floor.

"Medicine," I forced out, digging through my bag for my asthma inhaler.

My hands were shaking so badly that everything in the bag spilled across the floor, and the inhaler rolled to Maria's feet.

She flinched and took a step back.

"Hey, quit playing dead," she said in disgust.

Hearing the commotion, Bruce set down his wine glass and came over.

He looked down at me, a flicker of panic crossing his eyes, but it was quickly buried under coldness.

He frowned slightly and pushed away Maria, who was pressing up against him.

"Your tricks for fighting over my attention have gotten so stale," he said, his voice cool. "Faking sick at the drop of a hat—you think that'll make me go soft?"

I stared at him hard.

The lack of air was suffocating me, and I stretched my hand out desperately toward the inhaler.

But Bruce didn't pick it up for me. He gave a cold snort and turned to wrap his arm around the other woman.

"Let's go. Don't bother with this crazy woman."

He left the backyard with his group of people.

I lay against the cold tiles, my consciousness slowly slipping away.

Just when I thought I was about to die, a hand picked up the inhaler and pressed it to my mouth.

It was Clarence Dickerson, the mansion's butler.

"Miss Henson, breathe it in, quick," Clarence said, sweat pouring down his face.

"Miss Henson, Mr. Sanchez really is worried about you. He told me to burn the bathrobe that woman touched, and to have Dr. Finch see to you right away."

"Clarence, pass a message along to him for me," I said, wiping the spit from the corner of my mouth. "I don't want anything in this house anymore."