Chapter 4

They thought I had accepted my fate.

They thought a girl who grew up in the slums, who had never seen the world, would be bought off by five million dollars and a villa, would gratefully lie down on the operating table and trade a part of herself for a so-called "beautiful future."

They didn't know that when a predator tears off its disguise, the prey reveals its fangs.

I only made one request: an internship at the family company. They didn't care about such a trivial demand and arranged for me to work in the Finance Department, claiming it matched my major and provided a great career opportunity.

They didn't know that the most important lesson I learned in my twenty-four years in Queens wasn't accounting principles or how to balance books, but how to survive in the cracks, how to strike back when trampled, and how to find a way out in seemingly hopeless situations.

In my mind, I was planning a revenge. A rebirth from the ashes.

Before that, I couldn't show a shred of emotion.

Maggie once said, "Emily, there are two kinds of bad people in this world. One bullies you with fists, the other stabs you with a smile. You can just dodge the first kind, but the second..." She had paused then, looking at the rain-soaked street outside the window. "You have to learn to snatch the knife before they stab you."

I turned and left the living room, my high heels treading silently on the carpet. Quiet and submissive, just as I had come.

The corridor was long, lined with portraits of generations of Graysons. Those men and women in clothes from different eras looked down on me with cold eyes. I knew that in their eyes, I would always be an outsider, a sudden alien intrusion.

Back in my suite, I locked the door, leaned my back against the cold panel, and slowly slid to the floor.

Outside the window, New York was still ablaze with lights. This city never sleeps; desire never extinguishes here. Someone is tasting caviar in an Upper East Side mansion, someone is handing out flyers under the neon lights of Times Square, and someone is sleeping wrapped in newspapers on a bench in Central Park.

And I, sitting on the floor of this suite worth tens of millions, finally saw my position clearly.

I was not a daughter of the Grayson family.

I was an organ donor, a medical resource about to be used, a tool that could be discarded at any time.

I lifted my hand and looked at the deep crescent marks my fingernails had dug into my palm. The pain was real, real enough to assure me this wasn't a nightmare.

Then, I laughed.

Not a numb, submissive laugh, but a cold, sharp one.

If someone wants to eat my flesh, I will shatter every tooth in their mouth.

If they want to use my body to extend their lives, I will drag everything they cherish—money, status, reputation, freedom—straight down into hell.

The game has just begun.