Chapter 2

Brigham couldn't shake the image. The woman's eyes. The tattoo. He sat in his penthouse office, the city spread out below him like a blanket of diamonds, but all he could see was the filth of that alley.

"Find her," he said to his assistant, Mark, the next morning.

"Sir? Find who?"

"The woman from last night. The homeless woman."

Mark looked confused. "Why? I gave her some money. She left."

"I want to know who she is. I want to know where she came from. There was something... familiar about her." He couldn't bring himself to say the name. Eloise.

Mark, ever efficient, didn't question it further. "I'll get on it, sir."

It took Mark less than a day. He used the building's security footage, facial recognition software, and a network of contacts that money could buy. He found her in a small, city-run shelter in the Bowery.

When Brigham's private car pulled up, the staff were intimidated. Mark handled it, explaining that Mr. Conway was a philanthropist interested in the city's homeless problem. It was a plausible lie.

They found her on a narrow cot in a crowded, noisy room. She was asleep, or unconscious. She didn't stir when they approached. Looking at her up close, without the shadows of the alley, Mark felt a knot of pity and disgust in his stomach. Her injuries were worse than he had realized.

Brigham had sent a private doctor with them. A discreet professional who worked for the family. The doctor, a man named Alan, knelt by the cot.

"We need to move her to a private facility," Dr. Alan said quietly, his face grim. "I can't examine her properly here."

The transfer was arranged quickly and quietly. They took her to a private clinic on the Upper East Side, a place that valued discretion above all else. In a clean, white room, the doctor began his examination. Eloise was awake now, but passive, her eyes empty as they undressed her and laid her on the examination table.

"My God," Dr. Alan whispered as he cleaned the grime from her face. The full extent of the scar was horrifying. It wasn't just a cut; the skin was melted, shiny, and tight. "This was acid. A strong corrosive."

Mark felt sick. He had seen a lot of things working for Brigham Conway, but this was different. This was barbaric.

The doctor moved to her left hand. He gently probed the mangled shape. "The bones... they're not just broken, they've been methodically crushed. One by one. This was done deliberately, with extreme force. The hand is useless. It will never function again."

Eloise lay still, not flinching. It was as if she was observing the examination of someone else's body. She felt a strange, bitter sense of vindication. See? See what was done to me?

The doctor continued his work, his expression growing more disturbed with each discovery. He used a small light to look into her throat.

"I don't understand," he murmured. He tried again. "Her vocal cords... they've been severed. Surgically, almost. It's not an injury from an accident. Someone did this to her."

He looked at Mark, his eyes wide with shock. "Who would do this to another human being? This is torture."

Mark couldn't answer. He could only stare at the broken woman on the table.

In his mind, he replayed the scene that had led to Eloise Conway's exile. He had been a junior assistant then, but he remembered it clearly. The family meeting in Denton Conway's study.

Eve Mathews, the newly discovered long-lost daughter, was crying, her arm in a sling.

"She pushed me," Eve had sobbed. "She said I was a fake, a usurper. She tried to open the main safe. When I tried to stop her, she pushed me down the stairs."

Denton Conway's face had been like thunder. Alicia Martinez, Brigham's mother, had rushed to comfort Eve, shooting daggers at Eloise.

Eloise had stood there, defiant and proud. "She's lying. All of it. The safe was already open when I got there. She's setting me up."

Brigham had been silent, torn. He had loved Eloise, but Eve was now the biological heir, confirmed by a DNA test. His loyalty was shifting.

"And the money?" Denton had roared. "Two million dollars in bearer bonds, gone from the safe. Where is it, Eloise?"

"I don't know! I didn't take it!"

No one believed her. The evidence seemed overwhelming. Eve, the sweet, innocent girl, had been attacked. Eloise, the proud, sometimes difficult heiress, had a motive. She had lost her position, her inheritance.

The family had cast her out. They told the world she had gone to Europe to cool off, a story that covered their shame. They never reported the theft to the police, to avoid a scandal.

Now, looking at the woman on the table, Mark felt a cold dread. The story didn't add up. The Eloise he remembered would have fought. She would have screamed her innocence from the rooftops. She would never have allowed herself to become... this.

The doctor was taking a blood sample. "We'll run a full panel. Check for diseases, toxins... and a DNA test."

"A DNA test?" Mark asked, startled.

"Standard procedure for unidentified patients with significant trauma," the doctor said, though his eyes suggested another reason. He had seen the tattoo on her wrist. He had heard the rumors about the Conway family. He was being thorough. "We should have the results within twenty-four hours."

He gave her a sedative, and her eyes finally fluttered closed.

Mark stepped out of the room and called Brigham.

"Sir, we have her. She's... she's in very bad shape." He described the doctor's findings in a low, shaking voice. The acid. The crushed hand. The severed vocal cords.

There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

"Is it her?" Brigham's voice was tight, strained.

"I... I don't know, sir. She's unrecognizable. But the doctor is running a DNA test. We'll know for sure tomorrow."

Another silence. Then, "Keep her there. Don't let anyone in or out. And Mark... find out who did this to her."

"Yes, sir."

Mark hung up. He looked back through the glass at Eloise's sleeping form. A wave of pity, so strong it almost buckled his knees, washed over him. He thought of the twenty-dollar bill he had tried to give her. He thought of Brigham's cold dismissal.

Get her out of here. I don't want to see this filth on company property.

If this woman was who he thought she was, they had done more than just cast her out. They had thrown her to the wolves.