She’s tall and big boned, with frizzy red hair framing a face that is littered with acne scars. Over the past year, I’ve had plenty of time to observe her in her natural habitat and I’ve come to realize she uses her job as a way to obtain what she’s never gotten outside these walls. Power.

Myriad must be her wet dream.

“Go ahead,” she says. “Fight your future the way you always do. Insult Dr. Vans and your parents with that viper tongue.”

“I will, thanks.” Whatever happens, I’ll survive. My parents need me alive.

How sad is that? The best I can say about the people who created me is that they need me to continue breathing.

The girl I used to be would have curled into a ball and sobbed. The girl I am raises her chin and presses on.

“Afterward,” she adds, “we have extra-special plan for you.”

Last time, I was tied down and beaten with brass knuckles. Extra-special scares me.

I ignore the fear, as always, knowing it will only help her sense of empowerment.

“So sweet of you.” Like Sloan, I trace fingertips down my cheeks. “Tears of joy.”

She pats my cheek with a little too much force. “Enjoy the meeting, Miss Lockwood. I have feeling you won’t enjoy anything for long time to come.” With that, she knocks on the door and strides away.

I want to vomit.

The door to Vans’s office slides open, and cold fingers of dread crawl down my spine.

I can do this. Whatever “this” is. I remind myself of the three most important facts of life.

(1) Firstlife, good or bad, is fleeting, even if we live a hundred years. Numbers never lie. A hundred years is nothing compared to thousands of years in the Everlife. So a few hours...days...weeks of pain? Means nothing. Because—

(2) pain is temporary, just as Bow said. It won’t follow me to the other side.

And (3) what happens after death will be forever, making the afterlife far more important than anything that happens here and now.

Still, I break out in a sweat as I step inside the spacious office, where everything is ornate and overdone. An arched ceiling with a crystal teardrop chandelier dangles above a desk the same size as the conference table. The walls are made of light stone and dark wood, the two framing multiple bookshelves and a marble fireplace with legs carved to resemble lions. Lions with golden collars clamped around their necks, their heads bowed.

Gossip claims there’s a door to the outside world hidden somewhere in this room.

Vans is already seated at the conference table, alongside my parents. Yes, my mother is here. A pang of homesickness overtakes me. Homesickness, along with regret and sorrow. The painful deluge nearly chokes me.

Fat tears stream down my mother’s cheeks as she meets my gaze. She’s gained at least twenty pounds since last I saw her, yet she used to flip out over a single ounce. Priorities change.

I cut off a bitter laugh.

As I stare at her, silent, a sob leaves her. When I was a little girl and someone said an unkind word to me, she would whisper, You don’t have haters, sweetheart, you have prefans.

“Ten—” she begins.

“Tenley,” I correct, my tone cool. “Only my friends call me Ten.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Her chin trembles as she struggles to control her reactions. “I understand.”

I hurt her. Good. She’s hurt me.

Sorrow has marred features that are strikingly similar to mine. We both have pale skin with a smattering of freckles and eyes almost too big for our faces, though hers are a rich chocolate brown. Our cheekbones are high and sharp, our noses small but pert, our lips heart-shaped. She has a shoulder-length crop of auburn hair artfully cut while my last trim came from a butcher knife courtesy of Nurse Ratched.

“Are you here to take me home?” I ask.

She looks down at her hands and shakes her head.

“Not unless you’re ready to sign the contract,” Senator Lockwood says. He sits rigidly in his chair, his features strained as he looks me over.

He’s aged. There are new frown lines around his eyes and mouth, and his once-olive skin is sallow. His hair, so black it gleams blue in the light—an attribute I inherited from him—is now salted with gray. His mismatched eyes, one green, one blue—another attribute I inherited—watch me with determination.

Despite his shortcomings, he’s still a handsome man. Women everywhere have always thrown themselves at him. Girls, too. My friends would giggle about him behind their hands. So sexy.

At the table, only one chair is empty, and it’s on the opposite side of the others. Their way of saying we’re a unit, you’re alone.

I sit with all the dignity I can muster.

“Tenley.” The senator pulls at the collar of his shirt. “It’s nice to see you.”

“I wish I could say the same.”

His flinch is slight, but I notice. Does he ever wonder if he made the right decision sending me here?

Vans pushes a digital pad my way, putting my forced breeziness to shame. “Are you ready to sign with Myriad?”

“Nope. Now, if we’re done here...” I stand.

“Refuse,” he continues as if I haven’t spoken, “and I’ll be forced to punish Killian for sneaking food to your cell.”

I gasp. The cameras. Or he and Killian planned this, thinking I’d feel so guilty about the boy who caught me when I fell, the boy who fed me when I was hungry, I’d finally cave. “No mention of Sloan?” I grit out.

“Who is—” my mom begins.

The senator shakes his head. “We don’t need the details.”

Correction: he doesn’t want the details.

I ease into the chair and cross my arms. “You want me to sign, Senator? Convince me.”

His next flinch is more noticeable. He’s always hated when I use his title. He reaches up to give his collar another tug but catches himself. “I’ve tried. Look where we ended up.”

“We?” That’s rich!

My dad pushes out a heavy breath. “You have no idea what it’s like to grow up in poverty, the child of Unsigned. I had nothing. Not even friends. Myriad changed everything. I owe them. You owe them.”

I flash back to the night I heard my parents arguing about my grandparents—my mom’s parents. The Troikan loyalists.

“They just want to spend time with their granddaughter,” my mom said.

“We can’t risk it,” my dad replied. “They’ll fill Ten’s head with nonsense, the way they once filled yours.”

“They won’t. They only want to make memories with her.”

“Don’t be naive, Grace. Everyone has an agenda.”

“You’re wrong. And cynical! They’re wonderful people.”

“If they’re so wonderful, why did you reject everything they taught you?”

“To be with you,” she’d whispered.

I glance at my mom. She’s still crying. Does she ever wish she’d sided with her parents instead of my dad?

“Myriad will take care of you,” he says, his desperation showing. “They’ll take care of us all.”

He’s deceived, a voice whispers in my ear. I detect a slight English accent and immediately think of Bow. Only the voice belongs to a boy. You’ll be used up and thrown away like garbage.