**“Aria Wynters. Female. Twenty-seven. Diagnosis: Neurotoxic psychosis."**
The words echoed as Aria blinked awake.
Metal restraints bound her wrists and ankles. The light overhead pulsed too white, too clean. She was inside a cold MRI cradle, a thick collar pressed against her throat.
“Vitals spiking," someone muttered behind the one-way mirror.
“Sedate her again," came Dominic's voice.
Her heart stuttered.
No—
No, he wouldn't—
“Don't," she rasped, but her voice cracked like broken ice.
She turned her head, seeing mirrored walls, soundproof foam, white coats hovering.
Blackthorne Asylum.
They'd locked her in.
And Dominic had put her there.
—
Behind the glass, Dominic stood stiff, arms folded, expression unreadable.
Rashida murmured beside him, “It was the board's call."
“Sh
