Before I know it, the salesgirl is ushering me into the dressing room with an armload of clothes. I spend what feels like hours trying on outfit after outfit, parading out for Ivy''s critical eye.

    "Hmm, I don''t love that one," she says, wrinkling her nose at a slinky black dress. "Next."

    I obediently retreat back behind the curtain, shimmying out of the dress and into a pair of high-waisted trousers and a silk camisole. When I reemerge, Ivy claps her hands delightedly.

    "That''s the one! You look so chic. We''ll take it. Actually, just keep it on. It looks better than what I brought over."

    This Ivy is so different from the Ivy I''ve been treated to up to this point, and I''m dizzy with whiplash.

    The process repeats at what seems like a dozen different stores throughout the afternoon. Shoes, dresses, blouses, skirts, pants... by the time we hit the fourth boutique, I''m fairly certain I''ve tried on more outfits today than I have in my entire life.

    My feet are screaming in protest from the endless parade of heels Ivy insists I model. I''m parched from barely having a chance to grab a bottle of water.

    But Ivy seems to be having the time of her life, reveling in her role as personal shopper and stylist. She flits around me like a deranged fairy godmother, clucking over hemlines and admiring how certain colors bring out my eyes.

    "You have such a great figure, Ava," she gushes as I self-consciously smooth my hands over my hips in a skintight black pencil skirt. "We simply must get you some things to show it off properly."

    I force a tight smile, feeling distinctly uncomfortable under her appraising stare. Revealing clothes have never been my thing—I much prefer loose, flowy fabrics that skim over my curves rather than clinging to them.

    At one point, I try to politely extricate myself, suggesting we take a break to grab a bite to eat. But Ivy merely waves a dismissive hand.

    "Oh, there''s no need. I had the driver pick up some protein bars and smoothies. Here, have one of these." She tosses me some sort of chalky-looking nutrition bar from her purse.

    I eye it dubiously but take a small bite, grimacing at the gritty, tasteless lump. So much for lunch.

    "Are you certain?" she demands, a hint of impatience coloring her tone.

    The driver doesn''t respond. Instead, he hits the brakes hard, the tires of our luxury sedan shrieking in protest. My body lurches violently against the restraints of my seatbelt as the car swerves, the momentum nearly whipping my head to the side.

    In the front, a sleek blue sedan has pulled across the road, blocking our path entirely. There''s a split second where everything seems to move in slow motion—the acrid scent of burnt rubber, Ivy''s sharp inhalation of breath, the driver''s shouting.

    Then everything explodes into chaos.

    Our car spins wildly, the force slamming me against the door with bruising intensity. Ivy, who hadn''t bothered to fasten her seatbelt, isn''t so lucky. Her head cracks against the window with a sickening thud, and she immediately goes limp, crimson blooming across her temple.

    Two car accidents in less than two weeks? My luck is shit.

    "Ivy!" I scream, my voice drowned out by the deafening blare of the car horn as the driver frantically wrestles with the steering wheel.

    Finally, mercifully, we grind to a bone-jarring halt, the rear of the car brushing up against a cluster of neatly trimmed hedges lining someone''s front yard. I''m panting, dazed, my heart thundering a frantic staccato rhythm against my ribcage.

    The driver is already moving, ripping off his seatbelt and shoving open his door. "Stay in the car!" he barks at me, but little does he know—I can''t move. I''m still processing it all.

    His huge frame uncoils with a lethal grace as he charges toward the blockade. Even from inside, I can see at least three figures emerging from the other vehicle, their movements tightly coordinated.

    For a fraction of a second, a flicker of hope kindles in my chest. Our driver is easily twice the size of any of those men—if anyone can take them, it''ll be him.

    That hope is swiftly extinguished as one of the figures raises something—a gun? A tranquilizer? I can''t tell—and fires. The driver jerks like a puppet with its strings cut, crumpling bonelessly to the asphalt.

    My mouth goes dry with terror.