At six in the morning, pounding on the door jolted me awake.

Every inch of my body felt like it had been run over by a truck. My head was swimming, and my palm, soaked in water all night, was swollen and ringed with angry red.

Vivienne's assistant stood outside, holding a dog-head mascot suit that reeked of stale urine.

"Put it on."

The assistant pinched her nose, disgust plain on her face.

"Miss Graves says there's a pet charity expo today. You're the mascot at the front entrance. On all fours. Barking. Bark well enough and you get to eat."

"I'm not wearing that."

"No?"

The assistant's lip curled.

"Mr. Henson said if you refuse, he'll take it to mean you don't need this job and don't want to stay in this city."

I bit down on my lip until I tasted copper.

Howard, you heartless bastard.

Twenty minutes later. The hotel entrance.

I was on my hands and knees on scorching concrete, sealed inside the suffocating mascot suit. The sun beat down mercilessly, turning the costume into an oven. Sweat mixed with the blood still seeping from my wounds, stinging every inch of raw skin.

The guests filing past were all money and status. Every single one of them recoiled at the filthy "dog" sprawled in front of the doors, covering their noses as they hurried by.

"Is this some kind of performance art? God, the smell."

"I heard it's that fake heiress from the Graves family. She'll do anything for money now."

"Is this for real? She used to be so full of herself, and now she's actually playing the dog?"

A pair of red stilettos stopped in front of me.

Vivienne stood there with a toy poodle on a leash, a bright smile plastered across her face.

"Oh dear, why isn't this 'dog' barking? Is she hungry?"

She fished a handful of dog treats from her designer bag and scattered them on the ground in front of me.

"Go on. Eat."

Vivienne nudged my mascot headpiece with the toe of her shoe.

"All you have to do is eat every last one of these in front of everyone and bark three times. Then I'll let you go back to making beds."

The crowd around us was growing. Some people had already pulled out their phones to livestream.

"Oh my God, look! It's the real heiress versus the fake one!"

"That's messed up. That's seriously messed up."

"Karma's a witch. She stole someone else's life. She had it coming."

I was on all fours when I spotted a black Maybach parked not far away.