Strewn into their mockery was a thinly-veiled accusation: It was all Deirdre’s fault.

How could they be so cruel? She was just as much of a human as they were. She was not an emotionless plaything! Why must she obey Brendan’s every whim? Because she had been unfortunate enough to become the Devil’s object of obsession? Because she deserved to be punished for saying yes to becoming Mrs. Brighthall?

Deirdre’s pain was consuming her from within. She seemed to have depleted her entire supply of tears, and now all there was left in her eyes was a bottomless void threatening to swallow her sense of self.

Then, she remembered. Sterling was about to be beaten by a violent mob.

Fingers trembling, she thought of Brendan’s habit and felt her way to the bottom of the driver’s seat. Then, she pulled out a knife.

She turned its pointy edge toward her neck.

The bodyguards jumped and panicked. “What the hell are you doing?! Get that thing away from you!” They cried, yanking the car door open.