Rising From Ruin: The Billionaire's Lethal Roommate

Her eyes snapped open.

The blurry ceiling tiles slowly sharpened into focus. They were stained yellow with water damage. The harsh, chemical stench of industrial bleach and cheap rubbing alcohol burned the inside of her nose.

Aspen Blair tried to lift her right arm. Her bicep trembled. The muscle felt like wet sand, heavy and useless. Atrophy. She had not used this body in a very long time.

A wall-mounted television buzzed with static in the corner of the cramped hospital room. She forced her stiff neck to turn. The joints popped loudly in the quiet room.

On the screen, a late-night Hollywood entertainment broadcast was playing. Freddy Stanley, an A-list actor with a perfectly sculpted jaw, sat on a talk show couch. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing out a single, pathetic tear.

"I can't take it anymore," Freddy said to the camera, his voice shaking. "For two years, Aspen has stalked me. She ruined my sets. She ruined my life. I am exhausted."

A sharp, tearing pain ripped through Aspen's temples.

Memories slammed into her brain. They were not her choices, but she had seen them all. For twenty-four months, she had been trapped behind her own eyes, a prisoner in her own skull. She remembered the Pacific Coast Highway. The screech of tires. The crushing impact of the car crash. That was the moment the darkness had swallowed her, pushing her soul into the passenger seat while an invasive, foreign presence took the wheel, using her face to chase a mediocre actor. The sheer violation of it made her stomach churn.

She clenched her fists. Her fingernails dug into her palms. The pain was real. The heavy, grounding sensation of her soul finally locking back into her own flesh sent a shiver down her spine.

She was back.

Aspen looked down at her left hand. A thick IV needle was taped violently into the blue vein on the back of her hand. The plastic tube fed clear liquid into her bloodstream.

She reached over with her right hand. She pinched the plastic base of the needle.

She did not hesitate. With a sharp, upward jerk of her wrist, she ripped the needle out of her flesh.

Blood welled up instantly. Three thick, dark red drops splattered onto the pristine white hospital sheets. She did not even blink at the sting.

She leaned over and grabbed the newest iPhone sitting on the cheap plastic nightstand. The screen lit up. The Face ID scanned her features and unlocked immediately.

The Twitter app was open. A barrage of notification sounds pinged like rapid gunfire. Her direct messages were flooded with death threats. She tapped the trending tab. The hashtag AspenBlairGoToHell sat at the number one spot.

She swiped out of the app. She did not care about the opinions of strangers. She tapped the Bank of America icon.

The screen loaded. She stared at the bold black numbers in the center of the screen.

Available Balance: $0.00.

Her jaw tightened.