The bathroom in the guest room was lined with white marble.

Averi stood in front of the sink. She twisted the brass handle. Hot water poured from the faucet, filling the basin with steam.

She poured a generous amount of specialized cleansing oil into her palms. She rubbed her hands together and pressed them to her face. She massaged the oil into her skin, feeling the thick, suffocating layers of yellow foundation and heavy brow pencil melt away.

She splashed warm water over her face.

When she looked up into the mirror, the ugly duckling was gone.

Her skin was luminous, pale and flawless. Her natural eyebrows were sharply arched, framing eyes that were a striking, piercing shade of hazel. Her lips, freed from the pale concealer, were naturally full and flushed. She was breathtaking.

Averi grabbed a plush white towel and patted her face dry.

Her throat felt scratchy. She looked around the room. There were no water bottles.

She glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. It was past midnight. The house was dead silent. The brothers were likely out at their clubs, and the staff was asleep.

She didn't bother putting the makeup back on. She wore a loose, oversized silk pajama shirt. She opened her door and stepped out into the dimly lit hallway.

She walked barefoot, her steps making absolutely no sound on the thick Persian runner. She headed toward the end of the hall, where she remembered seeing a small sitting room with a wet bar.

She reached the heavy mahogany door. It was cracked open an inch.

Averi pushed it open and stepped inside.

It wasn't the sitting room.

The air was heavy with the scent of old paper and expensive scotch. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight, blocking out the moonlight. The only source of light was a single, green-glass banker's lamp sitting on a massive oak desk.

Behind the desk sat Clarke Chavez.

He was leaning back in his leather executive chair. His tie was loosened, his top collar button undone. He was pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed in exhaustion.

The slight shift of air from the open door made Clarke freeze.

His eyes snapped open.

They were predatory. Sharp, cold, and assessing.

Averi's heart slammed against her ribs. Her breath caught in her throat. She instinctively took a step backward, her bare foot brushing against the carpet.

The faint, golden light from the hallway spilled over her shoulder. It hit the side of her face, illuminating the sharp, perfect slope of her nose, the fullness of her lips, and the cascade of dark hair falling over her shoulders.

Clarke's pupils dilated. The air in his lungs vanished.

His hand dropped from his face. He stared at the stunning, ethereal woman standing in the doorway of his study, his brain short-circuiting.

Averi reacted with lethal speed.

She threw her head down. Her long, dark hair fell forward like a curtain, completely obscuring her face.

"Sorry. Wrong room," she mumbled, her voice thick and completely devoid of her fake accent.

She stepped back and pulled the door shut.

Bang.

Clarke shot out of his chair. The heavy leather seat slammed into the bookshelf behind him. He crossed the room in three massive strides and ripped the door open.

He stared down the long, empty hallway.

Nothing. Not a sound. Not a shadow.

The next morning, Averi sat at the vanity. She applied the yellow foundation twice as thick. She drew the eyebrows harsher. She shoved the glasses so far up her nose they pinched.

She walked into the dining room.

Holt and Clarke were already seated.

The moment Averi walked in, Clarke's head snapped up. His cold, eagle-like stare locked onto her face. He scrutinized her muddy skin, her hunched posture, her thick glasses.

Averi felt the weight of his gaze like a physical pressure on her skin. She forced her hand to tremble as she pushed her glasses up. She pulled out her chair and sat down, keeping her eyes glued to her empty plate.

Clarke stared at her for another five seconds. Then, he slowly exhaled and rubbed his temples. He had been reviewing the European merger documents until 4 A.M. He was hallucinating. That was the only logical explanation.

Holt threw the morning edition of the Wall Street Journal onto the center of the table.

"Look at this," Holt sneered, glaring at Averi. "Another article about gold diggers trying to marry into old money. You parasites are all the same. You latch on and suck the resources dry."

Averi slowly set her glass of milk down.

She lifted her head. The pathetic, trembling act vanished from her eyes.

"Is that right?" Averi said. Her English was crisp, sharp, and completely devoid of the Rust Belt twang.

Holt blinked, caught off guard by her tone.

"Because if we are talking about draining resources," Averi continued, her voice cold and steady. Thank God for the public financial reports she had skimmed on her phone late last night. "I believe the Chavez Group's stock dipped 2.4 percent yesterday. Primarily due to the catastrophic failure of the Hudson Yards real estate acquisition."

Holt's face drained of color.

"A project," Averi tilted her head, her eyes locking onto Holt's, "that you have been personally managing for the last six months. So tell me, Holt. Who is the real parasite draining this family's money?"

Holt's mouth opened, but no sound came out. His face flushed a violent, angry red. He slammed his hands on the table and shot up, his chair tipping over backward with a loud crash.

Clarke's hand froze halfway to his coffee cup.

He slowly turned his head, looking at Averi. The annoyance in his eyes was gone. In its place was a sharp, dangerous spark of genuine intrigue.

Averi didn't even flinch at the crashing chair. She calmly picked up her linen napkin, dabbed the corner of her mouth, and stood up.

She grabbed her frayed backpack and walked out of the dining room without looking back.

Averi walked into the grand foyer, adjusting the strap of her heavy backpack.

Brennan Chavez was leaning against the marble pillar near the front doors. He was spinning a silver key fob around his index finger. He wore a tailored navy blazer and a perfectly practiced, gentle smile.

"Morning, Averi," Brennan said smoothly. "Grandfather's orders. We have to 'bond.' I'm your chauffeur today."

Averi didn't argue. She nodded meekly and followed him out the massive front doors.

A sleek, black Rolls Royce Phantom sat in the driveway. Brennan opened the passenger door for her. Averi climbed in, her cheap sneakers sinking into the lambswool floor mats.

As Brennan steered the massive car onto the streets of Manhattan, he glanced at her.

"So," Brennan said, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. "Tell me about Ohio. Must have been tough growing up out there."

Averi stared out the window. "It was okay. Lots of corn. My grandma liked to knit."

She kept her answers painfully dull, using short, ungrammatical sentences. She played the idiot perfectly. Brennan probed for twenty minutes, trying to find a crack in her story, but hit a solid brick wall of manufactured stupidity.

The Rolls Royce pulled up to the wrought-iron gates of the Manhattan Elite Academy.

It was a sea of designer uniforms, luxury cars, and generational wealth.

Averi pushed the heavy car door open. She stepped onto the sidewalk. Her oversized brown sweater and scuffed sneakers made her look like a stain on a priceless painting.

Dozens of eyes immediately snapped toward her. Whispers erupted like a sudden gust of wind.

Brennan rolled down the passenger window. He leaned over, his gentle smile widening into something cruel.

"Have a wonderful first day, Averi!" Brennan shouted, making sure his voice carried over the courtyard.

He rolled the window up and drove away, leaving her completely exposed to the wolves.

Averi ignored the burning stares. She kept her head down and walked straight into the main academic building.

She found her locker in the crowded hallway. She reached out to spin the combination dial.

A hand slammed flat against the metal door, right next to her face.

Averi didn't flinch. She slowly turned her head.

Tinsley Vance stood there. She was the undisputed queen of the school, wearing a custom-tailored blazer and a sneer that mirrored Holt's. Two girls stood right behind her, acting as her shadow.

"You're the charity case," Tinsley said loudly. The hallway went quiet. Everyone was watching. "You smell like a literal dumpster. Are you sure you're not lost?"

Averi stared at Tinsley's perfectly manicured nails pressing against the locker. She didn't say a word. She just stepped back, intending to walk around them.

Tinsley's eyes flashed with fury at being ignored.

She grabbed the large iced coffee from her friend's hand and hurled the dark liquid straight at Averi's chest.

Averi's reflexes fired. She shifted her weight and slid a half-step backward.

The coffee splashed violently against the metal locker door, raining down onto the floor. Not a single drop touched Averi's sweater.

Tinsley gasped, her face turning red.

Averi didn't even blink. She turned and walked down the hall toward her first class.

At noon, the cafeteria was deafening. Averi skipped lunch. She walked into the girls' bathroom on the second floor. It was empty.

She walked over to the sink and turned on the water.

The sound of the heavy bathroom door locking echoed off the tile walls.

Averi looked up into the mirror.

Tinsley stood by the door, her hand still on the deadbolt. Her two friends flanked her. They blocked the only exit.

Tinsley rolled up the sleeves of her blazer. She marched toward Averi, her face twisted in ugly rage.

"You think you can embarrass me?" Tinsley shrieked. "I'm going to teach you exactly where you belong, you piece of trash."

Tinsley raised her right hand high, aiming a vicious slap directly at Averi's face.

The pathetic, hunched posture vanished from Averi's body.

Her eyes turned into chips of black ice.

Averi's left hand shot up like a striking snake. She caught Tinsley's wrist mid-air. Her fingers clamped down on the bone with the crushing force of a steel vice.

Tinsley's eyes bulged. A piercing scream ripped from her throat as the bones in her wrist ground together.

Averi didn't hesitate. She pivoted on her left foot, driving her right leg forward in a brutal, sweeping arc.

Her shin slammed into the back of Tinsley's knees.

Tinsley's legs flew out from under her. She crashed hard onto the unforgiving ceramic tile floor. The breath exploded from her lungs in a violent gasp.

The two friends screamed and lunged forward.

Averi dropped Tinsley's wrist. She spun, using the momentum to deliver a flawless, lightning-fast roundhouse kick. Her heel connected squarely with the first girl's stomach. The girl folded in half and flew backward, crashing into the metal stall door.

The second girl froze in terror.

Averi grabbed her by the lapels of her expensive blazer. She lifted her onto her toes and slammed her backward against the mirrors above the sinks.

The heavy glass shuddered violently, threatening to shatter.

Averi pinned the girl there, her forearm pressing against the girl's collarbone, cutting off her air.

Ten seconds. The fight was over.

The bathroom was filled with the sound of wheezing and quiet sobbing.

Averi released the girl against the mirror. She stepped over Tinsley, who was curled in a fetal position on the wet floor, clutching her wrist.

Averi crouched down. She grabbed a fistful of Tinsley's blonde hair and yanked her head back.

"Listen to me very carefully," Averi whispered. Her voice was dead calm, devoid of any emotion. "If you dare come near me again, I'll break your arm. Do you understand?"

Tinsley stared into Averi's eyes. She saw pure, unfiltered violence. Tinsley sobbed hysterically, nodding her head as fast as she could.

Averi let go of her hair. She stood up.

She walked over to the sink, turned on the water, and washed her hands. She pulled a paper towel from the dispenser, dried her fingers, and tossed it perfectly into the trash can.

She unlocked the bathroom door and walked out into the hallway. The shrill lunch bell shrieked through the halls at that exact moment, its harsh sound perfectly covering the last of the whimpers from inside and sending the few lingering students scattering toward their next class. Her face returning to a mask of dull indifference.

Averi stepped out of the girls' bathroom. The hallway was relatively quiet, most students still in the cafeteria.

She had barely taken ten steps when the heavy wooden door of the boys' bathroom across the hall swung open.

Holt Chavez walked out. He had his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his uniform trousers, a piece of gum snapping loudly in his mouth.

He spotted Averi immediately. His upper lip curled into his signature sneer. He opened his mouth, the insult already forming on his tongue.

Before he could speak, the door to the girls' bathroom cracked open.

Tinsley Vance stumbled out. Her designer blazer was wrinkled and covered in dirty water from the floor. Her hair was a tangled mess, and mascara ran down her cheeks in thick black rivers. She was hyperventilating.

Tinsley looked up. She saw Averi's back.

A high-pitched squeak of pure terror escaped Tinsley's throat. She scrambled backward, almost tripping over her own feet, and ran down the opposite end of the hallway as fast as she could.

Holt stopped chewing his gum.

His gaze darted back and forth between the terrified school beauty and Averi.

He wasn't an idiot. He recognized the look in Tinsley's eyes. It wasn't embarrassment. It was primal, physical fear.

Holt closed the distance between them in three long strides. He stepped directly into Averi's path, blocking her way.

"What the hell did you just do in there?" Holt demanded, his voice dropping an octave.

Averi stopped. She looked down at her shoes. She pushed her thick glasses up her nose.

"I don't know what you mean," Averi said, her voice trembling with the fake Rust Belt accent. "I think she slipped on some water near the sinks."

Holt let out a harsh, barking laugh. He took a step closer, invading her personal space.

"Cut the crap," Holt hissed. "I don't buy this little innocent bunny act for a second. What are you hiding?"

Averi slowly raised her head.

She stopped trembling. She dropped the hunched posture.

She looked Holt dead in the eyes.

The thick lenses of her glasses couldn't hide the sudden, terrifying shift in her gaze. It was the look of a predator staring at a very loud, very annoying piece of meat. The air around them seemed to drop ten degrees.

Holt's breath hitched. A strange chill ran down his spine. His body reacted before his brain did-he instinctively took a half-step backward. What the hell was that? For a second, she didn't look like a scared rabbit... she looked like a wolf. He shook his head, dismissing the absurd thought with an angry scowl.

Averi held his gaze for one more second. Then, she blinked. The terrifying aura vanished. She hunched her shoulders, sidestepped his frozen body, and continued down the hall.

Later that afternoon, Averi sat alone on a wooden bench at the edge of the campus.

She reached into the deep pocket of her oversized sweater. She pulled out a sleek, black smartphone. It wasn't the cheap flip phone the Chavez family had given her. It was heavily encrypted.

The screen lit up with a single text message from Finn Emerson.

Boss. Abandoned industrial park in Brooklyn tonight. Big stakes. We need a closer.

Averi's thumbs flew across the digital keyboard.

She slipped the encrypted phone away and pulled out the cheap flip phone. She typed a message to Brennan.

Going to the library to work on a project. Don't need a ride. I'll take the bus later.

Brennan replied almost instantly. Stay safe. Don't stay out too late.

Averi snapped the phone shut, her face expressionless.

She stood up and walked toward the back of the school. She bypassed the security cameras with practiced ease, slipping through a known gap in the rusted chain-link fence.

She navigated the labyrinth of Manhattan alleys until she reached a nondescript brick building. She walked down a flight of concrete stairs to a heavy steel door.

She punched a sixteen-digit code into the keypad. The deadbolt clicked.

Averi stepped into the underground safe house and hit the lights.

She immediately stripped off the hideous brown sweater and the baggy jeans. She walked into the small bathroom and used a harsh chemical solvent to strip the yellow foundation and thick eyebrows from her face.

She walked back into the main room. She pulled open a metal locker.

She stepped into a skin-tight, reinforced black leather racing suit. The material hugged every curve of her body, acting as a second skin. She zipped it up to her collarbone.

She reached to the top shelf and pulled down a matte black, carbon-fiber motorcycle helmet. The visor was tinted pitch black.

Averi walked to the back of the room and yanked a heavy canvas tarp off the floor.

Beneath it sat a heavily modified, matte black Ducati Panigale V4. It was a monster of a machine, built for pure, terrifying speed.

Averi swung her leg over the seat. She slid the key into the ignition and turned it.

The engine roared to life, a deep, guttural growl that vibrated through the concrete floor and up her spine.

She pulled the helmet over her head and snapped the chin strap. She reached up and pulled the dark visor down, completely obscuring her face.

The underground garage door rolled up. Spectre twisted the throttle, shooting out into the neon-lit New York night like a bullet fired from a gun.