Pain exploded in Chrissy's wrist.

The agonizing pressure snapped her out of her shock. She looked at Arch's face. He looked like he wanted to snap her neck.

Pure survival instinct took over.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" she babbled, her voice pitching up in panic.

She yanked her arm backward, trying to break his grip, but he held on tight.

"I didn't mean to!" she lied, her chest heaving. "Your suit fabric is just so slippery, and I couldn't grab the seat in time. I just fell!"

Arch stared at her.

He didn't blink. He searched her terrified face for five agonizing seconds, calculating exactly how much she had felt. He was looking for any sign of suspicion in her eyes.

Chrissy kept her face twisted in pure fear and pain, masking the massive realization screaming in her head.

Finally, Arch released her wrist. He shoved her hand away with a look of absolute disgust.

He reached into the side pocket of his door, pulled out a sterile antibacterial wipe, and began aggressively scrubbing the spot on his trousers where she had touched him.

"Keep your hands to yourself," Arch warned, his voice dropping to a deadly calm. "Or I won't mind making sure they lose their sensation permanently."

Chrissy scrambled backward. She pressed her spine against the furthest door, pulling her knees together. She cradled her throbbing, red wrist against her chest and nodded frantically.

She didn't dare speak.

The cabin remained submerged in a suffocating silence for the rest of the drive. Ray apologized profusely from the front seat, but Arch ignored him.

Twenty minutes later, the Maybach pulled up to the curb.

They were parked outside a decaying, two-story villa on the very edge of Beverly Hills. The paint was peeling, and the lawn was dead. The Vega family home.

Chrissy didn't wait for Ray to open her door.

She shoved the handle and practically threw herself out onto the sidewalk. She didn't look back. She didn't say goodbye.

She heard the heavy door click shut behind her. The tinted window rolled up smoothly, sealing the terrifying man away. The Maybach pulled away from the curb, disappearing down the street.

Chrissy let out a massive, shaky breath. Her legs felt like jelly. She felt like she had just survived a tiger enclosure.

She turned and walked up the cracked concrete path to the front door. She paused on the porch, her heart still hammering against her ribs. Her wrist throbbed with a dull ache, a phantom reminder of Arch Rush III's terrifying, steel-trap grip. And then there was the bizarre, unsettling firmness of his thigh-a detail that made no sense but refused to leave her mind. She squeezed her eyes shut, taking a deep, shuddering breath, and forcefully shoved the chaotic terror of the Maybach ride to the back of her brain. She had one last, ugly task to handle here.

Before she could even reach for her keys, the door was yanked open from the inside.

Her father, Hank Vega, and her mother, Sherry Vega, stood in the doorway. Their faces were stretched into eager, greedy smiles.

Hank craned his neck, looking past Chrissy's shoulder toward the empty street.

"Where is Mr. Rush?" Hank asked, his smile faltering. "Why didn't you invite him inside for a drink?"

"He's busy," Chrissy said, her voice flat. She pushed past them into the cramped, dusty hallway. "He had to go to the office."

Sherry's fake smile instantly vanished, replaced by a vicious scowl.

"You stupid girl!" Sherry shrieked, grabbing Chrissy's arm. "How could you fail to keep a cripple entertained? That man is a walking goldmine! You should have brought him in to build a relationship!"

Chrissy stopped. She looked at her mother's manicured hand digging into her sleeve.

"The fifty million is already in the account, isn't it?" Chrissy asked coldly.

Hank cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. "Yes, the money arrived. But the company has massive debts. We need ongoing financial support from the Rush family."

Hank pointed a thick finger at her. "Now that you're in his bed, you need to squeeze every resource you can out of him."

Bile rose in Chrissy's throat.

"You sold me like a piece of livestock," she said, her voice shaking with disgust. "And now you're complaining I'm not working hard enough?"

Sherry stepped forward and jabbed her finger hard into Chrissy's forehead.

"You ungrateful little bastard!" Sherry spat. "You eat Vega food, you sleep under a Vega roof! This is what you owe us!"

Sherry's eyes burned with malice. "If your sister Arleen hadn't refused to marry that broken freak, do you really think a street rat like you would ever get to live in a mansion?"

The word bastard pierced Chrissy's chest.

She had lived in a state-run orphanage until she was six years old. Hank had only tracked her down and brought her home because he needed a tax write-off. They had never let her forget it.

Chrissy slapped Sherry's hand away.

"I just came back to pack my things," Chrissy said, her voice turning to ice. "I am moving out tonight."

Hank sneered. "Move out. Fine. But don't forget to wire your monthly allowance to our account."

Chrissy ignored him. She turned and walked up the narrow, creaking stairs toward the attic.

She pushed open the thin wooden door.

A golden, scruffy mutt immediately launched itself at her.

"Oh, Greyson," Chrissy whispered, dropping to her knees. She buried her face in the dog's warm fur as he whined and licked the tears threatening to spill from her eyes.

Chrissy sat on the dusty floorboards of the attic, her fingers buried in Greyson's fur. The dog's steady heartbeat against her palm was the only thing keeping her grounded.

She pulled a battered canvas duffel bag from under her narrow cot.

She didn't have much. She packed three pairs of faded jeans, a few plain t-shirts, and her entire collection of professional baking tools.

She picked up a yellowed, dog-eared French pastry recipe book. As she went to slide it into the bag, the attic door was kicked open.

Bang.

Chrissy didn't flinch. She just kept packing.

Arleen Vega stood in the doorway. She was wearing a silk Chanel nightgown that cost more than Chrissy made in six months at the bakery. Her arms were crossed over her chest.

Arleen looked around the cramped, dimly lit room and clicked her tongue.

"What a pathetic little beggar's nest," Arleen mocked, her voice dripping with venom.

Chrissy ignored her. She zipped up the duffel bag and reached for Greyson's leash.

Arleen's eyes narrowed. She hated being ignored. She stepped into the room in her fluffy slippers and deliberately kicked Greyson's plastic water bowl.

Water splashed across the floorboards, soaking the toe of Chrissy's worn-out sneaker.

Chrissy slowly lifted her head. She stared at Arleen, her jaw tight.

"What?" Arleen sneered. "You've been Mrs. Rush for two hours and you suddenly think you're too good to speak to your own sister?"

Chrissy stood up. She pulled Greyson behind her legs to protect him.

"Move out of my way, Arleen," Chrissy said. "I'm leaving."

Arleen took a step forward, blocking the door. Her eyes were wide with a toxic mix of jealousy and superiority.

"Do you really think you've hit the jackpot?" Arleen laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Everyone in Los Angeles knows Arch Rush is a violent, twisted cripple."

Arleen leaned in closer. "He's not even a real man anymore. You didn't marry a billionaire. You just signed up to be a glorified, unpaid nurse."

Chrissy didn't back down.

"If it's such a terrible fate," Chrissy shot back, her voice deadly calm, "then why did you cry and beg Dad on your knees to let you back out of the engagement?"

The words hit Arleen perfectly.

Arleen had originally agreed to the arranged marriage because she wanted the Rush family billions. But the moment she heard the rumors that Arch's car accident had left him permanently impotent and prone to violent rages, she had panicked and forced her parents to use Chrissy as the sacrificial lamb.

Arleen's face flushed a dark, ugly red.

"You little midwestern hick!" Arleen shrieked. "How dare you talk to me like that!"

Arleen raised her right hand. Her long, sharp acrylic nails flashed in the dim light as she swung her arm down, aiming a vicious slap directly at Chrissy's face.

In the past, Chrissy would have squeezed her eyes shut and taken the hit to keep the peace.

But not today. She was done.

Chrissy's left hand shot up.

She caught Arleen's wrist mid-air. Chrissy spent eight hours a day kneading heavy dough. Her grip was like iron.

Arleen gasped in pain. "Let go of me, you bitch!"

Arleen thrashed, raising her other hand to grab a fistful of Chrissy's hair.

Chrissy's eyes went cold.

Without a second of hesitation, Chrissy lifted her right foot and kicked Arleen squarely in the shin.

"Ah!" Arleen screamed.

Her legs buckled. She lost her balance and crashed backward, landing hard on the wet floorboards right in the puddle of spilled dog water.

The expensive Chanel silk instantly soaked up the dirty water, clinging to her skin. Arleen sat there, staring at Chrissy with wide, disbelieving eyes.

"You hit me!" Arleen shrieked, her voice echoing down the stairs. "I'm going to tell Dad! I'm going to have you thrown out on the street!"

Chrissy stood over her, looking down with absolute disgust.

"You're confused about how things work now, Arleen," Chrissy said quietly.

"The Vega family isn't doing me a favor by letting me stay here. The Vega family is currently surviving on the fifty million dollars I sold my body for."

Chrissy leaned down slightly. "Push me again, and I will gladly whisper in Mr. Rush's ear tonight. I will ask him to freeze your accounts. Let's see how long you survive without my money."

Arleen's mouth opened and closed like a dying fish. She was completely paralyzed by the threat.

Heavy, frantic footsteps pounded on the wooden stairs outside.

Hank and Sherry had heard the screaming. They were rushing up to the attic.

Hank and Sherry burst through the attic door.

They froze, staring at the scene in horror. Arleen was sitting in a puddle of dirty water, her expensive gown ruined, sobbing hysterically. Chrissy stood over her, holding a duffel bag and a dog leash.

"My baby!" Sherry screamed.

She threw herself onto the wet floor, wrapping her arms around Arleen. She snapped her head up, her face twisted into a mask of pure hatred.

"Are you insane?" Sherry shrieked at Chrissy. "You attacked your sister!"

Hank didn't waste time with words. His face turned purple with rage. He lunged forward, raising his heavy, calloused hand, aiming a brutal strike right at Chrissy's temple.

Chrissy instinctively squeezed her eyes shut. She tightened her grip on her bag and braced her body for the impact.

The Maybach had pulled away minutes ago, but the piercing sound of Arleen's shriek had cut through the quiet night. Arch, who had ordered Ray to circle the block while he reviewed a forgotten legal document, heard the scream through the cracked window. He tilted his head a fraction of an inch. Mitch didn't need a word; he was already moving.

It never came.

A deafening crash echoed through the house.

The flimsy wooden front door flew open under the force of four shoulders. The peeling frame splintered instantly, the cheap lock snapping as the door slammed against the interior wall.

Hank's hand stopped in mid-air.

Everyone in the attic froze, their eyes wide with terror, staring toward the open doorway.

The sound of heavy, synchronized combat boots thundered up the narrow, creaking wooden staircase. The footsteps carried a terrifying, suffocating weight.

Four massive men dressed in identical black suits flooded into the tiny attic. They moved with military precision, instantly shoving Hank and Sherry into the corner of the room, trapping them against the wall.

Then, Mitch Nowak appeared in the doorway, slightly out of breath from carrying the chair up step by step.

He pulled the custom carbon-fiber wheelchair into the room.

Arch Rush III sat perfectly still in the chair. His tailored suit didn't have a single wrinkle. His dark eyes swept the room, radiating a cold, lethal energy that dropped the temperature in the attic by ten degrees.

Hank's knees visibly shook. He lowered his hand immediately.

Arch's gaze bypassed the terrified parents and locked onto Chrissy. He took in her pale face, her defensive posture, and the way she was clutching her bag like a shield.

"Mr. Vega," Arch said.

His voice wasn't loud, but it commanded the absolute obedience of a king addressing a peasant.

"It seems your family's idea of hospitality involves assaulting my wife."

Hank swallowed hard. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

"Mr. Rush!" Hank stammered, his voice cracking. "You misunderstand! It was just a silly argument between sisters! They were just playing around!"

"Playing around," Arch repeated softly.

He slowly turned his head. His dark eyes locked onto Arleen, who was trying to hide behind her mother's legs.

Arleen whimpered. The look in Arch's eyes made her feel like she was about to be executed.

Arch lifted his right hand. He tapped his index finger against the armrest twice.

Tap. Tap.

Mitch moved instantly.

The bodyguard stepped forward, reached down, and grabbed a fistful of Arleen's perfectly styled hair.

Arleen screamed like a slaughtered pig as Mitch violently dragged her across the floorboards and forced her to her knees directly in front of Chrissy's shoes.

Hank and Sherry watched in horror, but they didn't dare make a sound. They were terrified.

"Apologize," Arch ordered. One word. No emotion.

Arleen was sobbing so hard she could barely breathe. She stared at Chrissy's worn-out sneakers, completely stripped of her dignity.

"I'm sorry," Arleen choked out, tears mixing with her makeup. "I'm sorry, Chrissy. I was wrong."

Arch didn't look at Arleen. He kept his eyes fixed on Chrissy.

"Are you satisfied, Mrs. Rush?" he asked.

Chrissy was too stunned to speak. Her brain couldn't process the violent, sudden shift in power. She just stared at Arch and gave a slow, numb nod.

"Good," Arch said, his tone turning brisk and impatient. "Grab your trash and let's go."

Chrissy didn't need to be told twice. She gripped her duffel bag and pulled Greyson's leash. The dog growled at Hank as they walked past.

Mitch turned the wheelchair around and began pushing Arch out the door.

As they passed Hank, Arch paused. He didn't look at the older man.

"This is the last time," Arch said, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. "If I ever hear that you touched a single hair on her head, I will have the Vega Group erased from California by tomorrow morning."

Arch signaled Mitch. They moved down the stairs, leaving the Vega family trembling in the dark attic.