The Maybach tore through the flooded streets of Manhattan.

Cristofer sat in the back seat. His long fingers unconsciously rubbed his lower lip again. The metallic taste of blood and the smell of dirty rain still clung to his skin. It made his stomach tighten with an unfamiliar agitation.

Simon, his chief assistant, watched him through the rearview mirror from the passenger seat. Simon reached back and offered a sanitized wet wipe.

Cristofer ignored it.

"Pull every traffic camera in Lower Manhattan," Cristofer ordered. His voice was absolute ice. "Dig up the entire grid. Find that girl with the green eyes."

Simon swallowed hard. He immediately opened his tablet, connected to the Barrett family's private security network, and started running facial recognition algorithms.

Miles away, Anne dragged her soaking wet body down a narrow concrete stairwell. She found the spare key hidden under a dead potted plant and unlocked the door to a miserable basement in Queens.

She locked the deadbolt behind her and slid down the wall until she hit the freezing linoleum floor.

Cristofer's energy was tearing through her system. Her muscles spasmed violently.

Anne gritted her teeth. She forced the dark energy to flow into her broken bones. A series of sickening pops echoed in the quiet room as her ribs slowly knitted themselves back together.

As her body repaired itself, the dead girl's memories slammed into Anne's brain. The sheer volume of information made bile rise in her throat.

She saw a rotting trailer in the Appalachian Mountains. She heard her biological mother's dying breaths. She saw a one-way ticket to New York.

Then, the final memory hit her. Two men in black ski masks cornering her in a Manhattan alley. A suppressed pistol pressing hard against her chest.

Anne opened her eyes. The green irises were sharp and deadly. She clearly remembered the black snake tattoo on the wrist of the man who pulled the trigger.

She pushed herself off the floor and walked into the tiny bathroom. She stared at the mirror. The face looking back was covered in grime, but the bone structure was flawless.

"I will make them pay for what they did to you," Anne whispered to the glass.

She stripped off the bloody clothes. The killers had taken her wallet and ID. The only thing left in her pocket was a cheap, cracked burner phone.

She pressed the power button. The screen flickered and miraculously lit up. The notification bar showed fourteen missed calls.

They were all from the same unsaved New York number. Anne's new memories told her exactly who it was. The Montoya family.

The phone vibrated in her hand. The harsh ringtone bounced off the concrete walls. It sounded impatient and demanding.

Anne took a deep breath. She tightened her vocal cords, mimicking the terrified, raspy voice of the dead girl. She pressed answer.

"Where the hell are you?"

The male voice on the other end was cold and dripping with elitist arrogance.

Anne matched the voice to a face in her memories. Braden Montoya. The eldest son. A Wall Street venture capitalist.

Anne forced her breathing to sound ragged and panicked.

"I... I got lost," she stuttered. "Some bad men chased me. I just found my phone."

Braden let out a harsh breath through his nose. The disgust was palpable through the speaker.

"Send your location," Braden commanded. "I am giving you exactly ten minutes. If you aren't there, you can rot in the mountains forever."

The line went dead.

Anne stared at the cracked screen. A cold smile stretched across her face.

She used a tiny fraction of her restored energy to dry her hair. She dug through the duffel bag on the bed and pulled out an oversized gray hoodie and faded jeans.

She did not wash the dirt off her face. She even pinched the skin around her eyes until it turned red and puffy, perfectly faking the physical symptoms of a severe panic attack.

She typed out a location and sent it to Braden. She picked an abandoned convenience store three blocks away. She would never expose her safe house.

Anne pulled the hood over her head. She walked back out into the freezing rain. Her footsteps were completely silent.

Across the city, Braden sat in his black Range Rover outside the Port Authority bus terminal. He stared at the location pin on his phone and yanked hard on his silk tie.

He slammed his foot on the gas. The heavy SUV roared to life, tearing into the rain to pick up the biggest public relations disaster the Montoya family had ever faced.

The rain slowed to a miserable drizzle. Anne huddled under the rotting awning of the abandoned convenience store. The oversized hoodie swallowed her thin frame. She looked exactly like a stray dog waiting to be kicked.

Blinding LED headlights cut through the dark street. A pristine black Range Rover pulled up to the curb. The heavy tires splashed dirty puddle water right onto Anne's worn sneakers.

The passenger window rolled down halfway.

Braden's sharp, cold face appeared in the gap. His fingers, wrapped around the steering wheel, wore a Patek Philippe watch. He tapped his index finger impatiently.

He looked Anne up and down. His eyes caught the mud on her jeans and the cheap fabric of her hoodie. A look of pure revulsion crossed his features.

He didn't step out to offer an umbrella. He simply hit the central unlock button. The heavy clunk echoed in the quiet street. He jerked his chin toward the back seat.

Anne kept her head down. She made her shoulders flinch, acting terrified of his presence. She grabbed the heavy door handle and pulled herself into the back.

The smell of expensive leather and oud wood hit her nose. She sat stiffly on the edge of the seat, her dirty hands gripping the hem of her hoodie until her knuckles turned white.

Braden watched her pathetic display in the rearview mirror. He scoffed. He slammed his foot on the gas pedal.

The massive acceleration threw Anne backward. Her spine hit the leather seat hard. She let out a short gasp and immediately slapped both hands over her mouth, lowering her head in exaggerated fear.

"Save the theatrics," Braden said. His voice was flat and cruel. "When we get to the estate, you will follow the rules."

He didn't wait for her to answer.

"The only reason you are in this car is because the Hubbard family insists on honoring that ancient marriage contract. You are a tool to secure a merger. Nothing more."

Anne kept her eyes glued to her knees. Her long eyelashes hid the absolute mockery in her green eyes. She quickly processed the political weight of the Hubbard family in her mind.

"Do not think for a second you can replace Jordin," Braden warned, his voice dropping an octave. "She is the perfect Montoya daughter. You are a stain."

At the mention of Jordin's name, Anne's enhanced hearing picked up a slight spike in Braden's heart rate. His protective instinct over his adopted sister was blindingly obvious.

It was time to test him.

Anne's body suddenly began to shake violently. She wrapped her arms around her head and let out a series of broken, breathless whimpers.

Braden's jaw tightened. He glared at her in the mirror.

"Stop this hysterical nonsense right now," he snapped.

Anne ignored him. She curled into a tight ball on the seat. She dug her fingernails so hard into her own arms that it hurt, perfectly mimicking a severe PTSD dissociative episode.

The chaotic sounds of her hyperventilating filled the quiet car. Braden cursed under his breath. He yanked the steering wheel hard, pulling the SUV to a violent stop at a red light. He twisted his torso around to yell at her.

Before the words left his mouth, Anne slowly raised her head.

The hood slipped back. Her green eyes were wide, bloodshot, and filled with a raw, suffocating terror.

The sheer vulnerability in her stare hit Braden physically. His chest tightened. The cruel words died in his throat. He suddenly realized he wasn't just looking at a family embarrassment. He was looking at a girl who had lived in poverty and had likely been severely abused. It reminded him of a hostile takeover years ago, where he had watched a naive startup founder break down in the exact same way-a collateral damage he had ruthlessly ignored, yet never quite forgot. The unwelcome sting of empathy irritated him.

Braden swallowed hard. He turned back around and hit the gas as the light turned green.

He didn't apologize, but his driving changed. The sudden accelerations stopped. He actively avoided the potholes.

Anne felt the smooth ride. The corners of her mouth twitched upward in the shadows. Phase one of psychological manipulation was complete.

The Range Rover merged onto the highway toward Long Island. The cramped city streets gave way to massive estates hidden behind tall iron gates.

The car stopped in front of a towering wrought-iron gate. A camera scanned the license plate. The gates swung open, revealing the sprawling, aggressively wealthy Montoya estate.

Braden pressed a button on the console. "Have the staff ready at the front," he told the house manager.

He looked at Anne in the mirror one last time.

"Wipe your face," he ordered. "The Montoyas do not tolerate weakness."

Anne nodded meekly. She wiped her face with her dirty sleeve. But as she looked at the massive stone mansion through the window, her eyes were as cold as a hunter looking at a trap.

As the SUV parked under the grand portico, Braden stepped out to speak with the valet. For a fraction of a second, his back was turned. Anne's movements were terrifyingly swift. She snatched a black, custom-tailored men's dress shirt and a manila M&A file he had left on the adjacent seat, seamlessly shoving them under her oversized hoodie before she even pushed her door open.

Two lines of uniformed staff stood waiting on the marble steps. Anne took a slow breath. The real war was about to begin.

Braden tossed the keys to the valet and walked up the marble steps without looking back.

Anne pushed her door open. Her muddy sneaker hit the pristine white marble of the portico. It left a dark, ugly stain.

Brenda, the head housekeeper, stared at the footprint. Her thin eyebrows shot up. Her face twisted into a mask of pure disgust.

"Madam Beatrice left strict instructions," Brenda said. Her voice sounded like she was speaking to a rat. "I am to take you to a guest room to be scrubbed clean. Do not step on the main rugs."

Anne kept her chin tucked to her chest. She followed Brenda like a frightened child. Her eyes, however, rapidly scanned the ceiling, memorizing the blind spots of the security cameras.

Brenda led her down a long hallway to a room at the far end of the second floor. The room was large but faced north. It was cold and uninviting.

Brenda pointed a stiff finger at the bathroom door. "There are spare clothes in the closet. Wash yourself and stay put."

Brenda walked out and slammed the door. The heavy lock clicked into place.

The second the lock engaged, Anne's posture changed. The frightened hunch vanished. Her spine straightened. The timid look in her eyes was replaced by a razor-sharp coldness.

She walked into the massive marble bathroom and locked the door. She turned the shower dial all the way to hot.

She stripped off the filthy clothes and stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror. She stared at the bruised, emaciated body. It was covered in purple and yellow splotches.

Anne closed her eyes. She pulled the dark energy she had stolen from Cristofer and forced it through her cells, converting it into natural healing magic.

A faint green glow pulsed at her fingertips. She pressed her hands against the worst bruises on her ribs and thighs. The purple skin rapidly faded to a healthy, pale white.

She stepped into the scalding water. The dirt, sweat, and dried blood washed down the drain.

As the grime disappeared, the dead girl's true face was finally revealed in the foggy mirror.

It was a face of devastating, destructive beauty. Her skin was porcelain white. Her nose was straight and elegant. Her deep emerald eyes held a breathtaking sense of tragedy.

Anne ran a wet hand over her cheek. This face was going to be her deadliest weapon in New York's high society.

She turned off the water and wrapped a thick towel around her body. She opened the closet.

Inside hung three oversized, outdated maid uniforms.

Anne let out a short, cold laugh. Brenda or Beatrice was trying to humiliate her. They wanted her to look like the help.

Anne ignored the uniforms. She walked over to the bed. In that brief blind spot when Braden had been distracted by the valet, she had purposely grabbed the black, custom-tailored men's dress shirt and the file he had left on the backseat.

She slipped the shirt on. It was massive on her. The hem hit mid-thigh. The expensive silk clung to her damp skin, highlighting the curve of her waist and the sharp lines of her collarbones. It looked effortlessly, lethally sensual.

Heavy footsteps pounded down the hallway. Someone banged a fist against her door.

"Open the door," Braden's irritated voice came through the wood. "The valet said you took an M&A file from my car."

Anne looked at the manila folder she had tossed on the mattress. She picked it up. She ran her fingers through her wet hair, making it look even more chaotic.

She walked barefoot to the door. She took a breath, dropped her shoulders, and let the fear back into her eyes. She turned the knob.

Braden stood in the hallway, his mouth open to yell at her for stealing.

The words died instantly.

His eyes locked onto Anne. The shock hit him so hard he physically stopped breathing for three seconds.

He could not connect the filthy, smelly girl from the car to the stunning creature standing in front of him. The black silk of his own shirt contrasted violently with her pale skin. Water dripped from the ends of her hair, sliding down her long neck and disappearing into the deep V of the unbuttoned collar.

Anne took a step back, her bare feet silent on the carpet. She held out the folder with shaking hands.

"I... I'm sorry," she whispered. "I thought it was trash."

Braden reached out mechanically to take the folder. His knuckles accidentally brushed against her freezing fingertips.

A jolt of electricity shot up Braden's arm. He jerked his hand back as if he had been burned. He swallowed hard. His Adam's apple bobbed. He fought a sudden, violent war within his own rational mind. He was a Wall Street shark, immune to cheap seduction, yet he found himself furious that his eyes kept drifting back to the wet silk clinging to her shoulders. He clenched his jaw, hating the biological betrayal of his own pulse. All the cruel insults he had prepared completely vanished from his brain, replaced by a suffocating, irrational tension.