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.

Braden snatched the folder from her hands. He pulled it so hard that Anne's thin body stumbled forward a fraction of an inch.

He tried to rebuild his wall of arrogance, but his eyes betrayed him. They kept dropping to the water pooling in the hollow of her throat.

A single drop of water slid off her wet bangs and landed on her pale cheek. She looked incredibly fragile.

Braden's jaw clenched. He grabbed his tie and yanked it loose.

"Do you not know how to dry your hair?" he snapped, his voice rougher than usual. "You're going to ruin the rugs."

Anne shrank back against the doorframe. "There was no hair dryer," she said softly. "Just one towel."

Braden let out an angry breath. He pushed past her, his shoulder brushing hers, and stalked into her bathroom. He grabbed a dry, fluffy towel off the heated rack.

He walked back to the doorway and threw the towel over her head.

Before Anne could grab it, Braden's large hands clamped down over the fabric. He started rubbing her wet hair. His movements were stiff and awkward, but surprisingly gentle.

Anne froze. She only wanted to play the victim, but the arrogant Wall Street executive was actually drying her hair.

He was standing entirely too close. The heat radiating from his chest warmed her cold skin. The smell of cedar and bergamot from his cologne filled her lungs.

Braden looked down. Because her head was tilted back under the towel, he had a perfect view of the long, elegant line of her neck. His breathing grew heavy.

Anne heard the change in his respiratory rate. It was time to push him over the edge.

She shifted her weight and purposely let her bare foot slip on the carpet. She let out a sharp gasp.

Her body pitched forward. She crashed directly into Braden's solid chest.

Braden dropped the towel instantly. Both of his hands shot out and gripped her narrow waist to stop her from falling.

The physical contact was explosive. The freezing temperature of her skin and the shocking softness of her body under his thin silk shirt short-circuited Braden's brain.

Anne pressed her hands flat against his chest. She looked up at him. Her green eyes were swimming with unshed tears. Braden's breathing turned ragged. For three agonizing seconds, neither of them moved. The heavy scent of cedar mixed with the dampness of her skin, paralyzing his usually sharp reflexes. He was just about to push her away when the elevator down the hall dinged. The soft chime shattered the trance. The doors slid open.

Beatrice Montoya stepped out. Kash, the fifth brother, walked right beside her. Three maids trailed behind them.

Kash looked down the hall. His eyes widened in pure horror.

"Braden! What the hell are you doing?!" Kash roared.

The shout hit Braden like a physical blow. He snapped out of his trance. He shoved Anne away from him so hard and so fast it looked like he was fighting off an attacker.

Anne let herself fall. Her shoulder slammed hard into the wooden doorframe. She let out a painful cry and slid down the wall until she hit the floor. She curled her knees to her chest, playing the perfect, abused victim.

Beatrice's high heels clicked rapidly against the floorboards. She stopped in front of the door and stared down at Anne. Her eyes locked onto Braden's shirt.

Beatrice's face turned purple with rage. "You disgusting little rat," she hissed. "You haven't been in this house for an hour and you're already trying to seduce your brother?"

Kash stepped forward aggressively. He grabbed the collar of the shirt and yanked Anne upward.

"Keep your filthy slum tactics out of this house," Kash spat in her face.

Braden stood frozen. His face was pale. He knew his actions looked terrible, but the immediate, vicious hatred his mother and brother showed toward Anne made his stomach turn.

"Stop it," Braden said, his voice tight. "She tripped. I caught her. And she's wearing my shirt because Brenda didn't leave her any proper clothes."

Beatrice slowly turned her head. She gave Braden a look so cold it froze the blood in his veins.

Braden shut his mouth. The hierarchy of the family was absolute.

Anne kept her head down. She let her body shake violently in Kash's grip. Tears spilled over her eyelashes and hit the floor.

But behind the curtain of her wet hair, the corners of her mouth curled into a sharp smile. She had successfully planted the first seed of doubt in Braden's mind.

"Get her a proper dress," Beatrice ordered the maids. "Have her downstairs in thirty minutes."

Beatrice looked back down at Anne. "Tonight's formal dining will teach you exactly where you belong in this family."