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Inside hung three oversized, outdated maid uniforms.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."

Thirty minutes later, Anne walked down the grand staircase. The maids had forced her into a heavy, black, high-necked dress that looked like it belonged in the 1800s.

She walked into the formal dining room. The massive crystal chandelier cast a blinding light over the twenty-foot oak table. The smell of roasted meats and expensive red wine made the air feel heavy.

Warren Montoya, the patriarch, sat at the head of the table. He was cutting a piece of steak. He did not look up when Anne entered. He did not offer her a seat.

Anne stood near the doorway. She twisted the ugly fabric of her skirt in her hands, perfectly playing the terrified country girl overwhelmed by wealth.

Jordin sat to Warren's right. She wore a stunning, custom-fitted white gown. Her hair was perfectly styled.

Jordin looked up and smiled. It was a sickeningly sweet, flawless smile. "Sister! Come sit down. We've been waiting for you."

Anne heard the word "Sister." Her enhanced vision caught the toxic gleam of triumph hidden deep in Jordin's eyes.

Anne walked to the very end of the table, taking the seat closest to the kitchen doors. It was the lowest-ranking spot in the room.

The servers brought out the first course. Escargot, served with specialized silver tongs and tiny forks.

Kash sat diagonally across from Anne. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

"I hear people in the mountains only eat canned beans," Kash sneered. "Do you even know how to hold those tongs?"

A few quiet laughs echoed around the table. Beatrice took a slow sip of her wine, completely ignoring her son's bullying.

Anne kept her eyes on her plate. She picked up the silver tongs. She purposely let her wrist jerk.

The metal tongs slipped from her fingers and crashed onto the silver plate. The loud, sharp clatter pierced the quiet room.

Anne gasped loudly. She reached out with her bare hands, pretending to panic, and knocked a buttery snail onto the pristine white tablecloth.

Andre Montoya sat two seats away. He was a neurosurgeon with severe OCD. He stared at the grease stain spreading on the cloth. He pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose and physically pushed his chair back.

"I've lost my appetite," Andre said, his voice dripping with clinical disgust.

Jordin immediately handed Andre a sanitized wipe. She looked at Anne with fake pity. "It's okay, sister. You'll learn our ways eventually."

Warren finally dropped his knife. It hit the plate with a heavy thud. He wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and stared at Anne like she was a defective product.

"You will attend the Hubbard family charity gala this weekend," Warren stated. It was not a request. "It is the only reason you are here."

Anne's head snapped up. She widened her eyes in absolute panic. She shook her head violently.

"No... please," she stuttered, her voice cracking. "Too many people. I can't. I'm scared."

Beatrice slammed her wine glass down. "You don't have a choice. We do not feed useless mouths."

Anne immediately dropped her head. Her shoulders began to heave. Fake tears dripped off her chin and splashed into her water glass. She looked like she was having a total mental breakdown.

Braden sat next to Jordin. He watched Anne crying. The image of her fragile green eyes in the hallway flashed through his mind. A sudden, sharp irritation flared in his chest.

He gripped the stem of his wine glass.

"Enough," Braden said loudly.

The entire table went dead silent.

"She just got here," Braden continued, his voice cold. "If you push her into a panic attack at the gala, she'll embarrass the entire company."

Jordin's head whipped around to look at Braden. Her fingers gripped her fork so hard her knuckles turned white.

Braden ignored her. He lifted his glass and drained the wine to hide his own confusion.

Under the table, Anne wiped her tears away. A cold thrill ran through her veins. Braden had just defended her against the family. The psychological fracture was widening.

Dinner ended in suffocating silence. Warren and Beatrice left first. The brothers filtered out.

Anne stood up from the empty table. She ignored the disgusted looks from the maids clearing the plates.

She walked up the stairs toward her room. As she reached the second-floor landing, her sharp instincts flared.

She knew exactly what was coming. The perfect sister was about to drop her mask.