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.

Anne walked into her dark guest room. She didn't turn on the overhead lights. She only clicked on the dim yellow lamp next to the bed.

She changed into a thin cotton nightgown and sat against the headboard. She closed her eyes, pushing her hearing out into the hallway.

The thick carpet muffled the footsteps, but Anne heard them clearly. Someone was walking very slowly, very quietly, toward her door.

The brass door handle turned. A faint click echoed in the room. Someone had used a master key.

Jordin slipped into the room. She wore a silk robe. She reached behind her back and locked the door.

The sweet, innocent smile was completely gone. Her face was twisted into a mask of pure, ugly hatred.

Jordin walked to the edge of the bed. She looked down at Anne, thinking she was asleep.

"Stop faking," Jordin hissed. Her voice sounded like a snake. "I know you're awake."

Anne slowly opened her eyes. Her green irises were flat and dead. She stared at Jordin without moving a single muscle.

The absolute lack of fear infuriated Jordin. She reached out and violently ripped the blanket off Anne's legs.

"Don't think you belong here," Jordin spat. "Your mother was a mountain whore who spread her legs for money. You are just as filthy."

Anne sat perfectly still. She watched Jordin throw her tantrum like a scientist observing a rat in a maze.

Jordin leaned in closer. Her hot breath hit Anne's face. "Spencer Hubbard is mine. Don't even think about looking at him."

Anne searched the dead girl's memories. Spencer Hubbard. The heir to the Hubbard family. Anne's arranged fiancé.

Jordin lost her patience. She raised her hand, her long acrylic nails aiming straight for Anne's cheek, ready to draw blood.

Anne moved.

Her left hand shot out like a whip. She didn't use brute strength; instead, she executed a flawless, unexplainable martial arts technique, catching Jordin's wrist at a precise angle that instantly dislocated the momentum. She twisted it downward, using Jordin's own weight against her. Jordin let out a muffled gasp of pain, her entire arm going numb. Before Jordin could pull away, Anne shifted her balance and let Jordin stumble forward, guiding her by the throat rather than overpowering her. With a terrifyingly fluid motion, she pinned Jordin backward against the cold plaster wall, her fingers resting on Jordin's windpipe-not with a steel vice, but with the lethal, calculated pressure of a predator who knew exactly where the arteries were.

Anne leaned in. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

"Dark web," Anne whispered into Jordin's ear. Her voice was ice. "Bitcoin transactions. A killer with a black snake tattoo."

The three phrases hit Jordin like bullets. All the color drained from her face. Her pupils dilated in pure horror.

Jordin made a choking sound. Her whole body began to tremble. She couldn't understand how this illiterate trash knew the exact details of the assassination she had paid for.

Anne's fingers tightened slightly on Jordin's windpipe. "Your assassins were incredibly sloppy," she mocked softly.

Just as Jordin's eyes started to roll back in her head, Anne's ears twitched.

Footsteps. Heavy and fast. Coming down the hall. It was Kash.

A brilliant, wicked idea flashed in Anne's mind.

She instantly let go of Jordin's throat. Jordin collapsed onto the floor like a broken doll, coughing violently and gasping for air.

Anne took two steps back. She raised her own hands and dug her fingernails deep into the flesh of her forearms. She dragged her nails down, tearing the skin until warm blood welled up and dripped down her wrists.

Then, Anne threw her head back and let out a blood-curdling, agonizing scream that shattered the silence of the entire estate.