Chapter 3

The cold wind hit Kittie in the face the second they stepped onto the sidewalk. She pulled her trench coat tighter around her body, shivering.

Connor walked beside her, leading her toward a plain, dark gray Ford parked halfway down the block.

Before they reached the car, Kittie's phone started ringing again. The sound pierced through the street noise.

Connor took a step back, pulling his own phone from his pocket and pretending to check an email. His ears, however, were entirely focused on her.

Kittie hit the green button and pressed the phone to her ear.

"Mom, I cannot talk right now," Kittie said, her voice strained.

"You will listen to me!" Dolores's voice shrieked through the speaker, loud enough that Connor could hear the pitch. "Preston Finch was a catch! You humiliated me in front of the entire neighborhood!"

Kittie squeezed her eyes shut. Her fingernails dug so hard into the palm of her free hand that the skin threatened to break.

"He told me to wash his car," Kittie whispered, her throat burning.

"So what?" Dolores snapped. "Look at Beatrix! She just married into the Thorne family. A century-old Boston money family! She had a wedding at the Plaza! And you? You are throwing coffee at men who actually have a 401k. This is exactly why I always said adopting you was a risk. You have no drive to secure your future."

The words felt like a physical punch to Kittie's gut. The air rushed out of her lungs. Her eyes burned with hot tears, but she locked her jaw, refusing to let them fall.

Connor watched the muscles in her neck tighten. A violent, dark urge flared in his chest. He wanted to find Dolores and rip her vocal cords out. He forced his face to remain blank, pushing the rage down.

"I have to go," Kittie said, her voice completely dead.

She ended the call.

The silence between them was heavy and suffocating. Kittie stared at the concrete sidewalk, her chest heaving as she fought to control her breathing.

She forced a tight, plastic smile onto her face and looked at Connor.

"Sorry about that," she mumbled.

She needed to change the subject. Her brain scrambled for anything else to talk about. The name her mother mentioned sparked a thought.

"Hey," Kittie said, her voice shaking slightly. "You work in tech. Do you know anything about that crazy rich family in Boston? The Powers family? Mom is obsessed with old money right now."

Connor froze for a fraction of a second. A dark amusement flickered in his icy blue eyes.

"The Powers family?" he repeated.

Kittie hesitated. "I know you're also a Powers, but..." She gave his clothes a quick once-over. "Ahaha, just kidding."

She leaned against the side of the Ford. "Yeah, the CEO. Is he some bald, fat old guy sitting on a pile of gold?"

Connor bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing.

"Worse," Connor said, his tone dripping with fake disgust. "They are a bunch of bloodsuckers. The CEO is a ruthless workaholic. He has no life, no personality. Just a machine. He is probably a nightmare to deal with."

Kittie let out a genuine sigh of relief.

"See?" she said, shaking her head. "That sounds awful. The rich are miserable. I would rather sleep on the floor of my shop than live in some strict mansion with a guy like that."

Connor's chest expanded as he took a slow breath. The tension in his shoulders melted away. She did not care about money. She did not care about status.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it.

Kittie's phone pinged again. Another text from the family group.

She looked at the screen, her face dropping.

"If I show up to Thanksgiving alone," Kittie whispered, her voice cracking, "they will eat me alive."

Connor stepped closer. He reached out and opened the passenger door of the Ford.

"Then let us talk about that trade," Connor said softly.

Kittie looked at the dark interior of the car. Her pulse hammered in her throat. She slid into the passenger seat.

Connor shut the door, walked around the front, and got behind the wheel. He started the engine. The low hum of the motor filled the cabin. He gripped the steering wheel, a terrifying sense of victory rushing through his veins.