Chapter 3 3

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.