Chapter 3

Abbey reached the side of the Escalade. She grabbed the heavy chrome handle of the rear door and pulled. Her shoulder socket popped with the effort.

Brecken blinked, caught off guard by her sudden pivot. He had not expected her to willingly get into his car after the scene she just caused. He quickly recovered his composure, turning on his heel and marching toward the driver's side.

Jeffery stood frozen on the gravel shoulder. He watched Abbey's retreating back. A dark, ugly flash of wounded pride and irritation twisted his handsome features. He quickly smoothed his expression back into a mask of polite concern before anyone could notice.

Abbey gripped the edge of the leather seat. She leaned her upper body into the cabin. She reached down with both hands, grabbed her numb right thigh, and physically hauled her ruined leg over the threshold. A cold sweat broke out across her forehead from the sheer exertion.

She pulled the door shut. The heavy thud sealed the cabin, completely cutting off the sight of Jeffery's hypocritical face behind the tinted, bullet-resistant glass.

Brecken slid into the driver's seat. He pushed the ignition button. The engine roared to life. He adjusted the rearview mirror, his eyes locking onto Abbey's reflection.

"Glad to see you still have a shred of self-awareness left," Brecken mocked, throwing the car into drive.

Abbey did not react to the insult. She pressed her spine hard against the door panel, curling herself into the furthest, darkest corner of the spacious backseat. She looked like a cornered animal preparing for a strike.

The cabin was suffocatingly warm. The air conditioning blew a steady stream of expensive, custom-blended cedarwood and vanilla fragrance into her face.

Abbey's eyes darted across the luxurious interior. Her gaze snagged on a pile of items carelessly tossed onto the middle seat.

There was a silk Hermes scarf. Three heavy, textured Bvlgari shopping bags. A limited-edition Chanel lambskin purse sat precariously on top of the pile.

The name "Emmie Dudley" was written in elegant calligraphy on a gift tag attached to one of the bags. It was a glaring, neon sign screaming who the real princess of the family was.

Brecken noticed where she was looking. His jaw tightened.

"Don't touch Emmie's things. Your filthy hands will ruin the leather," he warned, his voice sharp and protective.

Abbey jerked her head away. She wasn't looking out of jealousy. The bright, vibrant colors of the designer bags physically hurt her eyes. For five years, her entire world had been concrete gray, rust brown, and blood red.

Her breathing suddenly hitched. The air in the cabin felt too thick to inhale. The soft leather seats felt like they were closing in on her.

A violent wave of claustrophobia slammed into her chest.

She squeezed her eyes shut. The smell of the cedarwood perfume vanished. It was instantly replaced by the sharp, stinging stench of industrial bleach and raw sewage.

She was no longer in a luxury SUV. She was back in the windowless laundry room of the prison during her first month. There were no security cameras.

She felt the rough, bleach-soaked towel being shoved brutally into her mouth, gagging her screams. She felt the heavy, cold weight of the iron pipe swinging through the damp air. She heard the wet, sickening crunch of her own femur snapping in half.

Abbey's body began to shake. It started as a fine tremor in her fingers and quickly escalated into violent, uncontrollable shivers. She bit down on the back of her hand, her teeth sinking into her own flesh to keep the phantom screams trapped in her throat.

Brecken glanced at the rearview mirror. He saw her convulsing in the corner. He let out a loud, exasperated sigh.

"What the hell is wrong with you now? Are you seriously putting on a show to get my sympathy?" Brecken sneered. "Save the acting. It didn't work in court, and it's not going to work now."

The sheer cruelty of his words acted like a bucket of ice water to her face.

The flashback shattered. Abbey gasped for air, her lungs expanding painfully. She slowly lowered her hand from her mouth. Deep, crescent-shaped teeth marks bled sluggishly into her skin.

She opened her eyes. The terror was gone. The chilling, dead emptiness returned, freezing over her pupils like a layer of winter ice.

In the hellscape of the prison, she had learned the absolute rule of survival. Tears, shaking, and weakness only invited the predators to hit you harder.

She forced her spine straight. She carefully lifted her right leg and tucked it behind her left ankle, hiding the deformity from Brecken's view. She crossed her arms over her chest, staring at the back of his head with absolute, lethal guard.

Brecken caught her stare in the mirror. The intensity of her defense made his skin prickle. He felt a sudden, irrational urge to justify himself, which only made him angrier.

"I'm warning you right now," Brecken growled, his knuckles turning white on the steering wheel. "The family is throwing a welcome-home dinner for you tonight. Every important figure in New York will be there. You better behave yourself and not ruin the evening."

Abbey heard the words "welcome-home dinner."

The corner of her cracked mouth twitched upward. A slow, incredibly dark smile formed on her lips. It was the most terrifying expression Brecken had ever seen.

She turned her head to look out the window. The trees blurred past the glass. Her pale, hollowed-out reflection stared back at her.

A massive, extravagant dinner party for the disgraced, convicted felon daughter they hadn't spoken to in five years? It was a laughable, absurd lie.

She knew the Dudley family's playbook. This dinner was a trap. It was a stage perfectly set to humiliate her, to strip her bare and remind her of her place in the dirt.

Abbey's fingers drifted down to her lap. She gently stroked the rough canvas of her bag. Buried deep inside the lining was the only leverage she had managed to forge in blood and sweat over the last five years.

She took a slow, measured breath. She locked her trauma away in a steel box in her mind. Her eyes sharpened into the cold, calculating blades of an executioner. She was ready for the slaughter.