Chapter 4

The old pickup truck shuddered to a halt at a red light in the heart of Midtown Manhattan. The cacophony of the city-sirens, horns, shouting-was a world away from the suffocating quiet of the Hill mansion. Kelsey was staring out the window, replaying the anonymous text message in her mind, when a black Rolls-Royce Phantom materialized beside them, cutting aggressively into their lane.

Wyatt slammed on the brakes. The truck's tires screamed in protest, stopping inches from the Rolls' gleaming rear bumper.

"What the hell!" Wyatt yelled, pounding his fist on the steering wheel. He was about to get out and give the driver a piece of his mind.

But then, the tinted rear window of the Rolls-Royce slid down.

Kelsey's eyes were drawn to the man in the backseat. He was pale, his features sharp and aristocratic, but it was the faint smear of blood at the corner of his mouth and the unhealthy, almost translucent quality of his skin that caught her eye. He sat in a wheelchair, the polished chrome of its frame glinting in the afternoon sun.

The driver of the Rolls, a burly man named Gus Kowalski, got out and stomped back to their truck. "Are you blind? You nearly scratched the paint! Do you have any idea how much this car costs?"

Wyatt shot back, his voice thick with anger, and the two men began a loud, pointless argument in the middle of traffic.

Kelsey tuned them out. Her focus was entirely on the man in the car. She pushed her door open and walked calmly to the front of the Rolls, her gaze locked on him.

The man, Brant Preston, looked back at her. His eyes were cold, assessing, and filled with an impatient arrogance.

"Your complexion is poor, your lips are tinged with purple, and your breathing is shallow," Kelsey said, her voice clear and steady over the traffic noise. "You have the look of a man who is dying. You are being betrayed by someone close to you."

Brant Preston's cold composure cracked. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly, and his hand tightened on the armrest of his wheelchair.

Gus, the driver, turned on her. "What did you say, you little freak?" He reached out to shove her away from the car.

Kelsey moved with a dancer's grace, sidestepping his clumsy push. As he lunged forward, his own momentum carried him past her. She simply stuck out her foot, and the big man tripped, sprawling onto the pavement with a loud grunt.

A flicker of something dangerous-interest, mixed with a hint of killing intent-flashed in Brant's eyes. A man in the passenger seat, his assistant Alex Shaw, quickly got out. "Sir, are you alright?" he asked Brant, before turning to Kelsey. "You need to leave. Now."

Kelsey ignored him, her eyes still on Brant. "Check what you consume," she said with a cold finality. "Or you'll be dead in three months."

The light turned green. Horns blared behind them.

Kelsey grabbed Wyatt by the arm, pulling him away from the driver, who was now scrambling to his feet, and back into the truck.

As they drove away, Brant Preston watched their retreating, rust-colored pickup in his side-view mirror.

"Alex," he said, his voice a low command. "Find out everything there is to know about that woman."

A few minutes later, Alex looked up from his tablet, his expression surprised. "Sir, her name is Kelsey Odom. She was just publicly disowned by the Hill family. And it appears she's the long-lost heiress the Montgomerys just found."

A slow, predatory smile spread across Brant Preston's face. Montgomery. This was getting interesting.

Back in the truck, Wyatt was still shaken. "How did you know all that stuff about him? About being sick?"

Kelsey shrugged, falling back on a well-practiced lie. "When you're a human blood bag for twenty years, you pick things up. You learn to read people. His color was all wrong."

Wyatt didn't look convinced, but he let it drop.

Finally, the truck pulled up in front of a worn-down, pre-war apartment building. It was the kind of place that had seen better days, a century ago.

This was the home of the powerful Montgomerys?

Kelsey looked at the crumbling facade and hid a smirk. The tests, it seemed, were not over yet. And she was more than happy to play along.