Pain exploded in Chrissy's wrist.
The agonizing pressure snapped her out of her shock. She looked at Arch's face. He looked like he wanted to snap her neck.
Pure survival instinct took over.
"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" she babbled, her voice pitching up in panic.
She yanked her arm backward, trying to break his grip, but he held on tight.
"I didn't mean to!" she lied, her chest heaving. "Your suit fabric is just so slippery, and I couldn't grab the seat in time. I just fell!"
Arch stared at her.
He didn't blink. He searched her terrified face for five agonizing seconds, calculating exactly how much she had felt. He was looking for any sign of suspicion in her eyes.
Chrissy kept her face twisted in pure fear and pain, masking the massive realization screaming in her head.
Finally, Arch released her wrist. He shoved her hand away with a look of absolute disgust.
He reached into the side pocket of his door, pulled out a sterile antibacterial wipe, and began aggressively scrubbing the spot on his trousers where she had touched him.
"Keep your hands to yourself," Arch warned, his voice dropping to a deadly calm. "Or I won't mind making sure they lose their sensation permanently."
Chrissy scrambled backward. She pressed her spine against the furthest door, pulling her knees together. She cradled her throbbing, red wrist against her chest and nodded frantically.
She didn't dare speak.
The cabin remained submerged in a suffocating silence for the rest of the drive. Ray apologized profusely from the front seat, but Arch ignored him.
Twenty minutes later, the Maybach pulled up to the curb.
They were parked outside a decaying, two-story villa on the very edge of Beverly Hills. The paint was peeling, and the lawn was dead. The Vega family home.
Chrissy didn't wait for Ray to open her door.
She shoved the handle and practically threw herself out onto the sidewalk. She didn't look back. She didn't say goodbye.
She heard the heavy door click shut behind her. The tinted window rolled up smoothly, sealing the terrifying man away. The Maybach pulled away from the curb, disappearing down the street.
Chrissy let out a massive, shaky breath. Her legs felt like jelly. She felt like she had just survived a tiger enclosure.
She turned and walked up the cracked concrete path to the front door. She paused on the porch, her heart still hammering against her ribs. Her wrist throbbed with a dull ache, a phantom reminder of Arch Rush III's terrifying, steel-trap grip. And then there was the bizarre, unsettling firmness of his thigh-a detail that made no sense but refused to leave her mind. She squeezed her eyes shut, taking a deep, shuddering breath, and forcefully shoved the chaotic terror of the Maybach ride to the back of her brain. She had one last, ugly task to handle here.
Before she could even reach for her keys, the door was yanked open from the inside.
Her father, Hank Vega, and her mother, Sherry Vega, stood in the doorway. Their faces were stretched into eager, greedy smiles.
Hank craned his neck, looking past Chrissy's shoulder toward the empty street.
"Where is Mr. Rush?" Hank asked, his smile faltering. "Why didn't you invite him inside for a drink?"
"He's busy," Chrissy said, her voice flat. She pushed past them into the cramped, dusty hallway. "He had to go to the office."
Sherry's fake smile instantly vanished, replaced by a vicious scowl.
"You stupid girl!" Sherry shrieked, grabbing Chrissy's arm. "How could you fail to keep a cripple entertained? That man is a walking goldmine! You should have brought him in to build a relationship!"
Chrissy stopped. She looked at her mother's manicured hand digging into her sleeve.
"The fifty million is already in the account, isn't it?" Chrissy asked coldly.
Hank cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. "Yes, the money arrived. But the company has massive debts. We need ongoing financial support from the Rush family."
Hank pointed a thick finger at her. "Now that you're in his bed, you need to squeeze every resource you can out of him."
Bile rose in Chrissy's throat.
"You sold me like a piece of livestock," she said, her voice shaking with disgust. "And now you're complaining I'm not working hard enough?"
Sherry stepped forward and jabbed her finger hard into Chrissy's forehead.
"You ungrateful little bastard!" Sherry spat. "You eat Vega food, you sleep under a Vega roof! This is what you owe us!"
Sherry's eyes burned with malice. "If your sister Arleen hadn't refused to marry that broken freak, do you really think a street rat like you would ever get to live in a mansion?"
The word bastard pierced Chrissy's chest.
She had lived in a state-run orphanage until she was six years old. Hank had only tracked her down and brought her home because he needed a tax write-off. They had never let her forget it.
Chrissy slapped Sherry's hand away.
"I just came back to pack my things," Chrissy said, her voice turning to ice. "I am moving out tonight."
Hank sneered. "Move out. Fine. But don't forget to wire your monthly allowance to our account."
Chrissy ignored him. She turned and walked up the narrow, creaking stairs toward the attic.
She pushed open the thin wooden door.
A golden, scruffy mutt immediately launched itself at her.
"Oh, Greyson," Chrissy whispered, dropping to her knees. She buried her face in the dog's warm fur as he whined and licked the tears threatening to spill from her eyes.
