Anne walked into her dark guest room. She didn't turn on the overhead lights. She only clicked on the dim yellow lamp next to the bed.
She changed into a thin cotton nightgown and sat against the headboard. She closed her eyes, pushing her hearing out into the hallway.
The thick carpet muffled the footsteps, but Anne heard them clearly. Someone was walking very slowly, very quietly, toward her door.
The brass door handle turned. A faint click echoed in the room. Someone had used a master key.
Jordin slipped into the room. She wore a silk robe. She reached behind her back and locked the door.
The sweet, innocent smile was completely gone. Her face was twisted into a mask of pure, ugly hatred.
Jordin walked to the edge of the bed. She looked down at Anne, thinking she was asleep.
"Stop faking," Jordin hissed. Her voice sounded like a snake. "I know you're awake."
Anne slowly opened her eyes. Her green irises were flat and dead. She stared at Jordin without moving a single muscle.
The absolute lack of fear infuriated Jordin. She reached out and violently ripped the blanket off Anne's legs.
"Don't think you belong here," Jordin spat. "Your mother was a mountain whore who spread her legs for money. You are just as filthy."
Anne sat perfectly still. She watched Jordin throw her tantrum like a scientist observing a rat in a maze.
Jordin leaned in closer. Her hot breath hit Anne's face. "Spencer Hubbard is mine. Don't even think about looking at him."
Anne searched the dead girl's memories. Spencer Hubbard. The heir to the Hubbard family. Anne's arranged fiancé.
Jordin lost her patience. She raised her hand, her long acrylic nails aiming straight for Anne's cheek, ready to draw blood.
Anne moved.
Her left hand shot out like a whip. She didn't use brute strength; instead, she executed a flawless, unexplainable martial arts technique, catching Jordin's wrist at a precise angle that instantly dislocated the momentum. She twisted it downward, using Jordin's own weight against her. Jordin let out a muffled gasp of pain, her entire arm going numb. Before Jordin could pull away, Anne shifted her balance and let Jordin stumble forward, guiding her by the throat rather than overpowering her. With a terrifyingly fluid motion, she pinned Jordin backward against the cold plaster wall, her fingers resting on Jordin's windpipe-not with a steel vice, but with the lethal, calculated pressure of a predator who knew exactly where the arteries were.
Anne leaned in. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"Dark web," Anne whispered into Jordin's ear. Her voice was ice. "Bitcoin transactions. A killer with a black snake tattoo."
The three phrases hit Jordin like bullets. All the color drained from her face. Her pupils dilated in pure horror.
Jordin made a choking sound. Her whole body began to tremble. She couldn't understand how this illiterate trash knew the exact details of the assassination she had paid for.
Anne's fingers tightened slightly on Jordin's windpipe. "Your assassins were incredibly sloppy," she mocked softly.
Just as Jordin's eyes started to roll back in her head, Anne's ears twitched.
Footsteps. Heavy and fast. Coming down the hall. It was Kash.
A brilliant, wicked idea flashed in Anne's mind.
She instantly let go of Jordin's throat. Jordin collapsed onto the floor like a broken doll, coughing violently and gasping for air.
Anne took two steps back. She raised her own hands and dug her fingernails deep into the flesh of her forearms. She dragged her nails down, tearing the skin until warm blood welled up and dripped down her wrists.
Then, Anne threw her head back and let out a blood-curdling, agonizing scream that shattered the silence of the entire estate.
