Cory's head snapped up. A greasy, triumphant smile spread across his face. "Ana, baby. You finally made it."
He moved toward her, arms open.
"Cory?" she slurred, her voice thick with a manufactured tremor. "I... I feel so dizzy. Faye said you were waiting."
She swayed, forcing him to adjust his path. As he reached for her, she sidestepped, letting herself fall away from his grasp and onto the arm of the sofa. The movement looked clumsy. It wasn't.
Her eyes scanned the room. Champagne bucket, two glasses. Dimmed lights. And on a bookshelf, a decorative porcelain vase angled just slightly downward.
A camera. Constance didn't just want her ruined; she wanted proof.
Cory was on her now, his patience gone. He loomed over her, his hands on her shoulders, his breath smelling of whiskey. "It's okay, baby. I'll take care of you."
His hands started to roam.
The moment his fingers brushed the strap of her dress, the vulnerable girl vanished. Ana's eyes snapped open, clear and cold. Her hand, which had been dangling limply, shot up.
It was holding a hairpin. A long, slender stiletto of polished steel.
The movement was too fast. One moment he was the predator, the next, the tip of that steel pin was pressed against the soft skin of his throat. It pricked the skin. A single, perfect drop of blood welled up.
Cory froze. His smile dissolved into shock, then fear. "Ana? What the hell?"
"Touch me again," she said, her voice a low, lethal whisper, "and I'll make sure you never speak another word."
His face paled. "Do you have any idea who I am?"
Ana just smiled, a terrifying, empty smile. She applied a fraction more pressure. He flinched. She forced him backward, step by step, until the backs of his knees hit the sofa and he collapsed onto the cushions.
She leaned over him, the hairpin never wavering. Her gaze flicked toward the porcelain vase.
"Tell your partner in crime," she said, her voice dripping with contempt, "that she picked a decent camera angle. The lighting, however, is terrible."
The last bit of color drained from Cory's face. He knew.
Ana leaned in closer, her lips almost touching his ear. "My life is not a game. This is your only warning. Try this again, and you'll find out I am much worse than you can possibly imagine."
She straightened up, sliding the hairpin back into her clutch.
Then she walked to the bookshelf. She leaned in close to the vase, directly into the camera's line of sight, and gave it a bright, sweet, utterly menacing smile.
Her lips formed a single, silent phrase.
Watch me.
Without another glance at the man on the sofa, she turned and walked out, closing the door softly behind her.
Cory sat paralyzed, his hand trembling as he brought it to his neck. His fingers came away wet with his own blood.
Miles away, Constance Kirk laughed as she raised a glass of champagne. Her mother, Veronica, smiled beside her.
"Now Ana will have no choice but to marry into the Travis family," Constance said, her voice dripping with satisfaction.
Veronica stroked her daughter's hair affectionately. "If the company weren't in crisis, I wouldn't have resorted to this."
After all, the Travises were a wealthy family. Marrying that bastard Ana off to them was practically doing her a favor.
A girl like her—daughter of some nobody—deserved a life of squalor, married to some drunk in a gutter.
But at least Cory Travis was a notorious playboy with no ambition. Even if Ana married in, she'd have no good days ahead.
Just then, the door slammed open. Preston Kirk stormed in, his face dark with fury.
"Where's Ana?"
