Bound By Blood: The Billionaire's Contract

Dawn Hoffman gasped, a sharp, violent intake of air that felt like shards of glass expanding in her lungs. Her eyes flew open, but the world was a blur of gray and black. Her hands clawed at the leather seat beneath her, expecting the cold steel of a sterile operating table or the rough concrete of a holding cell. Instead, her fingers sank into plush, expensive leather.

The smell hit her next. Not the antiseptic sting of a hospital or the mold of the penitentiary, but the cloying sweetness of Chanel No. 5 mixed with the scent of rain on asphalt.

"God, Dawn, you're making a scene before we even get there," a voice drawled from beside her. "My hair is going to frizz in this humidity, and you're hyperventilating like a fish."

Dawn turned her head. The movement was stiff, mechanical. Her vision sharpened, focusing on the woman sitting next to her. Catrina Keller. Her cousin. Her tormentor. The woman whose carefully crafted lies, whispered to the right people, had helped orchestrate Dawn's professional and personal ruin five years ago. Hoffman was her father's name, a name now synonymous with failure, but she was trapped in the orbit of her mother's family: the Montgomerys.

But Catrina looked younger here. Her skin was unblemished by the botox she would abuse in three years. She was holding a compact mirror, checking her lipstick, completely indifferent to the fact that Dawn felt like her heart was trying to batter its way out of her ribcage.

Dawn looked down at her own body. She was wearing the silver silk dress. The one she wore the night everything was supposed to change. She looked at her wrists. No handcuffs. No needle marks. She flexed her fingers. They moved fluidly, without the tremors that the nerve damage from the prison fight had caused.

The plan was in motion.

The realization didn't bring joy. It brought a cold, heavy nausea that settled in the pit of her stomach. She turned to the window. The I-495 sign flashed by, blurred by the gathering storm clouds. It was October 14th. The night of the gala. The night the dominoes were set to fall.

"Are you even listening to me?" Catrina snapped the compact shut. "I said, Dozier is going to be there. He specifically asked if the 'quiet cousin' was coming. You know what that means. He smells blood."

Dawn didn't answer. She was busy controlling her breathing. In, for four counts. Hold, for four. Out, for four. It was a technique she learned to stop herself from screaming during the night terrors.

Catrina leaned in closer. Her eyes dropped from Dawn's face to her neck. A predatory gleam sparked in her pupils.

"You know," Catrina said, her voice dropping to a faux-sweet register that made Dawn's skin crawl. "The theme tonight is 'Vintage Glamour.' That Van Cleef necklace... it really clashes with your silver. It's too gold. But it would match my dress perfectly."

Dawn went still.