The Disguised Heiress And Her Obsessive Tycoon

The hydraulic doors of the production bus hissed open, spitting a cloud of dry California dust into the air.

"Welcome to the ultimate survival challenge!" Trey Vance, the host, shouted into a drone camera hovering inches from his face.

Anabelle Garcia stepped out of the bus. Her cheap canvas shoes sank immediately into a patch of thick, foul-smelling mud.

The drone zoomed in, the red recording light blinking aggressively. It hovered right at chest level, capturing every frayed thread of her faded flannel shirt.

She knew exactly what the live chat looked like right now. Millions of viewers typing out jokes about how she looked like a refugee who had just crawled out from under a trailer park porch.

She ignored the buzzing machine. Her eyes darted across the desolate campsite, mapping the terrain, calculating wind direction, and locating the natural rock formations that could serve as windbreaks.

A heavy designer duffel bag swung hard into her shoulder.

"Move it, trailer trash," Kody Reid muttered. He squeezed past her, his expensive cologne masking the smell of the dirt.

The impact sent Anabelle stumbling forward. She caught her balance, her right thumb pressing so hard into her index finger that the knuckle turned stark white. Her stomach muscles clamped down.

A flash of memory hit her-the sickening thud of her father's body hitting the pavement, and those scattered documents fluttering in the wind like pale, dead butterflies. Her chest tightened, the cold air trapping violently in her lungs. She forced the breath out through her teeth. Revenge wasn't a loud, screaming thing. It was cold. It was quiet.

She lifted her head and pasted on a wide, nervous smile.

"Sorry about that," she said, her voice trembling just enough to sound pathetic.

Kody sneered, puffing out his chest for the camera. "Just stay out of my way."

Camila Finch stepped off the bus next. She reached out and grabbed Anabelle's arm, her perfectly manicured nails digging into Anabelle's skin.

"Are you okay, sweetie?" Camila asked, making sure her face was angled perfectly toward the drone.

Diego Oconnor leaned against a dead tree trunk a few yards away. He adjusted his dark sunglasses, his jaw tight, watching the fake display with obvious disgust.

Blaze Kline stumbled down the bus steps last. His skin was a sickly gray. "I haven't eaten in three hours," he groaned, clutching his stomach.

Trey Vance blew a shrill silver whistle. The sharp sound cut through the complaints.

"Five million dollars," Trey yelled. "That is what the last person standing will walk away with."

Greed lit up Kody's eyes. Camila gasped, her hands flying to her mouth.

Anabelle kept her face blank. In her head, she was already deducting the federal and state tax brackets, calculating the exact net payout. It was enough to fund the first phase of her legal war against the Edwards family.

"But first," Trey smiled, a vicious, practiced expression. "Hand over everything. No cash. No credit cards. No personal items."

Two massive security