Chapter 2

Camille Mcdowell looked like a porcelain doll. Her hair was a cascade of perfect blonde curls, her eyes a wide, innocent blue. She wore a simple white dress that made her look even more fragile, like a soft breeze could break her.

She saw Kennedy in the hallway the next morning and offered a small, hesitant smile. "Kennedy. I'm so sorry about everything. I hope we can be friends."

Kennedy said nothing. She just stared at the girl who had so expertly dismantled her life.

Senator Pittman appeared behind Camille, placing a fond hand on her shoulder. "Camille, my dear, I had Cook prepare your favorite blueberry pancakes." He beamed at her with a warmth Kennedy had never known. He treated his mistress's daughter with more affection than he had ever shown his own flesh and blood.

Then, his eyes fell on Kennedy, and the warmth vanished, replaced by cold irritation. "Your things are still in your room. I told you, Camille is staying there now. Have the staff move your belongings to the guest wing."

"No," Kennedy said, her voice flat.

"What did you say?" her father demanded, his face darkening.

"I said no. That was my mother's room. You will not give it to her."

"I am the master of this house!" he thundered. "You will do as you're told! You are an ungrateful brat, and this is exactly why you need to be married off. Jamey Anderson can deal with you."

Camille flinched, shrinking behind the Senator as if Kennedy's words were physical blows. "Dwight, please don't be angry with her. It's my fault. I can stay in a guest room."

"Nonsense," the Senator said, softening instantly as he turned back to her. "You deserve the best." He glared at Kennedy. "Move your things. Now."

A dry, humorless laugh escaped Kennedy' s lips. "Fine."

She turned on her heel, not towards the guest wing, but towards the front door.

"Where do you think you're going?" he yelled after her.

"I'm leaving," she said without looking back.

"The wedding is in two weeks! You can't just leave!"

"Watch me," she said, grabbing the suitcase she' d left by the door. "I'll be in Seattle for the wedding. That was our deal. I'm holding up my end. The deal did not include staying in this house and watching you play happy family with your mistress's daughter."

She walked out into the bright morning sun and didn't look back. The gilded cage of the Hall dynasty was finally behind her.

Her first stop was the most expensive hotel in the city. She booked the presidential suite, charging it to the primary Hall family account, the one her father used for his "discretionary" spending.

Then, she went on a shopping spree.

She walked into the most exclusive designer boutiques, the kind where prices were never listed. She bought everything. Gowns she would never wear, shoes she would never walk in, jewelry that could fund a small country. Each swipe of the black card was a small act of rebellion, a poison dart aimed at her father's political war chest.

He called her that afternoon, his voice trembling with rage. "What the hell do you think you're doing? You've spent over a million dollars in three hours!"

Kennedy examined a diamond necklace, its facets catching the light. "I'm your daughter, about to be sold off to the highest bidder for your political gain. I think I'm entitled to a new wardrobe for my new life, don't you?"

"You are no longer my daughter! You said so yourself!"

"And I'll pay you back every cent," she said sweetly. "Just as soon as I'm married to a billionaire. Think of it as a loan."

She hung up before he could explode. She continued her rampage for two more days, a whirlwind of silk, leather, and diamonds. Her goal was simple: to drain every last drop of liquid cash from her father's accounts, leaving him scrambling just before the most critical fundraising period of his campaign.

On the third day, a message lit up her phone. It was from Elliot.

"Where are you?"

Her fingers hovered over the screen. A part of her, a stupid, foolish part, wanted to pour out the whole sordid story. But she killed that part.

"Getting ready for my wedding," she typed back.

He didn't reply.

The next morning, she tried to order breakfast. The hotel manager informed her, with a polite but firm tone, that her card had been declined. Her father had frozen the account. She was cut off. The hotel politely requested that she settle her bill and vacate the suite.

She packed her mountain of designer clothes and bags into a taxi and had it drop her in the center of town. She had thousands of dollars in assets in the trunk, but not a single dollar in her pocket.

Pride, stubborn and fierce, prevented her from selling any of it. This was her armor for her new life in Seattle, her dowry of revenge. She wouldn't part with a single piece.

As dusk fell, she realized the stark truth of her situation. In her entire life, surrounded by the powerful and influential, she had never made a single real friend. There was no one to call.

She ended up on a cold park bench, her designer luggage piled around her like a fortress. The silk of her dress felt thin against the biting wind. The city that had once been her playground now felt alien and hostile.

Sometime after midnight, a group of drunk men stumbled towards her, their laughter loud and menacing.

"Well, look what we have here," one of them slurred, his eyes raking over her. "A princess who lost her castle."

Kennedy stood up, her chin high. "Get away from me."

The man laughed and took a step closer. "Or what?"

Suddenly, a sleek black car pulled up to the curb. The door opened, and Elliot Solis stepped out. He didn't look at the men. He looked only at her, his face a thundercloud of disapproval.

The drunk men sobered up instantly at the sight of him. The aura of cold, dangerous power that clung to Elliot was more effective than any weapon. They scattered like rats.

Elliot walked towards her, his gaze sweeping over her luggage, her dress, the park bench.

"What is this, Kennedy?" he asked, his voice low and laced with something she couldn't identify. It wasn't concern. It was... annoyance. As if her predicament was an inconvenience he was forced to deal with.

"What does it look like?" she shot back, her pride stinging. "I'm enjoying the fresh air."

"Get in the car." It wasn't a request. It was a command.

She wanted to refuse, to tell him to go back to Camille, but her body was shivering, and the fear from the encounter with the drunk men still lingered. She was exhausted.

Wordlessly, she got in the car. His driver loaded her luggage into the trunk, and they pulled away from the curb, leaving her brief, miserable life on the streets behind. She felt a wave of humiliation so profound it almost choked her. To be rescued by him, the one man she was trying to escape, was the ultimate defeat.