Anabella Clayton's POV:
I sat in the passenger seat of Jewell's black Range Rover, the windows treated with a deep tint that blocked out the searing afternoon sun of Hudsonia. The cabin was deathly quiet—so quiet I could hear the frantic, uneven thrumming of my own heart.
"Look there," Jewell said, his hands relaxed on the steering wheel as he nodded toward the street ahead.
Across the way, Bowden was stepping out of an exclusive private club. He still carried that air of effortless triumph, dressed in a casual blazer adorned with intricate embroidery. He was mid-call, mid-smirk, sauntering toward his sports car parked at the curb.
Just as he reached for the door handle, a battered gray van screeched to a halt in front of him, its tires letting out a piercing wail. Before Bowden could
