She hasn’t changed.
That’s the first thing I think, standing in my doorway looking at Jessica Winters, and it’s the thought I hate the most because it means I’ve been carrying an image of her for six years, and it’s still accurate.
Same ice-blonde hair. Same posture, shoulders back, chin tilted, the stance of a woman who learned early that height is a weapon. And beauty is the bullet.
Same smile that sits on her mouth like something placed there by a stylist.
We’ve met before she was betrothed to Nick. Several times, the perks of being Alpha daughters. None of them was pleasant, though Jessica always made sure they looked pleasant from the outside. That was her gift, making cruelty appear like good manners.
“Emily.” She says my name like we’re old friends reuniting at a benefit. Warm and a
