His Trophy Wife Is A Predator

The freezing wind howled into the open cabin of the aircraft, violently whipping Braden's hair across his pale face.

He gripped the metal edge of the door frame so hard his knuckles turned completely white. His chest heaved, pulling in thin, useless breaths of the high-altitude air.

"Are you out of your damn mind?!" Braden screamed.

His voice cracked, swallowed instantly by the deafening roar of the aircraft engines. He tried to mask the violent shaking of his knees by shouting louder, but the terror in his eyes was impossible to hide.

Hazel did not even blink.

She stood two feet away, her face a mask of absolute indifference. Her fingers moved over the buckles of her parachute harness with terrifying precision. It was muscle memory.

She didn't spare him a single glance. She simply walked toward the open hatch, her boots heavy against the metal floor, and stared down at the valley three thousand feet below.

Down on the ground, inside the dark interior of the mobile command center, Chandler Rhodes stared at the live feed on the monitors.

The Chief of Staff's brow furrowed into a deep, harsh line. His stomach tightened. This woman was playing with fire, and she was going to drag the entire Powers Corporation down with her.

Back in the cabin, Hazel turned her head slowly.

"The countdown begins now," she stated.

Her voice was not loud, but the icy tone cut straight through the noise of the wind.

Braden shook his head frantically. The blood drained from his face, leaving his lips a sickly shade of blue. His legs gave out slightly, and he tried to stumble backward into the safety of the plane's belly.

Hazel did not give him the chance.

Without a single shift in her facial expression, she raised her long leg and planted her heavy boot squarely into the center of Braden's chest.

A sickening thud echoed over the wind.

Braden let out a blood-curdling shriek. The force of the kick shattered his balance instantly. His hands slipped from the door frame, and his body tumbled backward into the empty sky.

The sensation of weightlessness swallowed him whole.

Braden flailed his arms and legs wildly, his mouth open in a silent scream as the freezing air rushed down his throat.

A split second later, Hazel stepped out of the aircraft.

She did not fall. She dove. Her body snapped into a flawless, aerodynamic tactical position. She cut through the air like a ruthless falcon hunting its prey.

In the command center, Chandler shot up from his leather chair.

His heart slammed against his ribs. He leaned closer to the screen, his breath catching in his throat. The tactical perfection of her freefall posture was impossible for a woman who spent her days shopping on Fifth Avenue.

Up in the sky, the wind noise was deafening.

Braden's panic was suffocating him. His chest convulsed. Black spots danced at the edges of his vision. He was hyperventilating so fast he was seconds away from passing out.

Hazel tucked her arms in and accelerated her dive.

She closed the distance between them in seconds, stopping right in front of his face.

She reached out and grabbed a fistful of his jumpsuit collar. She yanked him close, forcing his terrified, rolling eyes to lock onto hers.

"Breathe," she ordered through the radio comms.

Her voice was a sharp blade scraping against his eardrum.

Braden stared into her eyes. There was no pity there. Only the crushing, absolute authority of a predator. His body reacted before his brain could. His lungs involuntarily synced with the rhythm of her commands. He gasped, pulling in a massive gulp of air.

The ground was rushing up fast. They were hitting the absolute safety baseline.

Braden's mind went completely blank. His fingers twitched, but he forgot how to reach for his ripcord.

Hazel's eyes narrowed.

She reached over and yanked his main parachute cord without a second of hesitation.

The massive upward pull jerked Braden's body violently. He let out a painful groan as the harness dug into his thighs, but the canopy blossomed open above him.

Hazel immediately pulled her own cord.

She stabilized instantly, floating downward with the elegant, controlled spirals of a seasoned professional.

Braden hit the grass hard.

His knees buckled, and he rolled aggressively across the dirt, tumbling four times before finally coming to a stop.

A moment later, Hazel's boots touched the ground.

She landed perfectly on her feet. With a fluid motion, she unclipped the heavy harness and let it drop to the grass. Her breathing was completely even.

Braden ripped his helmet off. He collapsed onto his hands and knees, his stomach violently rejecting his breakfast. He vomited onto the grass, coughing and wheezing, looking utterly pathetic.

Hazel walked over to him. Her steps were slow, measured, and unbothered. She stood over him, looking down at his trembling form.

The door of the black SUV slammed shut. Chandler walked quickly across the grass.

His eyes were locked on Hazel. The tight knot in his stomach had turned into a cold block of ice. He was staring at a stranger.

Hazel did not look at Chandler. She simply extended her right hand toward him.

"Ice water," she demanded.

Chandler's body went completely rigid. Every instinct in his highly trained, ruthlessly calculating mind screamed at him to refuse this absurd, demanding request from a woman he utterly despised. He opened his mouth to put her in her place, but as his eyes met hers, the words died in his throat. Her gaze was a bottomless, crushing abyss. For three agonizing seconds of silent warfare, the heavy air between them felt like a physical weight pressing down on his chest. He found himself entirely unable to break her stare. Slowly, moving with a stiff, humiliated reluctance, he reached into the cooler. He grabbed a bottle of ice water and placed it into her waiting palm. A hot flash of profound indignity burned the back of his neck as he realized he had just been subjugated by a single look.

Hazel twisted the plastic cap off.

She tilted the bottle and poured the freezing water directly over Braden's head.

The ice-cold liquid soaked his hair and ran down his face, washing away the vomit and the last shreds of his arrogant pride. Braden gasped, shivering violently, but he didn't dare look up.