His Trophy Wife Is A Predator

Braden wiped the freezing water from his eyes with a shaking hand.

He gritted his teeth, his jaw muscles jumping as he tried to push himself up from the wet grass. A spark of humiliated rage flared in his chest. He wanted to fight back.

Hazel tossed the empty plastic bottle into a nearby metal trash can.

The hollow clatter echoed loudly across the quiet landing zone.

She turned back to him. Her face was completely devoid of warmth.

"Let's go up for a second jump," she said.

Her tone was flat, conversational, and entirely dead.

Braden opened his mouth, a bitter insult sitting right on his tongue.

"Only this time," Hazel added, cutting him off, "we go without the parachutes."

Braden's pupils dilated. His breath hitched in his throat.

He stared intensely into her eyes, desperately searching for a smirk, a twitch, any sign that this was a sick joke.

There was nothing. Her eyes were like dark, bottomless wells. They held no emotion, no hesitation, and absolutely no mercy.

A sharp gust of wind swept across the field. Braden's entire body violently shuddered. The last wall of his psychological defense cracked wide open.

Chandler stepped forward, clearing his throat.

"Mrs. Powers, the schedule-"

Hazel raised her right hand.

It was a slow, deliberate gesture. The angle of her wrist, the slight lift of her chin-it was a posture of ancient, unquestionable nobility.

Chandler's jaw snapped shut. The words died in his throat. He felt a heavy, invisible weight press down on his shoulders, forcing him into silence.

Braden watched the Chief of Staff back down. The terror in his chest expanded, suffocating him. If his brother's ruthless right-hand man was intimidated, Braden knew he was completely screwed.

"I... I need to go back to Manhattan," Braden stuttered.

He scrambled to his feet and practically ran toward the armored black SUV, his wet clothes clinging to his shaking body.

The motorcade started its engine.

Inside the back of the SUV, the silence was thick and suffocating.

Hazel leaned back against the premium leather seat. She closed her eyes, resting her head. Her posture was so relaxed and dominant, she looked like a queen inspecting her conquered territory.

Braden pressed himself into the far corner of his seat. He kept his head turned toward the window, but his eyes kept darting back to the woman beside him.

In the passenger seat up front, Chandler adjusted the rearview mirror.

He stared at Hazel's reflection. The cold sweat on his palms made the steering wheel feel slippery.

Chandler reached into his briefcase and pulled out his encrypted iPad. He tapped the screen, bringing up a security report generated just three hours ago.

Chandler hesitated for exactly three seconds. His fingers tightened around the cold metal of the device. As the Chief of Staff, his duty was to protect the family, not arm its volatile members with dangerous information. But a dark, calculating thought crept into his mind. He needed a knife to test the true depths of this terrifying woman. Braden's impulsive stupidity and fragile ego made him the perfect, disposable tool for the job. If she was truly a monster, Braden would draw her out. Chandler masked his cold intentions with a blank expression, reached back, and handed the iPad to Braden.

Braden frowned, his trembling fingers taking the device. He tapped the play button on the video file.

The screen showed the indoor tactical training facility at the base, recorded right before their jump.

Braden's breath stopped.

On the screen, Hazel was running a high-intensity combat drill. Her movements were a blur of lethal precision. She did not fight like a modern soldier; she moved with the ruthless, elegant efficiency of a phantom from an ancient, blood-soaked battlefield. She executed a series of archaic, devastating joint locks and brutal disarms that defied all conventional training. It was a killing art, refined over centuries of aristocratic survival, executed with a cold-blooded grace that made the modern tactical gear she wore look entirely out of place.

Braden watched in horror as the woman on the screen grabbed a heavy training dummy, twisted its arm into an unnatural angle, and snapped its simulated neck with her bare hands.

A cold shiver violently ripped down Braden's spine.

He slowly lifted his head and looked at Hazel. She was still resting with her eyes closed. He felt his stomach churn. He was sitting next to a monster.

The video reached its final second. The Hazel on the screen, who had been adjusting her heavy leather gloves, suddenly stopped her movements. She slowly lifted her head, her chin tilting upward as her gaze drifted with chilling intent toward the exact corner of the room where the security camera was hidden. She did not glare directly into the lens like a modern exhibitionist. Instead, her eyes swept over the space with the cold, indifferent authority of a predator surveying its domain. Yet, that single, sweeping look felt as though it had pierced straight through the concrete walls and the glass of the screen. It was an ancient, suffocating aura of pure slaughter.

Braden's fingers went numb.

The heavy iPad slipped from his hands and crashed onto the carpeted floor of the SUV.

Hazel slowly opened her eyes.

She turned her head and looked down at the device near her boots. The corner of her red lips curled into a slow, mocking smile.

"Pick it up," she ordered.

It was the tone of a master speaking to a disobedient dog.

Braden swallowed hard. The lump in his throat felt like sandpaper. Without a single word of protest, he bent down and picked the iPad up from the floor.