The Princess and the Pauper (Arabella) novel Chapter 2063

Arabella had Yolanda in a chokehold, the blade of her switchblade glinting ominously close to her heart. "Did I ask for your opinion?"

Yolanda's airway constricted under Arabella's grip, leaving her voiceless and gasping for air.

With Yolanda as her shield, Arabella started to back away slowly. One of the goons, sharp as a tack, saw his chance. Arabella's hands were both in front of Yolanda—just one good shot to her hands, and Yolanda would be free!

With this in mind, he squeezed the trigger, but Arabella was quick. She dodged, and in a vicious move, slashed Yolanda's arm with the knife.

"Don't test my patience," Arabella warned, her tone icy.

Enraged and in pain, Yolanda lashed out at the gunman. "Can't you shoot straight? You trying to get me killed?"

The gunman hung his head in shame. He hadn't expected Arabella to react so quickly.

"The woman's in the car," another minion reported.

"The keys," Arabella demanded.

The goon threw the keys to Arabella, who caught them effortlessly. She slammed Yolanda against the car's hood, the knife sinking into her left thigh—a revenge for Mya.

Yolanda screamed, her body arching in agony.

Arabella hopped into the car. She put it in reverse, peeling back with such force that her henchmen couldn't get a clear shot at her without risking hitting Yolanda.

It wasn't until Arabella had created a safe distance and swung the car around that Yolanda was flung from the hood.

The goons rushed to help her up. After all, Yolanda hadn't paid them their final installment yet; they didn't want her dying on them so soon.

"What are you all waiting for? Get that bitch!" Yolanda screamed, her anger boiling over.

Several minions hopped into their cars and gave chase.

They floored the gas pedal, bullets raining even more furiously onto Arabella's silver car.

On the outskirts of the city, bordering Summerfield, another cavalry arrived. A fleet of black cars, twenty strong, loyally followed the lead Bugatti Veyron.

Behind the wheel of the Bugatti sat a man of regal coldness.

He noticed an unfamiliar silver car approaching, driven by a girl whose driving was less sure-footed than usual, her car wobbling.

Was she injured?

Behind her, a pack of white cars was giving chase.

Romeo immediately maneuvered his Bugatti to shield the girl's car, his and his men's vehicles forming a protective barricade.