Jayme Barnes POV

The taxi ride to Aunt Darleen's passed in a blur of neon lights smeared against the rain-streaked windows.

My phone buzzed incessantly against my thigh, a frantic heartbeat I couldn't silence.

It wasn't Autry.

It was the internet.

Pictures of Cassie Turner were everywhere I looked.

She was blonde, vicious, and the daughter of the man who had wanted Autry dead only last week.

Now, she sat beside him as his queen.

I arrived at Darleen's small house in Queens feeling hollowed out.

She opened the door, took one look at my face, and pulled me into a hug that smelled like lavender and stale cigarettes.

"He finally did it," she whispered into my hair.

"He's doing his duty," I said, repeating his words like a desperate mantra.

"He's selling his soul," she corrected sharply.

The next day, Darleen practically dragged me to a Charity Gala.

She said we couldn't look like we were hiding.

She said the Barnes women didn't run.

We arrived late.

The air in the ballroom was suffocating, thick with perfume and judgment.

Every eye turned to me the moment I stepped through the archway.

They knew.

Everyone knew I was the girl Autry kept in a glass box.

And everyone knew the box had just been smashed.

Then, I saw them.

Autry was wearing a black tuxedo that fit him like armor, stiff and unyielding.

Cassie was on his arm.

She was wearing pink.

It was a soft, innocent pink-my shade. It was the color I usually wore.

It was a deliberate caricature. She was mocking me.

She leaned into him, whispering something in his ear with a possessive intimacy.

Autry didn't smile, but he didn't pull away, either.

He looked up and locked eyes with me across the room.

For a second, his mask slipped.

I saw what looked like panic.

I saw a flash of regret.

Then Cassie followed his gaze.

She smiled at me.

It was a smile full of teeth, predatory and triumphant.

She whispered something else to Autry, and he looked away.

He cut the connection.

I felt bile rise in my throat.

I ran to the bathroom and retched until my stomach was empty.

I left the gala without saying goodbye.

The next morning, I went back to the estate to get the rest of my camera equipment.

I heard the noise before I saw it.

Machinery.

Grinding.

Tearing.

I ran to the back of the house, my heart hammering against my ribs.

There was a bulldozer in the middle of the rose garden.

My father planted those roses before he died.

They were the only living memory I had of him.

Cassie stood on the patio, pointing a manicured finger like an emperor sentencing a prisoner.

"Tear it all out," she commanded. "I want a Zen garden. Something modern. I hate roses."

"Stop!" I screamed.

I ran toward her, ignoring the mud splashing onto my shoes.

"You can't do this! My father planted these!"

Cassie turned to me, looking bored.

"Oh, Jayme. You're still here?"

"Autry wouldn't allow this," I said, my voice shaking.

"Autry gave me carte blanche to redecorate," she said coolly. "He said to make myself at home."

She signaled the driver.

The bulldozer blade came down.

It ripped a ten-year-old rosebush out of the earth with a sickening crunch of roots.

It sounded like bones breaking.

I fell to my knees.

Autry walked out onto the patio.

He saw me on the ground.

He saw the destroyed garden.

He looked at Cassie.

"What is this?" he asked.

"Renovations, darling," Cassie said, linking her arm through his. "You said I could change things."

Autry looked at the roses.

He knew what they meant.

He looked at me.

I waited for him to yell.

I waited for him to stop it.

"Make it quick," he said to the workers, his voice devoid of emotion.

Then he walked back inside.

He chose her comfort over my father's memory.

That was the moment the last thread of loyalty snapped.

Two weeks later, my modeling agency called.

They were dropping me.

"Conflict of interest," the agent said nervously. "The Villarreal family requested we prioritize Ms. Turner's portfolio."

He took my home.

He took my memories.

Now he was taking my voice.

I went to a bar that night, needing to drown the silence.

Cassie found me.

She must have been tracking me.

She sat on the stool next to me, her perfume clashing with the scent of stale beer.

"You're pathetic," she said.

"And you're just a political pawn," I replied, taking a shot of tequila.

"I'm the future," she hissed, leaning in close. "I'm going to strip you of everything in this city until you're nothing but a bad memory."

I looked at her.

I didn't feel angry anymore.

I felt light, untethered.

"You can have it all, Cassie," I said.

I put a twenty on the bar.

"I don't want a life that can be bought."

Jayme Barnes POV:

The internet was a cesspool.

JaymeBarnesWashedUp was trending worldwide.

Cassie's PR team was working overtime to destroy me. They painted me as the jealous, leeching ward who couldn't handle the Don finding his true love.

I didn't defend myself. Sometimes, silence is the loudest scream.

Salvation arrived in an email from a small production company in France. They wanted a documentary photographer for an indie film.

It wasn't glamorous. It didn't pay much. But it was four thousand miles away from Autry Villarreal.

I accepted it immediately.

I went back to the estate one last time. The rose garden was gone. Where blooms once thrived, there was only flat, gray gravel now.

I went to my room and asked Maria, the housekeeper, to bring boxes.

"Pack everything," I told her.

"Ms. Jayme?" she asked, tears welling in her eyes.

"Everything Autry bought. The clothes. The jewelry. The bags. Put it in storage. Or burn it. I don't care."

I stripped the room until it looked like a prison cell.

Then, I gathered what was actually mine: I took my camera. I took my passport. I took the teddy bear my dad gave me.

I walked downstairs.

Autry was in the hallway. He blocked my path, a solid wall of muscle and dominance.

"Where are you going with that bag?" he demanded.

"France," I said.

"No," he said, his voice low. "You're not leaving the country."

"I have a job."

"You don't need a job. I provide for you."

"You provide for a pet, Autry. I'm a woman."

"It's dangerous," he growled, stepping closer, invading my space. "You don't know the world outside this protection."

"The only person who has hurt me in the last month is you," I said.

He flinched as if struck.

"I am doing what I have to do to keep the family safe."

"I am not your family," I said. "Not anymore."

Cassie appeared at the top of the stairs, looking down at us.

"Let her go, Autry. She's just doing this for attention."

Autry looked at her, then back at me.

"If you walk out that door, Jayme, don't expect me to come looking for you."

"That's exactly what I'm counting on."

I walked past him. I felt his heat. I smelled his cologne-sandalwood and gunpowder.

It used to smell like safety. Now, it just smelled like a lie.

I got in the cab and didn't look back.

I flew to Provence.

For the first time in years, I breathed.

The film set was chaotic and beautiful. The director, Kenan Gregory, was kind. He looked at my photos and saw the art, not the scandal.

"You have an eye for pain," he told me.

"I have a lot of reference material," I replied.

We were shooting in a lavender field three weeks later. The air was sweet. The sun was warm.

Then, the wind picked up.

A rhythmic thumping sound filled the valley, drowning out the quiet.

Dust kicked up, ruining the shot. A sleek black helicopter banked over the hills. It had the Villarreal crest on the tail.

It landed right in the middle of the set, crushing a row of lavender beneath its landing skids.

The crew scattered. Kenan stood his ground, shielding his eyes against the rotor wash.

The door opened.

Autry stepped out.

He was wearing a suit in the middle of a field. He held a massive bouquet of red roses.

He looked like a dark god descending to claim a sacrifice.

He saw me. He started walking toward me, ignoring the shouting crew.

"Jayme," he barked. "Get in the chopper."

I stood still.

I raised my camera.

I took his picture.

"No," I said.

Jayme Barnes POV:

The sharp click of the shutter cut through the silence of the lavender field.

Autry stopped.

He looked at the camera, then shifted his gaze to me.

He looked confused.

He wasn't a man accustomed to hearing the word 'no'.

"Excuse me?" he said, his voice low and laced with danger.

"This is a closed set, Mr. Villarreal," I said.

I didn't call him Autry.

I used his business name.

The name people feared.

"Mr. Villarreal?" he repeated, clearly offended. "Get in the damn helicopter. You've made your point. You've had your vacation."

"I'm working," I said, keeping my voice steady.

"This isn't work. This is a hobby. I have a dinner with the Governor tonight. I need you there."

"Why? Is Cassie busy destroying another garden?"

His jaw clenched tight.

"Cassie is... occupied."

"Security!" Kenan yelled, his voice cracking across the set.

Two local French security guards stepped forward.

They looked terrified of Autry, but they managed to stand in front of me.

Autry laughed.

It was a cold, sharp sound.

"You think these rent-a-cops can stop me?"

"No," I said. "But I think you don't want to cause an international incident in front of a documentary crew."

I pointed to the camera operator, who kept the lens trained on him.

Autry looked at the lens.

He straightened his tie.

He threw the roses on the ground.

"Fine," he said. "We'll do this the hard way."

He turned and strode back to the helicopter.

The wind from the rotors whipped my hair across my face.

I didn't flinch.

Kenan walked over to me, looking pale.

"Who the hell is that?" he asked.

"My past," I said.

"He seems intense."

"He's a mob boss, Kenan. Intense is his baseline state of existence."

I went back to my hotel room that night.

My phone pinged.

A text from Autry: We need to talk.

I deleted it without hesitation.

The next morning, I arrived on set to find chaos.

The lead actress was crying in her trailer.

The producer was popping champagne.

"We got a new investor!" the producer yelled. "Tripled the budget overnight! We're saved!"

My stomach dropped.

A black SUV pulled up.

Cassie Turner stepped out.

She was wearing oversized sunglasses and a smirk that suggested she knew exactly how much space she took up.

"Surprise," she said, looking right at me.

"She's the new lead?" I asked Kenan.

"The new investor insisted," Kenan said, looking unhappy. "Said she has 'star power'."

Autry had bought the production.

He had bought my escape.

"And Jayme," Cassie said, walking over to me. "Since you're here, we need a stand-in for the lighting checks. You're about my height. Be a dear and stand there so they can light me properly."

She wanted me to be her shadow.

Literally.

"I'm the photographer," I said.

"Do it, or the production loses the funding," Cassie said sweetly.

I looked at Kenan.

He looked desperate. This film was his dream.

I nodded.

"Fine."

I stood on the mark.

The lights burned my skin.

I saw Autry standing by the craft services table.

He was watching me.

He looked miserable.

Why did he look miserable? He was winning.

Later that afternoon, they were rehearsing the kiss scene.

The male lead was late.

"I'll stand in," Autry said, stepping out of the shadows.

"You're not an actor," Kenan argued weakly.

"I'm the money," Autry said. "And I know the lines."

He walked onto the set.

Cassie wasn't there. It was just the stand-in rehearsal.

It was just me.

He walked up to me.

The script called for a passionate reunion.

"Autry, don't," I whispered.

"You look tired," he said softly.

He reached out and touched my cheek.

His thumb brushed my lower lip.

My body betrayed me.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

"Action," the assistant director called nervously.

Autry didn't act.

He grabbed the back of my neck.

He pulled me flush against his chest.

He crashed his lips against mine.

It wasn't a stage kiss.

It was possession.

It was anger.

It was a claim.

He tasted like peppermint and dominance.

For a second, I melted.

For a second, I was eighteen again.

Then I remembered the roses.

I remembered the "guest wing."

I remembered the bulldozer.

I bit his lip.

Hard enough to draw blood.