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.

Jayme Barnes POV

The metallic tang of iron flooded my mouth.

Autry pulled back, his hand flying to his lips. When he pulled it away, his fingertips were stained red.

I didn't think; I reacted. I shoved him.

I put every ounce of my rage into that shove, channeling months of frustration into the heels of my hands.

He stumbled back, his boot catching on a stray cable.

The Great Don Autry Villarreal, knocked off balance by a girl in combat boots.

"Get off me!" I screamed, my voice cracking.

The set went dead silent. You could hear a pin drop.

Autry touched his lip again, staring at the blood on his fingers. When he looked up, his eyes weren't angry.

They were hungry.

"You still feel it," he said, his voice rough with something dark.

"I feel nothing but disgust," I spat.

I grabbed my camera bag, slinging it over my shoulder. "I quit."

"You can't quit," Autry said, regaining his composure and straightening his jacket. "You have a contract."

"Sue me," I said.

I walked off the set, ignoring the stares of the crew.

I walked all the way back to the hotel, my boots pounding against the pavement.

Once inside my room, I locked the door and threw the deadbolt.

I took a shower and scrubbed my lips until they were raw, trying to erase the ghost of his touch.

Exhaustion claimed me, and I slept for twelve hours.

I woke up to my phone blowing up.

My agent-the one who fired me-was calling repeatedly.

Chloe, my friend back home, was texting in all caps.

DON'T LOOK AT INSTAGRAM.

So, naturally, I looked at Instagram.

JaymeBarnesScandal was the number one trend in the world.

There were photos. Grainy, black and white monstrosities.

They showed a woman who looked like me snorting lines of cocaine in a bathroom stall.

They showed a woman who looked like me entangled in bed with a married senator.

They were fake.

I knew they were fake because the woman in the photos didn't have the small tattoo of a bird on her shoulder.

But the internet didn't care about tattoos. The internet wanted blood.

Cassie had posted a photo of herself crying.

Caption: Heartbroken that someone I welcomed into my home would try to ruin my family. Addiction is a disease. Praying for Jayme.

She was framing me.

She was destroying my reputation so that no one would believe me if I ever told the truth about them.

I saw red.

I didn't call a lawyer.

I called Autry.

He didn't answer.

I called again.

Voicemail.

I grabbed my coat.

I knew where he was staying. He always rented the biggest villa in town.

I stormed up the hill, my breath hitching in my throat.

The gate was open. The front door was unlocked.

I walked in.

Autry was in the living room.

He was wearing a silk robe, looking every inch the relaxed king.

He was watching the news coverage of my "scandal."

He looked up when I entered. He didn't look surprised.

"Fix it," I said.

"Jayme," he started, standing up.

"Fix it, Autry! You know those photos are fake! You know I've never touched drugs in my life!"

"I can't," he said.

"Can't? You're the Don. You control the press. You control the police."

"Cassie leaked them," he said quietly.

"So?"

"If I expose her lie, I expose the cracks in our alliance. Her father will pull the treaty. War will start again. Men will die."

I stared at him. The room spun.

"So you're letting her destroy me?" I whispered.

"I'm protecting the family," he said.

He reached for a briefcase on the table and opened it.

It was full of cash. Stacks of hundred-dollar bills.

"Take this," he said. "Go to Switzerland. Change your name. Start over. I'll make sure you're safe. I'll make sure you never want for anything."

He was paying me to be the villain.

He was paying me to die.

"You promised to protect me," I said, my voice breaking. "You gave me that star and promised."

"I am protecting you," he insisted. "This is the only way you survive Cassie."

"No," I said.

I looked at the money.

Then I looked at him.

I finally saw him clearly.

He wasn't a king.

He was a coward in a tailored suit.

"You aren't protecting me, Autry. You're burying me."

I stepped back.

"Keep your money. I'd rather starve."

"Jayme, be reasonable!"

"I'm done being reasonable. And I'm done being yours."

I turned around and walked out into the night.

I had no reputation.

I had no home.

I had no money.

But for the first time in my life, I was free.