The luxury of the Hale mansion felt stifling the next morning.

Light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the breakfast nook, showing the dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, golden intruders.

I sat at the marble island, my head resting in my hands, staring into a cup of coffee that had gone cold twenty minutes earlier.

My skin still felt the ghostly weight of the emerald silk dress, and my ears felt oddly light without the diamond studs Edmund had lent me.

I had returned them to him in the driveway last night.

Our fingers brushed in a brief, electric moment that kept me awake until the sun began to seep through the curtains.

The silence broke with the sharp, rhythmic tap of heels on the tile.

My mother entered, wrapped in a cream-colored silk robe worth more than my father's entire wardrobe.

She looked radiant, refreshed, and completely unaware that her daughter had just survived a social nightmare.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," she said cheerfully, kissing the top of my head. "Richard told me you and Edmund were the topic of conversation at the party.

He was so pleased. He said you looked like you finally understood what it means to be part of this family."

I pulled back slightly. "He was pleased that his son used me as a shield against Jessica?"

Mom sighed lightly. "Jane, don't be so dramatic. It's a transition for everyone.

Richard just wants us to be happy. He even mentioned taking us all to the Hamptons this weekend to celebrate the engagement being made official."

I looked at her, searching for the woman who used to share a single order of fries with me at the diner because we needed to save money.

She was gone, replaced by this polished version of herself who seemed to think happiness could be bought.

"Mom, did Richard ever explain why he really chose us?"

She hesitated, her hand hovering over the silver toaster. "What do you mean?"

"Edmund told me things last night. About Richard's private investigator. About Dad."

The toaster clicked, and the smell of burning bread filled the room, but my mother didn't move.

She stood still, her back turned to me. When she finally turned around, the "perfect" mask was starting to tremble.

"Edmund is a troubled boy, Jane. He's bitter about his mother and wants to hurt Richard. You can't listen to him.

He's trying to drive a wedge between us and the man who saved us."

"Did he save us, or did he buy us?" I asked, my voice rising.

"That's enough!" she snapped, her tone sharper than usual. "You are at the best school in the country.

You have a future now. Stop searching for reasons to be miserable and just, for once, be grateful."

She grabbed her toast and hurried out of the room, leaving me alone with the cooling coffee and the realization that my mother wasn't just a victim of Richard's charm-she was a willing participant in the lie.

I needed to get out.

I grabbed my bag and headed for the front door, but a movement in the library caught my eye.

The door was slightly open, and the scent of old paper and expensive tobacco drifted out.

I hesitated, then pushed the door open.

Richard sat behind the massive oak desk, a stack of folders in front of him.

He looked up, his expression instantly shifting to that warm, paternal smile I now recognized as a weapon.

"Jane. Just the person I wanted to see. Come in, sit down."

I didn't sit. I stayed by the door, my hand on the brass handle. "I'm heading to school."

"You have a few minutes. I wanted to talk to you about your father's situation." He leaned back, crossing his arms. "I've spoken to the warden again.

It seems your father was protecting another inmate from a nasty group. He's a hero, in a way. I've ensured he's getting the best medical care available in the facility."

The way he said "ensured" felt less like a favor and more like a reminder of his influence.

"Why was your man Miller at the prison before the fight even happened, Richard?"

The smile didn't disappear, but it became rigid. Richard's eyes, usually warm, now seemed as hard as flint.

"Edmund has been talking. I should have expected that. He has a vivid imagination when he feels neglected."

"He had a photo," I said.

"Miller is my security chief, Jane. He visits many places to protect my interests. Your father is now one of my interests. I wanted to make sure he wasn't being targeted by people who might try to get to me through him. It's a dangerous world for a man of my standing."

He stood up and walked around the desk, stopping just outside my personal space. He smelled of sandalwood and power.

"I have given your mother everything she ever dreamed of. I have given you a life that girls would kill for. All I ask in return is loyalty. Is that so much to ask, Jane? Loyalty to the man who is keeping your father alive?"

The threat was thinly veiled, but it was there. Keeping your father alive.

"I'm going to be late," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

"Of course. Have a wonderful day at school. And Jane? Tell Edmund I'd like to see him for dinner tonight. We have much to discuss regarding his behavior at the party."

I practically ran to the car.

Blackwell Academy felt different today. The whispers were no longer about my clothes or my past; they were about the photo.

I was halfway to my locker when Riley intercepted me, looking frantic.

She grabbed my arm and dragged me into an empty classroom, locking the door behind us.

"Have you seen it?" she hissed, shoving her phone in my face.

It was an Instagram post from an account called Blackwell Secrets.

It showed me and Edmund leaving Tyler's party.

We weren't touching, but the way he looked at me-and the way I looked at him-screamed intimacy.

The caption read: The Charity Case and the Crown Prince: A Step-Sibling Scandal?

"It has five hundred likes, Jane. Jessica's followers are losing their minds. They're saying you seduced him to secure your spot in the family. They're calling you a gold-digger, a social climber... worse."

I leaned against a desk, feeling dizzy. "I didn't do anything. He was just... helping me."

"In this school, helping looks like claiming," Riley said, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and excitement. "You've officially declared war on the social hierarchy. Jessica isn't just going to be mean now; she's going to be lethal. She's been the 'future Mrs. Hale' since she was in pigtails."

The door rattled. Someone was trying the handle.

"Open up! I know you're in there, Carter!"

It was Jessica's voice, filled with rage.

Riley and I exchanged glances. I felt a rush of adrenaline.

The fear I'd felt in the mansion and the intimidation from Richard transformed into a sharp point of defiance.

I walked to the door and unlocked it.

Jessica stormed in, flanked by two of her lieutenants.

Her face was blotchy, her perfect makeup ruined by what looked like hours of crying.

"You think you're clever, don't you?" she spat, stepping closer. "Using your mother's position to get close to him. You're disgusting. He doesn't love you, Jane. He's using you to annoy his father. That's all you are-a tool."

"Maybe," I said, my voice unnervingly calm. "But if I'm just a tool, why are you so scared of me?"

Jessica raised her hand, palm flat, ready to strike. I didn't flinch. I stared her down, waiting for the hit.

The hand never landed.

Edmund appeared in the doorway, catching Jessica's wrist mid-air.

He didn't look angry; he looked bored, which was even more terrifying.

"You're making a scene, Jessica," he said, his voice smooth and dangerous. "It's beneath you."

"She's ruining everything, Edmund! Look at what people are saying!"

"I don't care what people are saying," Edmund replied, dropping her wrist as if it were trash. "And neither should you. Unless, of course, you're worried that the rumors are true."

He looked at me then, a slow, deliberate sweep of his gaze that made the air feel heavy.

"Are they?" Jessica whispered, her voice breaking. "Are you really with... her?"

Edmund stepped closer to me, his shoulder brushing mine. "That's none of your business. Now, leave. Before I decide to tell my father exactly how you've been treating his guests."

Jessica let out a choked sob and fled the room, her friends following behind her like shadows.

The silence that followed was thick.

Riley slipped out the door, giving me a look that said we would talk later, leaving me alone with Edmund.

"You shouldn't have done that," I said, finally catching my breath. "You just made it a thousand times worse."

"It was already worse, Jane. The moment we walked into that party together, the fuse was lit. We might as well let it blow."

He walked over to the window, gazing out at the quad. The light highlighted the sharp angles of his face, making him look like a statue of some ancient, vengeful god.

"My father wants to see you for dinner," I said.

Edmund's jaw tightened. "I know. He sent me a text. It's not a dinner; it's an interrogation. He's realized he can't control us both if we're on the same side."

"Are we?" I asked. "On the same side?"

Edmund turned to me.

He crossed the room until he stood so close I could feel the heat coming from him.

He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of my jaw, mimicking the gesture from the night before.

But this time, he didn't stop.

He tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear, his touch lingering.

"I don't have sides, Jane," he whispered, his eyes dark with some kind of pain. "I only have survival. But for the first time in my life, I think my survival might depend on yours."

He leaned in, resting his forehead against mine. It wasn't a kiss, but it felt more intimate than anything I had ever experienced. It was a pact.

"He's going to try to break us tonight," Edmund said against my skin. "He's going to use your father, and he's going to use my mother. We have to be ready."

"How?"

"By giving him exactly what he wants," Edmund said, pulling back to look at me with a cold, brilliant smile. "A perfect, happy family. We're going to play the role so well he'll start to believe his own lies.

And while he's focused on the mask, we're going to find the key to the vault."

I looked at him and realized I was no longer the girl from Lincoln High. I was a conspirator in a house of ghosts.

"One more thing," I said as he turned to leave. "The glass that broke last night. My mom said it was a vase. But I saw the floor. It was heavy, Edmund."

Edmund paused, his hand on the doorframe. He didn't turn around.

"It wasn't a vase," he said quietly. "It was the portrait of my mother that used to hang in the library.

Richard took it down and smashed it against the floor because I asked him where she was really staying."

He left without another word.

I stood in the empty classroom, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the hall.

The "perfect" dinner was only hours away.

I went to my locker, my movements mechanical.

As I opened the metal door, a small, white envelope fluttered out.

I picked it up.

There was no name on the front. Inside was a single Polaroid photo. It was grainy, taken from a distance.

It showed my father sitting in a wheelchair in the prison infirmary, talking to a man whose face was obscured by a shadow.

On the back of the photo, written in a hand I didn't recognize, were four words:

He's talking.

Stop him.

The chill that went through me had nothing to do with the air conditioning.

I shoved the photo into my bag and walked toward my next class, the weight of the secret feeling like a physical bruise.

The dinner wasn't just going to be an interrogation.

It was going to be an execution. And I didn't know which one of us was on the chopping block.

The air in the grand dining room felt heavy with unspoken threats, like trying to breathe through wet velvet.

Richard sat at the head of the table, the light from the crystal chandelier reflecting off the silver service with a cutting brightness.

He appeared to be a satisfied patriarch, slicing into a medium-rare steak with a precision that suggested he imagined it was someone's throat.

My mother sat to his right, her smile fixed and fragile, like glass that had been glued back together too many times.

Across from me, Edmund sat like a statue of defiance.

He hadn't touched his food.

He kept his hands in his lap, his eyes fixed on a spot above Richard's head. He looked like he was preparing for a fight.

"The wine is excellent, darling," my mother said, her voice a touch too high. "Don't you agree, Richard?"

"Superb," Richard replied, not looking at her. He wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and finally turned his gaze toward us. "But I didn't call us together tonight to discuss the cellar. I want to talk about optics.

Edmund, do you have any idea what the board of governors at Blackwell is saying today?"

Edmund didn't blink. "I don't keep up with the gossip of old men in cardigans, Father."

Richard's eyes narrowed. "They are discussing a scandal. They are talking about my son and my soon-to-be stepdaughter appearing in compromising photos on social media. They are talking about instability in the Hale household."

"It was a photo of two people walking to a car," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. The polaroid in my pocket felt heavy against my leg. "The only ones making it a scandal are those who want one."

Richard focused on me. It felt like being caught in a spotlight. "Jane, you are young.

You don't understand that in our world, perception is reality.

If people believe there's a rift-or worse, an inappropriate connection-between you two, it devalues everything I have built.

It makes us look like a soap opera instead of a legacy."

"Is that what this is about?" Edmund asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "The stock price? God forbid people think we're actually human beings with complicated lives."

"I expect you to act with dignity," Richard snapped, the polite facade slipping to reveal the cold truth. "I have worked too hard to bring this family together to let it fall apart because of teenage rebellion. From now on, you will not be seen together outside this house. Jane, you will take the bus or a car service. Edmund, you will resume your duties with the student council and stay away from scholarship circles."

The silence that followed was deafening.

I looked at my mother, hoping for some maternal support, but she was preoccupied with the pattern on her china plate.

She had traded her voice for safety, and she wasn't willing to risk it now.

"And what about my father?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

Richard's expression softened into a disquieting, paternal falsehood. "Your father is being looked after, Jane. But his safety depends on the stability of this house. If the press starts digging into us because of your behavior at school, they might start digging into him. And we wouldn't want his incident to become public, would we? It might complicate his parole."

It was a direct blow.

He was telling me, as clearly as if he'd yelled it, that my father's life was the price for my compliance.

I felt a hand brush against my knee under the table.

It was Edmund.

His touch was firm, a silent signal of support in the dark. I didn't pull away.

"We understand," Edmund said, his voice empty. "We'll play our parts."

Richard smiled, warmth returning to his face like the sun breaking through clouds. "Excellent. I knew I could count on your maturity. Sarah, tell them about the florist for the engagement party."

The rest of dinner became a masterclass in psychological warfare disguised as wedding planning. My mother discussed peonies and silk runners while the three of us silently played a game of chess.

Every time Richard looked at me, I saw the man in the shadow of the polaroid.

Every time I looked at Edmund, I saw the boy who had watched his mother's portrait shatter.

When the meal finally ended, I fled to the gardens. I needed air that didn't smell like Richard's cologne.

I stood by the fountain, the sound of the water drowning out the noise of the house, when Edmund appeared beside me.

He didn't say anything at first. He only stood there, looking up at the moon.

"He's getting desperate," Edmund said finally.

"He's threatening my father's life, Edmund. That's not desperate, that's certain." I pulled the polaroid from my pocket and handed it to him. "Someone left this in my locker today."

Edmund took the photo, his brow furrowing in the moonlight.

He flipped it over and read the note: He's talking. Stop him.

"Who is the man in the shadow?" I asked.

Edmund's face went pale. "That's not one of Richard's men."

"Then who is it?"

"It's a lawyer," Edmund whispered. "A man named Marcus Thorne.

He used to work for the firm before he was disbarred for unethical behavior. My mother once told me Thorne knew where all the bodies were buried.

If your father is talking to him, it means he's seeking a way out that doesn't involve Richard's help."

"But the note says 'Stop him.' Richard must have sent this."

"No," Edmund said, handing the photo back. "Richard wouldn't send a polaroid to your locker. He's too careful for that.

This came from someone who wants us to turn against each other. Someone who wants to provoke a crisis."

"Jessica?"

"Maybe. Or perhaps someone even closer." Edmund looked back toward the house, focusing on the window of Richard's study. "There are people in my father's circle who think he's softened because of your mother.

They want him focused on business, not on a new family. They might be trying to trim the branches."

I looked at the photo of my father-fragile, broken, and surrounded by wolves. "I have to get to him. I need to know what he's telling Thorne."

"You can't go to the prison, Jane. Richard will know the moment you book a ride." Edmund stepped closer, his presence a warm shield against the night chill. "But I can get a message to Thorne.

I still have contacts from when my mother... before she was moved."

"Why are you helping me? Richard just told you your future hinges on staying away from me."

Edmund reached out, his hand hovering over my shoulder before it finally settled there. His grip was heavy and sure. "Because he smashed the only thing I had left of my mother yesterday.

He thinks he can replace people like furniture. He believes he can buy loyalty with silk and diamonds.

He's about to learn that some things can't be bought."

He leaned down, his face inches from mine. "Do you trust me, Jane?"

I looked into those winter-sea eyes and saw the same fire burning in my own soul.

We were both trapped and tired of performing.

"Yes," I whispered.

He didn't kiss me. Instead, he did something much more important.

He took my hand and pressed a small, cold object into my palm.

It was a silver key.

"This is for the service entrance in the basement," he said. "It bypasses the alarm on the main gate. If you ever need to leave without being seen, use it. But be careful. If he catches you, I can't help you."

He turned to leave, but I caught his sleeve. "Edmund? What happens if we win? What happens to us?"

He paused, shadows from the willow tree dancing over his sharp features. "In this house, Jane, no one ever truly wins. We just find a way to survive the night."

He disappeared into the darkness, leaving me with the key, the polaroid, and a heart beating too fast.

I walked back to the house but didn't go to my room.

I went to the library. The door was locked, but I knew from my late-night wandering that Richard kept a spare key hidden in the base of a marble bust in the hallway.

I slipped inside.

The room smelled of old leather and remnants of the smashed portrait.

I didn't turn on the lights. I used my phone's flashlight.

The beam cut through the darkness like a blade.

I wasn't looking for money or jewelry. I was searching for the files Edmund mentioned-the ones Richard kept on his "interests."

I searched the desk, the drawers, and the hidden panels behind the books.

There was nothing. Richard was too smart to leave a paper trail.

Just as I was about to give up, I spotted a small, discarded scrap of paper in the wastebasket.

I picked it up and smoothed it out. It was a receipt from a private medical transport company.

The date was yesterday. The destination wasn't a prison infirmary.

It was a private clinic in the mountains.

My breath caught. Richard hadn't lied about my father being moved.

But he hadn't moved him for his health. He had moved him to a place where no one-not even a lawyer named Marcus Thorne-could find him.

Then I realized that the note in my locker wasn't just a threat. It was a countdown. My father was talking, and Richard was moving him to a place where he would never be heard from again.

I slumped against the desk, the cold realization washing over me. I was a "Hale" now, with the clothes, the school, and the name. But I felt more like a prisoner than my father ever had.

Suddenly, the library door creaked.

I dove behind the large leather armchair, my heart pounding. The light from the hallway spilled into the room, silhouetting a figure.

It wasn't Richard.

It was my mother.

She didn't turn on the lights. She walked straight to the mahogany bookshelf and pulled out a specific volume-a thick, leather-bound edition of The Count of Monte Cristo.

She opened it, took out a small envelope, and tucked it into the pocket of her robe.

She stood there for a moment, her shoulders shaking, before she turned and left as quietly as she had come.

I remained in the shadows, frozen by what I had seen. My mother, the woman who had begged me to be "grateful," was keeping secrets of her own.

I waited until I was sure she was gone before creeping out of the library. I didn't go to sleep. I sat by my window, watching the sun begin to rise over the North Shore, the silver key gripped tightly in my hand.

The engagement party was in three days. The world would see a happy family.

They would see a billionaire and his beautiful bride, along with two teenagers who had learned to behave.

But behind the silk and smiles, a war was being fought. For the first time, I wasn't afraid. I was ready.

I looked at the polaroid one last time before tucking it away.

My father was smiling in the photo. He was talking to someone he trusted.

He was trying to save me.

"I'm coming, Dad," I whispered to the empty room. "Just hold on."

Downstairs, I heard the heavy thud of the front door.

Richard was leaving for work.

The day had begun. In the Hale mansion, the clock was finally ticking.

The silence after Richard left for work was anything but peaceful.

It felt like the hollow echo in your ears after an explosion.

I stood in the middle of the library, clutching a scrap of paper from the wastebasket-the receipt for the "Mountain View Clinic"-until its edges softened from my grip.

A private clinic in the mountains sounded serene, a place for healing.

But with Richard Hale involved, it felt more like a tomb.

If my father had been sent there, he was no longer a prisoner of the state; he was now a prisoner of the Hale estate.

I waited for the heavy click of the front door's electronic lock, then I didn't head to the bus. I went for the stairs.

I needed to find out what my mother had hidden in that copy of The Count of Monte Cristo.

The library felt colder, as if the spirits of the shattered portraits were watching me.

I approached the mahogany bookshelf, my fingers shaking as I traced the spines of the leather-bound books.

I found the volume-thick, old, and smelling of vanilla and decay.

I pulled it down.

It was hollow.

Inside the carved-out pages was no envelope-my mother had taken that-but there was a small, tarnished silver locket and a handwritten note.

The ink was faded, in the elegant handwriting of a woman I had never met.

"Richard, if you are reading this, it means I have failed to be the wife you wanted. Please, do not punish the boy for my weakness. He is all I have left."

It was a suicide note or a farewell. Edmund's mother hadn't just been "sent away." She had been terrified.

I looked at the locket. Inside was a tiny, grainy photo of a toddler with messy dark hair and those same winter-sea eyes.

Edmund.

"What are you doing, Jane?"

I gasped, the book slipping from my hands and hitting the floor with a dull thud.

Edmund stood against the doorframe, his school blazer over his shoulder. His face showed deep exhaustion, but his eyes were fixed on the locket lying on the rug.

I didn't try to hide it. I picked it up and offered it to him. "I found it in the book. My mother... she took something from here last night."

Edmund stepped into the room, his footsteps silent.

He took the locket, his thumb brushing over the silver casing with a tenderness that made my heart ache. "She kept this? I thought he destroyed everything."

"Edmund, I found a receipt. My father isn't at the prison infirmary. Richard moved him to a place called Mountain View Clinic yesterday."

Edmund's grip tightened around the locket until his knuckles turned white. "Mountain View isn't a clinic, Jane. It's a high-security psychiatric facility owned by one of Richard's shell companies.

It's where he sends people when he wants the world to forget they exist. It's where he sent my mother before she 'disappeared' to Europe."

The room felt like it was tilting.

"We have to go there. Now."

"We can't," Edmund said, his voice sharp. "The second we miss check-in at Blackwell, the GPS on our phones and the trackers in the car will alert Richard's security team. They'd catch us before we even hit the highway."

"Then we make it look like we're at school," I said, adrenaline pushing away my fear. "Riley. She's great with tech. If she can spoof our pings, we might have a four-hour window."

Edmund looked at me, a slow, dangerous grin spreading across his face. "You're getting better at this.

But we need a car he doesn't recognize."

"The service entrance," I reminded him, pulling the silver key from my pocket. "And my old friend from Lincoln High.

He works at a chop shop three blocks from the academy.

He owes me for passing his senior English."

Moving from the world of silk and marble to the grease-stained reality of my old neighborhood was shocking.

We had slipped out of Blackwell during the mid-morning assembly, with Riley promising to "loop the digital shadow" of our presence in the library.

We met Leo behind an abandoned warehouse.

He didn't ask questions when I showed up with a boy who looked like he belonged on a yacht, asking for a "non-descript" vehicle.

For a hundred dollars and the promise to never see me again, he handed over the keys to a rusted, gray sedan with tinted windows and a muffler sounding like a localized earthquake.

"You're driving," Edmund said, eyeing the car with disgust. "I can't operate something that looks like it's held together by prayer and duct tape."

"Just get in, Prince Charming," I muttered, sliding into the driver's seat.

The drive into the mountains took two hours.

As the lush greenery of the North Shore faded into the jagged gray peaks of the interior, the temperature dropped.

The "Mountain View Clinic" sat on a plateau, surrounded by a double-fence topped with razor wire. It didn't look like a hospital; it looked like a bunker.

"Stay in the car," Edmund said as we pulled into the shade of a large pine tree a few hundred yards from the gate.

"Not a chance."

"Jane, if they see you, Richard will know. If they see me, I can play the 'concerned son' card. I can say I'm scouting the facility for a 'donation' my father is considering. They won't question a Hale."

"But my father-"

"I'll find him," Edmund promised, his hand briefly covering mine on the gearshift. His touch was cold, but his gaze was steady. "I have the locket. If he's as out of it as they usually make people in there, he'll need a reason to trust me.

This is the only thing that proves I'm not my father."

I watched him walk toward the gate, his posture instantly shifting back into that of the arrogant heir.

I watched the guards check his ID, the gate hiss open, and watched him disappear into the building.

Thirty minutes passed.

Then forty. Every second felt like a year.

I sat in the rusted car, the heater blowing lukewarm air, clutching the Polaroid of my father. He's talking. Stop him.

Was he talking to Marcus Thorne? Was he telling the truth about whatever Richard had done years ago?

Suddenly, the back door of the clinic swung open.

Two guards sprinted toward the perimeter. My heart stopped.

Had Edmund been caught?

But they weren't looking for him. They were staring at a black SUV racing up the driveway-a car I recognized instantly. Richard's security detail.

They were early.

I didn't think. I shifted the sedan into gear and sped toward the main entrance, the engine protesting. I didn't have a plan; I just knew I couldn't let them trap him inside.

I rammed the front bumper into the gate's sensor box, sparks flying as the metal groaned. The gate shuddered and stuck halfway open.

Edmund appeared at the top of the concrete stairs, half-carrying a man in a white gown. My father. He looked frail, his movements jerky and confused, but he was alive.

"Get in!" I screamed, leaning across to throw the passenger door open.

Edmund shoved my father into the back seat and dove into the front just as the black SUV swerved to block the exit.

"Reverse!" Edmund yelled. "Now!"

I slammed the car into reverse, the tires spinning on the gravel, swerving around the SUV and clipping their side mirror.

We fishtailed onto the main road, the gray sedan pushing eighty as we sped down the winding mountain pass.

"Dad?" I choked out, glancing in the rearview mirror.

My father looked at me, his eyes unfocused. He looked down at the silver locket Edmund had placed in his hand. "Jane?" he whispered. "The man... the man with the shadow... he said you were safe."

"I am, Dad. I'm here."

"He's sedated," Edmund said, checking the side mirror. "They're not following us yet. They'll try to handle this quietly first. Richard can't afford a high-speed chase involving his son and his 'charity case.'"

"Where do we go?" I asked, my hands shaking on the wheel. "We can't go back to the mansion. We can't go to the police-Richard owns half the precinct."

Edmund leaned back, his chest heaving. He looked at the locket, then at me.

"There's a place. A property my mother owned in her own name, tucked away in a trust Richard forgot about. It's a three-hour drive south."

"Will he find us?"

"Eventually," Edmund said, his voice turning dark. "But by then, we'll have what we need. Your father wasn't just talking to Marcus Thorne about the past, Jane. He has the ledger".

"The ledger?"

"The real one," my father mumbled from the back seat, his eyes closing. "The one that shows where the money went. The one that shows who Richard really is."

We drove in silence for miles. The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of purple and gold.

We were fugitives now.

We had traded our gilded cage for a rusted sedan and a life on the run.

As we pulled into a dark gas station to switch plates, Edmund stepped out of the car. He stood in the cool night air, looking back at the mountains we had just escaped.

I walked up to him, the weight of the day finally crashing down on me. "We're never going back, are we?"

Edmund turned to me. The arrogance was gone. The prince was gone. There was only a boy who had finally broken free.

He reached out and pulled me into him, his arms wrapping around me with a desperate, crushing force.

"No," he whispered into my hair. "We're going to burn it all down."

But as he held me, I felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out, the screen lighting up his face.

It was a text message.

"I hope you're enjoying the drive, Edmund. Check the trunk. R."

My blood turned to ice. Edmund walked to the back of the car, his movements stiff. He popped the trunk.

Inside was not luggage. It was a small, ticking device attached to a briefcase, along with a single, fresh white peony-my mother's favorite flower.

Richard hadn't been trying to stop us. He had been leading us.

"Jane," Edmund said, his voice barely a whisper. "Run."

Then the world exploded in a flash of white.