The next morning, the armored limousine waited in the circular driveway, silent and imposing like a hearse.

I stood by the open door, waiting.

Damien emerged from the front door, his arm wrapped securely around Vivian's waist.

He was guiding her down the steps as if the stairs were made of landmines.

He glanced at me, a flicker of guilt passing through his eyes, but his grip on her didn't loosen.

"You sit in the back with us," Damien said to Vivian. "Estelle, take the jump seat."

The jump seat.

Facing them.

I climbed in and sat backward, forced to watch them as the car pulled away.

Damien spent the entire ride discussing security protocols with Vivian.

"I've doubled the guard at the perimeter," he said, covering her hand with his. "No one gets near you."

He didn't look at me once.

We arrived at *L'Eclat*, a boutique that laundered more money for the Outfit than it made selling gowns.

The staff scrambled to greet us.

"Don Jones," the manager said, bowing slightly. "We have the private suite ready."

Damien nodded. "Show Estelle the bridal collection. The best you have."

He stayed by Vivian's side, guiding her to a velvet sofa, acting as her personal guard dog while I was led to the racks of white silk.

I picked a dress at random.

It was a mermaid cut with lace sleeves. Beautiful. Pointless.

I put it on in the changing room and walked out to the podium.

Damien looked up from his phone.

For a second, the mask slipped.

He looked at me with that raw, hungry desperation that had kept me trapped for eight years.

"Estelle," he breathed, standing up. "You look..."

"I want to try it on," Vivian interrupted.

The spell broke.

Damien turned to her, blinking as if waking from a trance. "What?"

"I never had a real wedding," Vivian said, pouting. "Aaron and I eloped. I just want to see what it feels like. Just for a minute."

It was a power play. Pure and simple.

"Vivian, that's Estelle's dress," Damien said, but his voice lacked conviction.

"Please, Damien?" She touched her stomach. "For the baby? I want him to feel his mother happy."

Damien sighed and looked at me.

"Estelle, *Tesoro*," he said, using the pet name that used to make my knees weak. "It's just a dress. Let her have this moment. She's hormonal."

I looked at him.

I looked at the man who was supposed to be my protector.

"Take it," I said.

I walked back to the changing room, unzipped the dress, and handed it to the attendant.

A few minutes later, Vivian emerged in the gown. It was too tight, straining at the seams, but she preened in front of the mirror.

"Can you zip it up?" she asked me, smirking in the reflection. "My arms are so sore."

Damien nodded at me. "Help her, Estelle. Don't let her trip."

I walked over behind her.

I reached for the zipper.

"You look ridiculous," I whispered so only she could hear.

Vivian's eyes met mine in the mirror.

"I look like the Queen," she whispered back.

Then, she reached out and grabbed the heavy iron rack of mannequins next to us to strike a pose.

She pulled it hard, losing her balance.

"Damien!" she screamed.

The rack, loaded with fifty pounds of metal and fabric, tipped over.

Damien moved with a speed that wasn't human.

He launched himself across the room.

He didn't reach for me.

He dove for Vivian, tackling her away from the falling metal, shielding her body with his own, wrapping her in a protective cocoon.

The iron rack crashed down.

It didn't hit the floor.

It hit me.

The metal bar slammed into my shoulder and ribs with a sickening crunch.

I collapsed, the weight pinning me to the hardwood floor.

White-hot pain exploded in my chest, stealing my breath.

I lay there in the debris, gasping, tasting copper in my mouth.

Damien scrambled up, lifting Vivian, checking her frantically for scratches.

"Are you hurt? Did it hit the stomach?" he shouted.

"I'm scared!" Vivian wailed, burying her face in his neck.

"Get the car!" Damien yelled at his men. "Now!"

He scooped her up and ran toward the exit.

He didn't look back.

He didn't check the pile of metal.

He didn't see me lying broken on the floor, watching his back disappear through the glass doors.

I woke up to the sharp, sterile sting of antiseptic and the rhythmic, indifferent beeping of a machine.

I was in a standard room at the Family's private hospital—functional, cold, and devoid of flowers.

My ribs throbbed with a dull, grinding ache with every breath, and my left arm was immobilized in a sling.

The door was slightly ajar.

I could hear voices drifting in from the VIP suite next door.

"You're safe, Viv. I promise."

It was Damien. His voice was a low rumble, a sound that used to be my sanctuary, now soothing someone else.

I shifted in the bed, wincing as pain shot through my side, and looked through the crack in the door.

He was sitting on the edge of her bed, holding her hand to his lips. He kissed her forehead, lingering there, his eyes closed in utter relief.

My breath hitched.

That was the kiss he used to give me after a nightmare.

The final thread of hope in my chest didn't just break; it dissolved like sugar in hot water.

I didn't cry.

I felt a strange, cold clarity wash over me, numbing the physical pain just enough to move.

I waited until the nurse did her rounds and left the station.

I pulled the IV out of my arm. Blood trickled down my skin, warm and sticky, but I didn't care.

I grabbed my clothes from the plastic bag on the chair. They were torn and dirty, stiff with dried mud, but they would do.

I walked out of the hospital.

I didn't take a taxi. I walked three blocks to a bus stop, blending into the gray afternoon, just another face in the crowd.

When I got back to the Villa, the guards let me in without a word. They were used to me being invisible.

I went strictly to the penthouse.

I didn't pack the Hermes bags. I didn't take the Cartier watches.

I took a nondescript duffel bag.

I packed two pairs of jeans, three shirts, and the cash I had stashed in a hollowed-out book over the last year—a rainy day fund I had prayed I'd never need.

I walked over to the nightstand where a framed photo sat.

It was taken four years ago. Damien and I on a boat, laughing, the wind in our hair. We looked like we owned the world.

I took the photo out of the frame.

I ripped it down the middle.

I dropped Damien's half into the trash can.

I put my half in my pocket.

I wasn't leaving him. I was taking myself back.

I walked out of the master bedroom, down the hall, and out the service entrance.

I knew exactly where the blind spot in the cameras was. I had listened intently when the security chief explained it to Damien months ago.

I slipped through the gap in the fence and walked into the woods that bordered the estate.

My ribs screamed in protest with every uneven step, but I kept walking.

I walked until I reached the highway.

A taxi finally stopped for me.

"The Immigration Office," I said.

When I got there, the clerk I had arranged to meet handed me a thick envelope.

"Passport, visa, new birth certificate," he said, his voice low and transactional. "Welcome to Aquinox, Miss...?"

I looked at the passport.

*Elena Vance.*

"Elena," I said, testing the name on my tongue. It tasted like freedom.

I took my phone out of my pocket.

It was a burner, but Damien had the number.

I took the SIM card out and snapped it in half.

I dropped the pieces into a storm drain outside the office.

Then I dropped the phone in a dumpster three blocks away.

I got in another taxi.

"The airport," I said.

Back at the hospital, Damien would be checking his watch.

He would eventually leave Vivian's side to come check on me.

He would find the empty bed.

He would call my phone and get dead silence.

He would track the GPS and find a dumpster.

He would race to the Villa and find the torn photo in the trash.

And he would realize that while he was busy protecting his brother's ghost, he had lost the only living thing that ever truly loved him.

But by then, I would be in the air.

"Drive fast," I told the driver.

He looked at me in the rearview mirror, eyes scanning my disheveled appearance. "Running from something, lady?"

I looked out the window at the city skyline, dominated by the Jones Tower.

"No," I said, turning away from the glass. "I'm running *to* something."