The first thing I noticed when I woke up was silence.
I rolled over, rubbing at my eyes, and that's when I saw it: a silver tray on the nightstand, steam still curling from the edge of a porcelain teacup. Next to it, folded linen napkins. The housekeeper had been in.
I sat up slowly, my body heavy, the ache of the past week pressing down on me. My mother's face flashed behind my eyelids, followed by Alex's cold eyes, followed by Ian's worried voice. I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes until stars danced behind them.
My gaze caught on the clock. Just past nine.
I dragged myself out of bed and padded barefoot down the hall, the cold marble biting at my soles. The mansion was too quiet, every step echoing back at me. When I reached the dining room, the long oak table gleamed like it had been polished ten times over. Plates sat untouched, silver covers still on them.
The housekeeper, whom I've come to know as Mrs. Kline, was arranging cutlery at the far end. She startled when she saw me.
"Good morning, Miss Reyes," she said quickly, smoothing her apron.
"Where's Alex?" I asked, my voice hoarse.
Her hands stilled for the smallest second. "Mr. Cross left for work early this morning. He said to tell you he'd be late tonight."
My heart lurched. He wasn't here. He wouldn't be here all day. The realization sent a dangerous pulse of hope through me, one I hadn't felt in so long I almost didn't recognize it.
"Thank you," I murmured, turning away before she could notice the shake in my hands.
By the time I reached my room, the idea had rooted itself firmly. I wasn't going to wait around, counting down days until he dragged me to an altar I didn't want.
I was going to leave.
The shower was quick, but every second under the water I planned. Jeans. Sweater. Flat shoes. Something simple that wouldn't draw eyes. I tied my hair back and grabbed my bag. My reflection looked pale, thinner than usual, but my jaw was set in a way that startled me.
I wasn't weak. Not today.
Downstairs, the driver was already waiting in the foyer, his gloved hands clasped neatly in front of him. He bowed his head politely when he saw me.
"I need to go out," I said firmly.
His brows lifted, surprise flickering before he schooled his expression. "Mr. Cross gave no instructions for—"
"I don't care what Mr. Cross said," I snapped, surprising even myself with the sharpness in my tone. My voice trembled, but I pushed harder. "You work for me too. I am his fiancée, aren't I? You will drive me where I tell you."
The driver shifted, discomfort flashing in his eyes. He opened his mouth to argue, but I stepped closer, lifting my chin. "Unless you want to explain to him why you refused me when he asks, you will take me now."
For a tense beat, silence hung between us. Then he inclined his head. "Very well, Miss Reyes. Where to?"
Relief flooded my chest so quickly my knees almost buckled. "My old residence."
The car ride was suffocating, every bump in the road reminding me of what I was about to do. My fingers itched, so I pulled out my phone and typed a shaky message to Ian. "I need to see you please come to my apartment ASAP."
By the time we pulled up outside the familiar, run-down building, my chest was heaving like I'd run a marathon. The driver opened the door for me. His eyes lingered a second too long, like he wanted to ask why, but he said nothing.
My apartment smelled like dust and stale air when I stepped inside. My heart twisted. It wasn't much, but it had been mine. For a moment I stood there, letting the familiarity steady me. Then the knock came.
When I opened the door, Ian was there, his hair messy, his eyes wide and full of worry. He didn't say anything at first, just pulled me into his arms, holding me so tightly I thought he might break.
"Bella," he breathed. "Christ. Are you okay? Has he—what has he done?"
Tears stung my eyes, and I shook my head. "I can't do it, Ian. I can't marry him. It's in two weeks. I need to get out. Please. Help me."
His jaw tightened, and for the first time I saw steel in his expression. "Then we'll get you out. Trust me."
When he pulled away, determination burned in his eyes. "Stay here. Don't move. I'll be back soon."
The hours crawled by heavy and endless, until the knock came again. My stomach lurched as I rushed to open it. Ian slipped inside, breathless, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He dropped it on the couch and unzipped it.
My heart stopped.
Cash. Thick, rolled bills. A passport with my face but another name. Two wigs.
"Change. Now," Ian urged, his voice low and desperate. "We've got tickets. Plane leaves in a few hours. This is your chance."
My hands shook as I picked up the wig, the reality crashing over me in waves. I was really going to do this. I dressed quickly, shoved the passport into the clutch, and nodded.
We moved to the door. Ian's hand brushed mine, warm and steady, and he whispered, "We're almost free."
But the second the door opened, my blood ran cold.
Alexander was there.
He stood in the doorway, tall, sharp, fury radiating off him like fire. His eyes dragged over me in one brutal sweep—the wig, the bag, the look of panic I couldn't hide.
His lips curved into a cold smile.
"Well," he said, voice low and dangerous, "where exactly were you planning to take my fiancée?"