The pounding of boots grew louder outside her door. Marina's chest seized. She clutched her phone in one hand, the abandoned duffel in the other, her mind spinning. The lock rattled once. Twice.
There was no time.
She dropped the bag, her gaze snapping to the tall French windows that overlooked the gardens. The moonlight spilled pale across the glass, beckoning her.
She grabbed a chair, heart hammering, and smashed it against the lock. The glass shuddered, cracked, then shattered outward. Cold night air rushed in, sharp against her damp skin.
"Break it down!" a man bellowed from the hall.
The door groaned under their weight. Splinters split from the frame.
Marina didn't think. She hauled herself onto the sill, shards biting into her palms, the night yawning open below. A two-story drop. Her breath hitched , too high, too dangerous , but staying meant death.
She leapt.
The world blurred. The impact tore through her body as she landed hard in the flowerbeds, her ankle twisting, pain jolting up her leg. She stifled a scream, biting down so hard she tasted iron. The sting of roses and crushed earth filled her nose.
Then. gunfire.
The sharp crack split the night, and stone splinters rained from the garden wall inches from her head.
"Catch her!"
Adrenaline drowned the pain. Marina scrambled to her feet, sprinting barefoot across the lawn, the gravel ripping open her soles. Blood slicked her path, but she didn't stop. Couldn't. The estate gates loomed ahead, guards spilling out, but she veered, vaulting the side wall with shredded hands.
She tumbled onto the road, chest heaving, ears ringing with the roar of engines behind her. Her father's men shouted, tires screeching as cars peeled onto the drive.
Her heart clawed at her ribs. She could barely see through the blur of tears and sweat. And worse , the windows of the east wing had remained dark. Not once had her mother stirred. The truth slashed deeper than any bullet: she was already gone. Or she had chosen silence.
Either way, Marina was alone.
By the time she reached the Novikov estate, she was half-delirious. Her feet were cut raw, her dress torn, her hair plastered to her damp cheeks. She staggered up the steps, pounded on the door until it opened.
Aleksandr appeared, his hair mussed from sleep, his shirt loose at the collar. His mother stood just behind him, elegant even at this hour.
"Marina?" Aleksandr's voice cracked with shock. "What the hell happened?"
"Don't—don't tell my father," she gasped, clutching the frame to steady herself. "Please. I'll leave tomorrow. Just let me stay tonight."
Aleksandr's mother's eyes softened. She gave her son a look that silenced any protest. "Bring her inside."
For the first time in hours, Marina's shoulders sagged. Warmth. Shelter. A bed. Maybe she could make it.
But later that night, when the house was hushed, Marina padded down the corridor, intending to beg Aleksandr to help her flee the country. She stopped when she reached his study.
The door was ajar.
And his voice was low, precise.
"Yes, Mr. Vasiliev. She's here. Don't worry by morning, she'll be yours again."
The air was ripped from her lungs. Her stomach plummeted.
Her hand slipped against the wall, the faintest sound. Aleksandr turned. His gaze caught hers in the crack of light.
"Marina !" He strode toward her, his hand clamping around her wrist like steel. His jaw was hard, his eyes dark with calculation.
"You don't understand," he said, voice taut. "You can't run from him. You can't run from me. You'll stay."
Marina's chest heaved, fear pressing at her throat , until fury broke through it.
Her chin lifted. "I will never belong to you."
She drove her fist into his jaw.
Aleksandr cursed, staggering back. His grip slipped, and Marina tore free, sprinting through the halls, servants shouting as she burst into the night once more.
Her body was broken, her spirit raw, but her path was clear now.
There was no fiancé. No family. No one.
Only one man left.
Viktor Castellano.
And this time, she would make him listen.