Vivienne's POV
I couldn't stop shaking.
The file sat in my lap like a bomb. Incident Report - May 15, 2019. Fifteen pages detailing how my father's driver hit a pedestrian at 2 AM. How they paid police to look the other way. How they neutralized the witness to prevent complications.
Emma Cross. Age twenty-two. Nursing student. Damian's little sister.
Murdered on my father's orders.
I looked at Damian driving, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, his jaw so tight I thought his teeth might crack. We'd barely escaped the mansion—Marcus and Patricia arriving just as we climbed out the window. Now we were speeding through dark New York streets, and I was sitting next to a man whose sister my father had killed.
The silence was crushing.
So what now? I finally whispered. You kill me for revenge?
His hands tightened on the wheel. If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead.
Then what's stopping you? My voice broke. My father murdered Emma. He had her killed like she was nothing. Like she didn't matter. And I'm his daughter. I have his blood. So why am I still breathing?
Because that was never the plan. His voice was flat, emotionless, but I could hear something underneath. Rage, maybe. Or pain so deep it had no name.
Then what was your plan? I asked. You took this job protecting me, but you've known all along
I suspected. He cut me off. I've been investigating Emma's death for five years. Every lead went cold. Every witness disappeared. Every piece of evidence vanished. But there was always one name that kept coming up. Theodore Ashford.
My stomach twisted. So you used me.
Yes. No hesitation. No apology.
To get close to my family. To find proof.
Yes.
And now you have it. I clutched the file tighter. This proves everything. Your sister's murder. My father's guilt. So what happens now? You take this to the police and destroy what's left of the Ashford name?
That's what I planned. His voice was still controlled, but something was cracking underneath. Get evidence. Destroy your family's empire. Make everyone who covered up Emma's murder pay. Watch the Ashford dynasty burn to the ground.
Then do it, I said, tears streaming down my face. Take the file. Go to the FBI. Tell them everything. I won't stop you. I won't fight you. Let my father's crimes destroy us all. We deserve it.
Stop talking. His voice was harsh.
Why? It's true. My father was a monster. He killed your sister. He probably killed other people too—we found files on dozens of 'incidents.' He built everything I have, everything I am, on blood and lies. I was crying harder now, barely able to breathe. So take your revenge. I'm an Ashford. I'm guilty by blood.
You're not guilty of anything! Damian's voice exploded through the car. His control finally shattered. You didn't know! You didn't have anything to do with Emma's death or any of it!
But I should have known! I shouted back. I lived in that house. I ate food bought with dirty money. I wore clothes paid for with blood. I smiled at charity galas while my father covered up murders. How can I not be guilty?
Because you were a victim too. His voice dropped lower, rougher. You think I wanted to see that? You think I wanted to find out that Theodore Ashford's daughter was just another person he manipulated and lied to?
I stared at him. What?
He finally looked at me, just for a second, before turning back to the road. His eyes were full of something raw and painful.
When I took this job, I wanted you to be guilty, he said. I wanted you to be everything I expected—spoiled, selfish, complicit in your father's crimes. It would have made everything easier. Simple. Destroy the Ashfords, get justice for Emma, move on.
But? I whispered.
But you weren't supposed to be... He stopped, his jaw working like the words were stuck.
What? Human? I supplied bitterly.
Yes. The word came out like a confession. You weren't supposed to cry over your dead driver. You weren't supposed to have real nightmares. You weren't supposed to be brave enough to break into your own house looking for truth even though you were terrified.
My chest felt too tight.
You weren't supposed to matter, Damian continued quietly. But you do. And that's the problem.
The car was silent except for the sound of my ragged breathing.
Emma would have liked you, he said suddenly. She always believed people could be better than their families. Better than their circumstances. I stopped believing that after she died. But you— He shook his head. You're choosing to be better every single day.
I don't feel better. My voice was small. I feel broken.
Broken and better aren't opposites. He glanced at me again. You're the strongest person I've protected. You just don't know it yet.
Something shifted between us. The hostility that had been there since we met—the tension, the anger, the barely controlled violence—it transformed into something else. Something fragile and new and terrifying.
Understanding, maybe.
Or the beginning of trust.
Where are we going? I asked, looking out at the dark streets.
Safe house. Rafe's place in Queens. We need to go through these files properly, figure out our next move.
Our next move? I looked at him. You're still helping me?
Someone tried to kill you. These files prove your father had enemies—dangerous ones. Whoever ordered that hit is still out there. His jaw tightened. I made a promise to keep you alive. Emma wouldn't want me to break it just because the truth is complicated.
Thank you, I whispered.
He didn't answer.
We drove in silence for another few minutes. I was starting to relax, starting to think maybe we'd actually escaped, when Damian's phone buzzed.
He glanced at it and cursed.
What? I asked.
Text from Rafe. The FBI just issued a warrant for your arrest.
My blood went cold. What?
Breaking and entering. Evading federal custody. Obstruction of justice. He read from the screen. They're calling you a flight risk and a danger to yourself and others.
But I didn't—we were just looking for
It doesn't matter. Patricia probably called it in the moment she discovered the break-in. Now every cop in the city is looking for you.
My hands started shaking again. So what do we do?
We disappear until we can figure out He stopped suddenly, his eyes on the rearview mirror.
What? I turned to look behind us.
Three black SUVs were following us. Matching speed. Staying close.
That's not the FBI, Damian said quietly. His hand moved to his gun.
How do you know?
Because FBI doesn't drive matching black SUVs like something from a movie. But contract killers do.
The SUVs started closing in, getting closer.
Hold on, Damian said.
He yanked the steering wheel hard right, taking a corner so fast the tires screamed. I grabbed the door handle, my heart in my throat.
The SUVs followed.
They're not trying to arrest you, Damian said, his voice deadly calm. They're trying to finish what they started three weeks ago.
He accelerated, weaving through traffic. The SUVs stayed right behind us.
Then I heard it. The sound that still haunted my nightmares.
Gunfire.
The back window exploded. Glass rained down on me. I screamed, covering my head.
Get down! Damian shouted, pushing my head below the dashboard.
More gunshots. The car jerked as bullets hit metal. Damian swerved hard, taking another corner. My shoulder slammed into the door—the same shoulder that had been grazed by a bullet three weeks ago. Pain exploded through my arm.
They're professionals, Damian said, his voice still controlled even as he drove like a maniac. Three vehicles, coordinated attack pattern. This isn't random.
What do we do? I asked from my position on the floor.
Survive.
He took another sharp turn. The car tilted on two wheels for a second before slamming back down. My teeth rattled.
More gunfire. The side mirror exploded.
They're trying to box us in, Damian said. He pulled his gun with one hand while steering with the other. When I say run, you run. Don't look back. Don't stop. Just run.
I'm not leaving you
Vivienne. He looked down at me, and his eyes were fierce. I need you to trust me one more time. Can you do that?
Before I could answer, one of the SUVs rammed us from behind. Our car spun out of control.
Everything went into slow motion. The world spinning. Damian fighting the wheel. The sick sound of metal crunching.
We slammed into something hard. The airbags deployed, hitting me in the face.
Then everything went still.
My ears were ringing. I tasted blood. The files were scattered across the car floor.
Damian? I whispered.
He was already moving, shoving his airbag down, checking his gun. Blood ran down the side of his face from a cut on his forehead.
The three SUVs had stopped in a semicircle around us, blocking any escape.
Doors opened. Men got out. Six of them. All armed. All moving toward our car with military precision.
Stay behind me, Damian said. He kicked his door open and climbed out, gun raised.
I grabbed as many files as I could and scrambled out after him.
We were in an alley. Dark. Narrow. No way out except past the armed men.
Damian raised his gun, but he was one man against six. Even I knew the odds.
Mr. Cross, one of the men said. He was older, well-dressed, with an accent I couldn't place. Put down the weapon. We only want the girl and whatever she took from the mansion.
Then you'll have to go through me, Damian said.
The man smiled. That can be arranged.
He raised his hand to signal his men.
And that's when I heard it. More cars. Screeching to a halt behind the SUVs.
Doors slamming. Voices shouting.
FBI! Drop your weapons!
Agent Marks appeared with a full tactical team, guns drawn, surrounding the hit squad.
The men who'd been about to kill us now had twenty FBI agents pointing weapons at them.
But Agent Marks wasn't looking at them.
She was looking at me.
Vivienne Ashford, she said, her voice cold and professional. You're under arrest.