I was twenty-four when my stepmother locked the door behind me and smiled, “Be nice to him; this deal matters more than you.” The businessman reached for my wrist, and terror finally taught me how to run. Barefoot and shaking, I jumped into a stranger’s car. “Drive, please,” I whispered. I didn’t know his name yet—only that this desperate escape would destroy my old life and build a new one.
The lock clicked behind me, and my stepmother’s smile became colder than the gold on her throat. “Be nice to him,” Celeste whispered. “This deal matters more than you.” I was twenty-four, barefoot on a marble floor, staring at Victor Sloane as he loosened his tie and reached for my wrist. My father’s lake house…