That does it. The younger one swears under his breath and lunges to help me up. “She needs an ambulance.”
The older guard hesitates, torn between protocol and the sight of me pale and shaking. Then, reluctantly, he pulls his phone and dials.
“Female, mid-twenties, pregnant,” I hear him say. His voice is clipped, but there’s worry in his tone. My pulse hammers as I hear him give the address.
I keep my head bowed, eyes half-lidded, willing myself to look small, breakable. Every second feels like a countdown.
“My bag,” I say weakly.
The younger guard hurries to the bedroom, returning in a few moments with my bag.
Five minutes later, the elevator dings. Two paramedics roll out a stretcher. Their caps are worn low. They move with practiced efficiency. The taller one crouches in front of me, gloved fingers checking my pulse. His eyes meet mine.
Jack.
His gaze holds mine for the smallest second, saying what he can’t out loud:Play along.
The other guy—a broad man with a voice like gravel—keeps up a stream of medical jargon. Oxygen level, possible arrhythmia, vitals not great. It’s enough to keep the guards looking at him, not at me.
I’m lifted onto a stretcher, straps clicking across my chest. My heart stutters as they wheel me into the elevator. The ride down is too fast yet not fast enough, each ding of the floor counting like a heartbeat.
The lobby goes by in a blur. The desk staff glances over but doesn’t stop us. The glass doors part, the cold air hitting like a slap.
The stretcher rolls straight to the open ambulance. I’m lifted in—Jack’s hands steadying me with another flick of his eyes to mine. I hear the other fake paramedic tell one of the guards what hospital they’re taking me to as the doors slam shut.
The driver’s seat is already filled with a bearded guy who throws the gear into drive. The engine growls, the tires crunching over snow.
Lights and sirens blaze. Another ambulance turns the corner toward the building we just left.
The real one.
I let out a shaky laugh, adrenaline kicking in hard. The guards will surely be held up now, dealing with the true paramedics and ambulance, trying desperately to figure out what the hell just happened.
Jack’s grin is quick, almost boyish, like we just pulled off some high school stunt instead of a felony-level escape. “You’re out, Teresa. You did it.”
I push up on my elbows, looking at him. “You, Trina.”
“Teamwork,” he says with a shrug, still grinning. “We couldn’t leave you in there.”
For a moment, the relief is overwhelming. I hug him—reallyhug him—because for all his flaws, he’s still my brother, and I know exactly how dangerous that penthouse was starting to feel.Vlad’spenthouse.Vlad’srules.Vlad’sguards.
The driver glances at us in the rearview, unreadable. His hands are steady on the wheel, navigating slick streets without hesitation.
I settle back on the stretcher, still wrapped in the blanket, trying to catch up to the reality of what just happened. I’m free. I’m out. The air feels different, even inside the cramped ambulance.
Jack leans back against the bench. “You know,” he says casually, “I wouldn’t be surprised if Angeloff had something to do with Maxim’s death, too.”
My head snaps toward him. “What?”
He shrugs, eyes on me like he’s testing my reaction. “Think about it. Maxim was in his way. Now he’s playing the savior. Please. The guy’s not clean.”
I want to tell him to shut up. To tell him he’s just stirring the pot. But the words stick. Vlad’s never pretended to be good. And right now, with the snow streaking past the windows and the city lights fading behind us, I don’t know where the truth ends and the manipulation begins.
The hum of the road fills the silence between us. The blanket feels heavier. I shift my hand to my stomach, grounding myself with the one thing that isn’t tangled up in schemes and lies.
The driver takes a turn, the road getting darker.
In the rear window, the city is gone. Nothing but snow, distance, and the uneasy worry that I’ve traded one prison for another.
