I reach for the door handle—brass, cool under my palm.
"I do love you, Viv." His voice is soft. Almost pained. "Everything I do is to protect you."
My hand freezes on the handle. There's something in his tone—raw, haunted. Like he's carrying a weight I can't see.
"There are worse prisons than the ones you know about." So quiet I almost miss it. "Worse sacrifices than the ones you've been asked to make. I've built walls to keep you safe, even knowing you'd hate me for them."
A chill runs down my spine. The way he says it—walls—like he's talking about something more than metaphor. More than the locked doors and surveillance cameras.
"Sometimes love looks like cruelty." His voice drops further. "Sometimes the only way to keep someone alive is to let them believe you're the monster."
I want to turn around. To ask what he means. But something stops me—some instinct that knows if I look at his face right now, I'll see something I'm not ready to understand. That he's protecting me instead of protecting his secrets.
Without a word, I slip into the hallway. Pull the door closed behind me.
Back in my room, I curl up on the window seat, forehead pressed against the cool glass. The gardens spread below, perfectly manicured. The roses are beginning to bloom, their petals unfurling in the warm spring air. They'll be at their peak in three months.
Just in time for my wedding.
Unless Paul gets my message.
Unless he comes.
Unless this isn't all a lie.
I close my eyes, but that makes the tears come faster. Hot. Silent. Useless.
The weight of secrets and lies presses down, threatening to crush me. But beneath it all—buried deep—a spark of defiance still burns.
I am Vivianne Faulks. And I will not go quietly into the cage they've built for me. I have to believe that. Have to cling to it. Because if I let go, there's nothing left.
I will find a way out.
I have to.
The alternative is unthinkable.
The rumble of engines pulls me from my thoughts. I lift my head, peer down at the driveway where a convoy of black SUVs winds up toward the house. Three. Four. Five of them. Their tinted windows reflect the last rays of sunset, turning them into moving mirrors.
My stomach drops.
They stop in front of the main entrance. Doors open in synchronized precision. Men in dark suits emerge—tall, broad-shouldered, moving with the coordinated efficiency of soldiers.
Or guards.
My door swings open without warning. No knock. No courtesy.
Marcus fills the doorway. "Miss Faulks. Your father requests your presence in the main hall. Immediately."
Two summons in one day. My mouth goes dry. "What's happening?"
He doesn't answer. Just waits, immovable, until I stand and follow.
The stairs feel steeper than usual. Each step takes effort, like walking through water. Through the windows, more men circle the house, speaking into radios, pointing at corners, doors, and windows.
Father stands in the center of the foyer, surrounded by the men from the SUVs. Their faces are blank. Professional. Butthere's an undercurrent of tension in their postures, in the way they scan the space with trained eyes.
Assessing. Cataloging. Planning.
