Father's gaze locks onto mine as I descend the last few stairs. "Ah, Viv. Good. Some changes are being implemented. For your safety."
Safety.The word tastes like a lie.
One of the men steps forward. He's older than the others, maybe fifty, with silver at his temples and eyes that miss nothing. "Miss Faulks. Donovan Price. We'll be upgrading the security measures around the estate. I'll need your cooperation to ensure everything runs smoothly."
"I don't understand." I look between him and Father. "What's going on?"
"Just a precaution, my dear. With the wedding approaching, we can't be too careful." Father's smile is tight. Doesn't reach his eyes.
"We'll be installing additional surveillance cameras." Donovan's voice is flat. Informative. Like he's discussing the weather. "Inside and outside the house. There will also be a rotating security detail on the grounds. Twenty-four seven."
The implications hit like a fist to the gut.
Cameras. Inside the house. In the hallways. Watching. Recording.
Twenty-four-seven security detail. Guards. Barriers. No way in or out without being seen.
They're not protecting me.
They're containing me.
I open my mouth to protest, but Father's eyes narrow. A warning. Clear and unmistakable.
My words die in my throat.
"Thank you, Donovan." Father's voice is smooth. Pleasant. "My daughter will provide any assistance you need. Won't you, dear?"
Not a question. Never a question.
I nod. The movement feels disconnected from my body, like I'm watching someone else surrender.
"Excellent." Donovan gestures to his men. They disperse throughout the house like water finding cracks—methodical, thorough, unstoppable.
The sounds start immediately. The whir of drills. The click of locks being changed. The mechanical hum of cameras being mounted and adjusted.
Each sound is another nail in my coffin.
Father dismisses me with a wave. I retreat to my room on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.
The men work through the night. From my window, they circle the grounds, installing motion sensors and cameras. Bright work lights flood the gardens, turning everything stark and shadowless.
I sink onto my bed, pulling a pillow to my chest. The tears want to come, but I blink them back. Crying won't help. Won't change anything.
I need a plan. A way to reach Paul before it's too late.
But as the camera's red light blinks its steady rhythm—watching, recording, reporting—I wonder if I haven't already lost.
The wedding looms. Three months away. Getting closer with each tick of the clock.
I'm running out of time.
SIXTEEN
Vivianne: Sixty-Seven Days
The walls are closing in.Each hour that passes, the noose tightens another notch. Cameras in every corner—their red lights blinking like demon eyes. Guards patrolling the halls with military precision. The constant weight of being watched, cataloged, and contained.
I can't breathe in this house anymore.
