I walk toward them slowly, fingers brushing the cold metal clamps, and exhale shakily. He thinks I’m just a decoration, a bargaining chip. But tonight, he’s about to learn that even a pawn can set the board on fire.
I pry the first crate’s clamps loose with the flathead tucked into the shelf above and lift the lid. The scent inside isintoxicating—old oil, resin, the faint, delicious mildew of canvas kept in the dark. My hands go cold and steady at once. Inside: a small Baroque panel, varnish crazed, gilding dulled at the corners. It’s beautiful and stolen and will become another ledger line on my father’s balance sheet if I let it.
This isn’t the first time I’ve sabotaged him. Since I was eighteen and first followed his paper trail into the shadows, I’ve slipped wrong manifests, delayed pickups, routed crates to the wrong dock. Tiny scratches in his machine. He never noticed; they weren’t impactful in the grand scheme of his business operations. Tonight is different because these crates aren’t just stray curiosities; they’re core shipments, the kind that will make men close deals and break laws. If I succeed, he’ll notice. If he notices, he’ll come for me.
With shaking hands, I swap the manifests, reroute the consignments to the secure storage I arranged under a dead name, and breathe like I’ve held my breath for a lifetime. If Papa wants to sell me as currency, he will lose millions trying. If he doesn’t, I might buy myself a sliver of freedom.
I tuck the altered papers into my bag, fingers numb, and trace the new accession numbers once more as if the ink can steady my nerves. The storage room is suddenly too small; the crates loom like witnesses. I close the lid on the last one, clamp it down, and roll the rack back into place.
I slide down to the cold concrete floor, burying my head in my hands. My heart hammers so loud it feels like it’s echoing through the crates. This is such a huge risk, and I won’t lie, I’m terrified. Papa doesn’t forgive. He doesn’t forget. And if he finds out about this…I know exactly what he’ll do.
He’ll make an example out of me.
The thought alone makes my stomach twist. I press my palms harder against my eyes, forcing back the sting of tears.I promised myself I wouldn’t cry for him anymore. Not after tonight.
But fear is a stubborn thing. It lingers, even when defiance burns bright beside it.
Maybe I should cry.
I’ve always liked to think of myself as a strong woman, especially after everything I’ve been through; I’ve earned that title. I don’t cry. Not in front of people. Not even when it hurts. But right now, in this freezing storage room surrounded by my father’s sins, I feel the tightness in my throat, and I know, crying might actually help.
There’s so much to cry for tonight.
For the fact that I come from a family so broken that it never taught me what love is supposed to feel like.
For the fact that I overheard my own father’s plan to auction me off to the highest bidder.
For the fact that I’m less than two hours away from running—not just from home, but from everything I’ve ever known.
Yeah. There’s plenty to cry about.
A single tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it. For a second, I almost let myself fall apart, just sink into the flood of everything I’ve held back for years. But no. Not now.
I shake my head hard, wiping my face with the back of my hand. I won’t cry. Not here. Not in this place that still reminds me of him, like control, like every cage I’ve ever tried to escape.
Maybe I’ll cry when I get to London, when I’m finally safe, when the world stops spinning long enough for me to breathe. But not tonight.
Tonight, I need to get the hell out of here before someone finds me.
I hurry toward the door, my pulse a hammer in my throat. I’m seconds from slipping out when I hear it—footsteps in thedark hallway. Slow. Heavy. Purposeful. Not the casual drag of a night guard. My breath catches.
I stumble back, pressing myself against the cold wall. The storage lights hum faintly above me, the only sound in the thick silence that follows.
Then the door handle turns.
My heart lodges in my chest as the door swings open. A shadow spills into the room—tall, broad-shouldered, moving with a predator’s unhurried grace. The kind of movement that makes your instincts scream before your mind catches up.
For a second, I’m sure it’s one of my father’s men, come to drag me back before I can even start to run. The stranger doesn’t step into the light. He just stands there, framed in darkness, watching.
But then he steps forward, just enough for the overhead security lamp to catch his face.
He isn’t one of my father’s men.
No. He’s bigger, meaner-looking. Dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with hired muscle. The light slides over sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and eyes the color of burnished hazel. It’s cutting, assessing, cold. His long brown hair is pulled back into a man bun, and the tailored lines of his suit strain slightly over a body that looks built for war, not business. His gaze locks on me.
“Who the hell are you?” he growls, the words rough, accented, low enough to crawl right down my spine.
I freeze, my blood turning to ice.
