ONE
WINSLET
The pristine lawns of the Emerald Hills Country Club stretched before Winslet like a perfectly manicured facade. She clutched her clipboard against her chest as Seattle’s summer air carried the scent of expensive cologne and freshly cut grass. Members strolled past in their tennis whites and tailored suits, their laughter floating on the breeze, oblivious to the predator stalking their logistics coordinator.
Six months. Six months since she’d fled Bracken’s penthouse office with her wedding dress still hanging in his closet and her engagement ring abandoned on his mahogany desk. Six months since she’d accidentally glimpsed those photographs and damning documents—bloodied faces, warehouse locations, and transaction records that painted her charming fiancé as something far more dangerous than a successful businessman.
Her phone buzzed. Again.
I know you saw something in my office. I can explain everything. Just come back to me and I can fix this.—B.
Winslet’s fingers trembled as she read Bracken’s latest text message. The words seemed reasonable, almost loving, but she knew better. She’d learned to decode his language during their eighteen-month courtship—learned that “explain” meant justify,“come back” meant submit, and “fix this” meant erase her autonomy entirely.
She should have taken those documents to the police. Should have grabbed evidence before fleeing his office that day. But instead, she’d called him with her hands shaking and fabricated excuses about cold feet and needing space. She’d chosen self-preservation over justice, and now Bracken’s paranoia fed his obsession like gasoline on flames.
“Winslet, do you have a moment to spare?”
Winslet startled and spun quickly, her clipboard flying from her grip. Ethan, her co-worker, approached with a concerned expression, bending to retrieve her scattered papers.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Mrs. Jeffers wants to discuss the charity gala seating arrangements.”
“Of course.” Winslet forced her voice to sound calm and professional. “Tell her I’ll be right there.”
Ethan nodded as he handed her papers back to her and disappeared toward the clubhouse. Winslet gathered her composure but remained hyperaware of every shadow and every reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows that faced the gardens.
As she walked toward the clubhouse, the memory of meeting Bracken for the first time came unbidden. Her uncle had introduced her to Bracken at a family party—Uncle Sergei with his expensive suits and vague business ventures that her parents had distanced themselves from decades ago. She’d thought she was meeting a successful entrepreneur, not a crime boss with connections to her family’s buried past.
Another buzz.
I just want to protect us. Give you the good life. Staying at home, having endless money to buy what you want. You know I’ll take good care of you. Why can’t you accept the life I’m offering you? I just need you to come back to me. Now.—B.
The final word hit like a slap.Now.Not a request—a command wrapped in velvet lies.
Winslet’s pulse hammered against her throat. She’d never wanted to just stay home and be useless, never once agreed to be someone’s possession and have money thrown at her to keep her compliant.
But she should’ve seen the writing on the wall. During their engagement, Bracken had systematically dismantled her independence—convincing her to quit her previous job, isolating her from friends, and making her world smaller until it revolved entirely around him.
Movement caught in her peripheral vision. Near the valet station, a tall figure in a dark coat lingered too long, his attention fixed on the club’s main entrance. She recognized him immediately. Viktor Kalenov—Bracken’s right hand, his fixer, the man who made problems disappear. His scarred face turned toward the gardens, his gray eyes scanning with predatory focus.
Ice flooded Winslet’s veins. She ducked behind the hedge bordering the tennis courts, her designer heels sinking into the soft earth. Through the manicured leaves, she watched Viktor’s methodical sweep of the grounds. He wasn’t here for tennis lessons.
Her phone remained silent in her hand, but Bracken’s presence pressed against her consciousness like a physical weight. He thought she knew too much, thought she’d stolen proof of his crimes. The truth—that she’d fled empty-handed and wouldn’t turn him in, motivated by fear rather than heroism—wouldn’t matter. Bracken’s paranoia and obsession had metastasized into something uglier and more dangerous.
A couple passed the hedge, their conversation about weekend plans floating past like fragments from another life. Winslet envied their casual normalcy, their freedom to existwithout calculating escape routes or checking reflections for unwanted watchers.
She couldn’t continue this charade. Couldn’t pretend her carefully constructed new life in Seattle offered real safety when Viktor’s presence proved otherwise. Bracken had found her and his patience was wearing thin. The texts were escalating, his language shifting from persuasion to demand.
Why can’t you accept the life I’m offering you?His words flooded her thoughts.
She could never accept what Bracken was offering. Because she’d seen and lived through too much already. Seen the incriminating photographs of beaten men, pieced together the alarming transaction records, and experienced the casual brutality hiding behind Bracken’s magnetic smile.
Realized that love could become a cage when the person claiming to protect you was the danger you needed protection from.
Every shadow held potential threat now. Every footstep could herald disaster. Viktor’s presence at her new job meant Bracken was closing the net, and soon there would be nowhere left to run.
The hedge rustled as wind moved through its leaves, and Winslet pressed deeper into its shelter. Her carefully planned logistics career, her modest apartment, her tentative steps toward independence—all of it felt suddenly fragile, built on foundations that Bracken could shatter with a single phone call.
She had to leave Seattle. Tonight.
