I zoomed in and watched as she used her teeth to start a tear in the top sheet. Then she ripped it into two pieces. She used a complicated-looking knot to secure the pieces together. Not a single hesitation; she knew what she was doing. She tied the makeshift rope to the bedframe like she’d done this before—maybe with the silks she’d performed with.
My smirk faded when she grabbed the large standing vase from the corner.
The thing was thick—and over three feet tall. A museum piece, heavy as hell. She dragged it toward the center of the window, pressed her forehead against the glass with her hands braced on either side and stared down at the space below.
She thought she could smash the fucking window, scale down the rope of tied linens, and drop onto the neighbor’s terrace two stories below.
Jesus Christ.
I wrapped a towel around my waist and broke into a sprint.
She wasn’t the type to bluff.
She was going to do it.
I charged down the hallway, keeping my eyes glued to the live feed. She had hoisted the vase over her head.
I slammed my palm against the scanner.
Click.
The lock released.
I shoved the door open.
And everything stopped.
Lyla stood silhouetted against the skyline. The storm raged outside, behind her small, taut body.
“Lyla—!”
She didn’t even turn to look at me.
With a guttural scream, she hurled the vase.
There was a blur of porcelain and gilded edges as it slammed into the floor-to-ceiling glass with a sickeningcrack!
The impact reverberated throughout the room.
The window didn’t shatter outward, but a spiderweb of shimmering lines instantly appeared on the immense pane, spreading out from the point of impact like a venomous bloom. The vase didn’t bounce; it exploded. Porcelain shrapnel erupted and ricocheted back at her like a barrage of white knives.
One jagged shard glinted in the light.
Lyla let out a scream—a raw, piercing sound of pain and rage—and her hands flew to her forehead. I couldn’t see the wound, only the immediate welling of red between her fingers.
My stomach clenched into a cold, hard knot of dread.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
She wasn’t supposed to hate me so much that she would hurt herself. The sight of her, injured because I had caged her in, twisted something inside me. The calculated calm I usually carried shattered.
I had made her this desperate.
And now she was bleeding in front of me.
I had broken her.
I hadn’t stopped to think this through well enough.
