No. Of course not.
Victor Vance doesn’t forgive, doesn’t forget, and definitely doesn’t tolerate family members making him look like he can’t control his own niece. This isn’t about the marriage anymore. It’s about punishment. About making sure I understand that running has consequences.
We pull into a private airfield, past security gates that open without question, and I see the plane waiting on the tarmac. They haul me out of the SUV and toward the stairs, and I dig my heels in one last time.
“Where?” I demand. “Where are you taking me?”
Luca looks at me with pity. “Barbados,” he says. “You’ll be comfortable there. It’s very nice this time of year.”
Then they push me up the stairs and into the plane, and I know with absolute certainty that comfortable is the last thing I’m going to be.
The flight is to Barbados six hours of silence.
They don’t tie me down, don’t lock me in the bathroom, just make it very clear that trying anything will end badly. So I sit in the leather seat and stare out the window at clouds and ocean, replaying the last forty-eight hours until they blur together into one long nightmare.
By the time we land, I’m exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with sleep.
The compound is exactly what I expected—luxury disguised as imprisonment. High walls, security cameras, and armed guardsat the gate. The main house is beautiful, with white stone and tropical landscaping, and ocean views from every window. A gilded cage.
A woman meets us at the door. She’s in her mid-forties, with dark skin and warm brown eyes, wearing linen pants and a loose blouse that makes her look like she belongs in a resort brochure. Her hair is cut short, natural curls framing her face, and when she smiles at me, it almost looks genuine.
“Aurelia,” she says. “I’m Helena. I’ll be taking care of you while you’re here.”
Taking care of me. That’s one way to phrase it.
“Am I allowed to leave?” I ask. I already know the answer, but I need to hear it.
“Not until your uncle says otherwise.”
“So I’m a prisoner.”
“You’re family,” Helena corrects gently. “This is for your protection.”
I laugh, bitter and sharp. “Protection from what? I was doing fine on my own.”
“You were living in motels and running from city to city for two months. That’s not fine.”
She’s not wrong, but I hate her for saying it anyway.
Helena leads me inside, through rooms that are decorated with expensive furniture and original art that tries to make them look welcoming while being completely impersonal. She shows me to a bedroom on the second floor—huge bed, ensuite bathroom, balcony overlooking the ocean.
“You’ll have everything you need,” she says. “Clothes, toiletries, whatever you want to eat. Just ask.”
“Except my freedom.”
“Except that.”
I want to throw an object. Want to scream or break the window or do anything that releases the pressure building in my chest. But Helena is just the messenger, just the woman Victor hired to keep me contained, and taking it out on her won’t change anything.
“Your uncle was very angry when you disappeared,” Helena continues, her voice still gentle but firm. “The marriage falling through cost him a significant alliance. And the man you were supposed to marry—when he found out you ran, the shock triggered a heart attack. He died.”
“Good,” I say before I can stop myself.
Helena’s expression doesn’t change. “He had a family. Grandchildren. They blamed Victor for the whole situation.”
“Then maybe Victor shouldn’t have tried to sell me like livestock.”
“That’s not how he sees it.”
