But I wasn’t.
Instead, I was intrigued by her boldness and the fact that she actually pulled off something like that. In light of recent events, I’d doubled the security at the mansion. Yet she still managed to escape.
She was smart enough to have avoided the cameras. Given that not even one of the guards spotted her leaving, it was clear to me that she must’ve studied their movements.
Emika didn’t break out of the mansion by sheer luck. No. She took some time to plan her escape. She watched. She observed. She studied patterns. And when the time came, she ran for it. That was determination at its peak, combined with bad brilliance.
She must’ve been a skilled lock picker, considering that she didn’t have the key to the door down in the basement. The tunnel she escaped through was home to some deadly spiders and snakes.
The fact that she walked through that ‘valley of the shadow of death’ and emerged on the other side unscathed was a damn miracle. The last time a captive of mine tried to escape through there, he’d been bitten three times by three different snakes.
He didn’t make it halfway through the tunnel before he slumped and died.
Even though her escape had everything to do with preparation and perfect timing, passing through that tunnelunharmed was sheer luck. If she were a believer, I’d call her God’s favorite.
Perhaps, deep down, this was the real reason I couldn’t be mad at her. She survived what most people wouldn’t. Instead of anger, what I felt was a mix of fascination, pride, and relief.
The idea that she’d walked twenty-plus minutes through a dark tunnel full of deadly creatures and that nothing had hurt her in any way was something I’d yet to wrap my head around. She was the first person to ever do that.
What happened that night? Was an angel watching over her as she moved? Did the angel blind the creatures’ eyes, or what? How come they didn’t see her, and how come they didn’t hurt her?
Even if I hadn’t believed in fate before, this unexplainable event was enough to make me question some things. This wasn’t the first time she’d survived a deadly situation.
First, it was the guy my men intercepted before he could carry out his assignment: taking her life. Then it was the ambush that claimed a good number of lives and landed Sergei and a few others in a hospital. Now, this one.
Three times now, she’d survived situations that were meant to kill her. This wasn’t just luck. It was fate. It wasn’t her time to die, and something was doing everything in its power to keep her safe.
I remembered showing up in the nick of time on the day of the ambush. One of the armed assailants already had his gun aimed at her. If I’d arrived just a second later, she would’ve been gone.
Yet, somehow, I was right on time.
It was like the universe wanted to keep this woman alive at all costs. I was grateful. But the question lingered—why her? What made her different? Did she have some kind of special purpose?
Or was I just overthinking these things?
Anyway, thanks to my tech team, we were able to track her location on time. I found her easily, and she was back at the mansion now.
That night, I was sitting by the fireplace in the living room, cradling a glass of whiskey in my hand. I was reclined in my chair, absently watching the flames crackle and dance.
I was deep in thought when the sound of the unsteady footsteps approached. And as I turned my face, I found out it was her. Emika. She was clutching a half-empty bottle of merlot and could barely stand on her feet without swaying.
Her eyes were glassy and unfocused, loose strands of her dark auburn hair framing her delicate face. The scent of wine clung to her like a second skin as she stumbled further into the room.
She was drunk.
That was a first.
“Hey. You,” she called, her voice soft, her tone uneven. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a control freak?” Her words came out slow, rounded at the edges.
Silence.
She belched loudly. “I’m talking to you, Almighty Adrik Tarasov!” She took another gulp and shook her head as if to reset her brain.
“Put the bottle down, and we can talk,” I said calmly.
“See what I’m talking about? Control freak.” She laughed. “You’re asking me to put down my bottle, but you’re holding a glass of your own. Typical.”
Without another word, I set down my glass on the side stool.
