Over it, I slipped into a lightweight leather jacket.
The jacket was perfect—lightweight, flexible, tailored to move with me rather than against me, with hidden compartments sewn seamlessly into the lining.
I stepped into my boots last.
They were low-profile and worn in, molded to my movements, their soles designed to grip whatever surface I crossed.
Then I braided my hair back, pulling it tight and clean, securing every strand in place.
Nothing loose. Nothing distracting.
When I looked at myself in the mirror, the reflection that met my gaze was not a wife, not a captive, and certainly not something that could be owned.
It was me.
Elena.
The woman who had survived five years on the run.
The woman who had outrun Ruslan Baranov’s hunters more times than she could count.
The woman who had learned, again and again, how to endure without breaking.
I exhaled slowly, grounding myself in the moment, and then I moved.
I slipped out through the side door of the east wing, deliberately avoiding the main corridors, the guards, and the quiet, ever-watchful cameras mounted above.
Every step was calculated.
The night air met me the second I stepped outside, cool and clean, carrying the faint scent of pine and lake water drifting in from beyond the estate.
It steadied me, sharpening my focus.
I moved quickly but without sound, following the narrow service path along the edge of the property.
Gravel shifted softly beneath my boots.
The garages came into view ahead—dimly lit, isolated, waiting.
Renzo was already there.
Of course he was.
He leaned against a blacked-out Range Rover with the ease of someone entirely at home in the dark.
His arms were crossed, one leg slightly bent, his posture relaxed without ever being careless.
There was nothing idle about him.
A cigarette burned low between his fingers.
He took one last drag before flicking it to the ground and crushing it beneath his heel as I approached.
His gaze moved over me deliberately, taking in every detail.
Then something shifted—just enough to register.
Approval.
