Chapter 3

Kenia Hayes POV

I dragged myself away from the villa, the raucous sounds of their celebration still drifting from the upstairs windows like a cruel taunt.

My ankle was twisted, throbbing in time with my heartbeat.

My dignity was in shreds.

I reached the main road just as the sun began to set, bruising the horizon in violent shades of purple and black.

I had one card left to play.

A card I had sworn never to touch.

Approaching a payphone outside a closed gas station, my fingers trembled as I punched in the number burned into my memory from three years ago.

It rang once.

"Speak."

The voice was low. Raspy. Laced with dormant violence.

"It's Kenia Hayes," I whispered, clutching the receiver like a lifeline. "I'm calling in the debt."

There was a silence on the other end.

Heavy. Thick. Suffocating.

"Where are you?"

"Route 9, near the Dalton cliffs."

"Stay in the shadows. Do not move. If a car passes, hide."

The line went dead.

Gael Simpson.

The Don of the Simpson Syndicate.

The rival family.

He was the monster under the bed that Holden had always told me to fear.

But Holden was the one who had just thrown me off a cliff for a laugh.

Twenty minutes later, a black SUV rolled up, headlights cut.

The back door opened.

I barely registered the shadow of a driver in the front.

I just saw him.

Gael.

He was sitting in the back, dressed in a suit that cost more than my entire life.

He didn't smile.

He didn't offer a hand.

He just looked at me with eyes like burnished steel.

"Get in," he commanded.

I climbed in, wincing as I pulled my injured leg inside.

The interior smelled of rich leather and expensive scotch.

"He broke you," Gael stated.

It wasn't a question.

"Yes," I said, my voice hollow.

"Then the contract begins," he said, his tone finalizing my fate. "Three months. You belong to me."

"I know."

My head spun. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a cold, shaking shock.

"I need... I need a hospital," I mumbled, vision blurring.

"Arthur," Gael said to the silhouette in the driver's seat. "St. Jude's. The private wing."

The darkness took me before we even hit the highway.

*

I woke up in a white room.

The steady *beep-beep-beep* of a monitor was the only sound.

A TV was mounted on the wall, playing the news on mute.

I blinked, trying to focus through the haze of medication.

I saw Holden's face on the screen.

He was standing at a podium, looking solemn.

Estella was beside him, dabbing at dry eyes with a handkerchief.

I fumbled for the remote on the side table and unmuted it.

"...tragic misunderstanding," Holden was saying, his voice smooth as poisoned honey. "Kenia was unstable. She was jealous of my engagement to Estella. She threw herself off the balcony in a bid for attention. We are just grateful she survived."

Liar.

"We are praying for her recovery," Estella added, her voice trembling with practiced grief. "She needs help."

The door to my hospital room opened.

Holden walked in.

He was wearing the same suit from the press conference, fresh from his performance.

He held a bouquet of lilies.

"You're awake," he said, closing the door with a soft click.

He tossed the flowers onto the end of the bed.

"Lilies," I rasped, my throat tightening. "I'm allergic to lilies."

Holden paused.

He frowned, genuine confusion knitting his brow.

"Are you?" he asked. "I didn't know that."

Three years.

He didn't know I was allergic to lilies.

He didn't know anything about me.

"Get out," I said.

"Don't be like that, baby," he cooed, stepping closer. "The press ate it up. You're the tragic ex. I'm the benevolent savior. It's good for the stock price."

He reached out to touch my face.

I flinched violently.

"Don't touch me."

"You're still mine, Kenia," he whispered, his eyes darkening into two pits of obsession. "You live in my city. You breathe my air. Don't think for a second you can leave."

He didn't know who had brought me here.

He thought his men had found me.

He didn't know the wolf was already inside the house.