Chapter 4

The rear door of the Maybach swung open.

A pair of long legs stepped out onto the concrete.

Bryce Delaney stood up. The custom Armani suit stretched across his broad shoulders, radiating a suffocating, violent authority.

The headlights cast long, sharp shadows across his face.

Grace couldn't see clearly through the glare. She shoved the three boys behind her legs.

She planted her feet, her body curling into a protective, animalistic stance.

Bryce's cold eyes scanned the cheap hoodie and the surgical mask covering Grace's face.

A muscle feathered in his jaw.

"Take her," Bryce ordered. His voice was a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated against the concrete walls.

Two bodyguards lunged forward.

Their massive hands reached for Grace's shoulders.

Grace didn't think.

Her body reacted on pure instinct.

She twisted her torso, dropping her center of gravity. She drove her combat boot hard into the first guard's kneecap.

The guard grunted in pain and stumbled backward, surprised by the sudden ferocity of her instinctual attack.

Bryce's eyes narrowed. A flash of dark surprise crossed his face.

The second guard reached for Grace's neck.

Before he could touch her, the boy with the scarf ripped off his sunglasses and threw himself in front of Grace.

He spread his small arms wide.

"Stand down!" the boy screamed. His voice carried the exact same terrifying authority as the man in the suit.

The bodyguards froze instantly. They looked at Bryce, terrified to move.

Bryce stared at his son. His eldest boy, who never showed emotion, was willing to take a hit for a stranger.

The other two boys ran out from behind Grace. They wrapped their arms around her thighs, glaring at Bryce with angry accusation, their small faces pinched with pure defiance.

Grace's chest heaved. She reached up and ripped the surgical mask off her face to get more air.

The cold wind in the garage blew the hood off her head.

The harsh glare of the headlights illuminated her face perfectly.

Bryce stopped breathing.

The air vanished from his lungs. His heart slammed against his ribs so hard he thought they would shatter.

His pupils dilated.

It was her.

The face he had searched for in the rubble. The face that haunted every single one of his nightmares for five years.

Grace.

Bryce's hands started to shake. He took a slow, agonizing step forward.

"You..." The word tore out of his throat, raw and bleeding.

Grace looked at him.

Her eyes were wide. But there was no recognition.

There was only pure, unadulterated fear and disgust.

"Stay back," Grace hissed. "If you touch them, I will scream until the LAPD gets here."

Bryce stopped dead in his tracks.

The physical pain in his chest was unbearable. She was looking at him like he was a monster.

She didn't know him. The amnesia was real.

Bryce swallowed the bile rising in his throat. He forced the agonizing grief down into his stomach.

He locked his facial muscles into a mask of absolute, corporate indifference.

"I am their father," Bryce said coldly. "Get in the car."

Grace froze.

She looked down at the three boys clinging to her.

The boys dropped their heads, staring at the concrete.

The realization hit Grace like a physical slap. They lied to her.

The embarrassment burned her cheeks. But the danger radiating from the man in the suit kept her muscles tense.

"Get in the car," Bryce repeated. "Or I will have you arrested for kidnapping."

The bodyguards stepped closer, cutting off every angle of escape.

Grace looked at the boys. She couldn't leave them with this tyrant.

She clenched her jaw, grabbed the boys' hands, and climbed into the back of the Maybach.

Bryce slid in right beside her.

The heavy door slammed shut, sealing them inside.

The scent of cedar and dark musk filled the tight space. Bryce's large frame took up all the oxygen.

The Maybach shot out of the garage, tearing onto the highway toward Beverly Hills.