Chapter 4

Screeching tires. Shouts.

The world didn't go black.

Instead, strong hands grabbed me, yanking me back from the edge of oblivion just as the car swerved violently, its horn blaring.

I stumbled, disoriented, into the arms of a man in a dark, impeccably tailored suit.

Several other men, equally imposing, materialized around us, forming a protective cordon.

A sleek, black SUV, the one that had nearly hit me, now idled silently by the curb, its tinted windows hiding its occupants.

One of the men, older, distinguished, with an air of quiet authority, stepped forward. He didn't look at Ethan, who had just caught up, panting and furious. He looked only at me.

His voice was calm, steady, but held an undeniable power.

"Miss Elara Vance," he said, not a question. "I am an emissary. From the Thorne family in New England."

Thorne. The name echoed faintly from my hazy memories of that alley.

"Our Patriarch," he continued, his gaze intense, "is in dire need of your unique assistance. It is a matter of utmost urgency. You will come with us."

Patriarch? The word sounded formal, weighty.

Ethan, momentarily stunned by the sudden appearance of these powerful-looking men and the mention of a name that clearly resonated with him, quickly recovered his opportunistic nature.

He shoved his way past one of the suits, grabbing my arm again, but this time his tone was different, laced with a desperate, wheedling urgency.

"Elara," he whispered, his face close to mine, his breath smelling of fear and greed. "Listen to me. The Thornes. They're huge. Old money. More powerful than anyone around here."

His eyes darted towards the emissary, then back to me.

"You go with them. You do whatever they want. Perform well, understand? This is my chance. Our chance! If you impress them, they could help me. We could be set for life! I' ll marry you, Elara, I swear. You' ll have everything you ever wanted."

He was completely oblivious. Blind to the trauma etched on my face, deaf to the finality in my voice when I told him my power was gone.

He still saw me as a tool, a commodity, now one he could trade up for greater influence.

The men in suits gently but firmly disengaged Ethan' s grip.

The distinguished emissary opened the rear door of the SUV.

"Miss Vance," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "It is time to go."

I looked at Ethan' s desperate, grasping face, then at the waiting vehicle.

One abuser to another? Was this my fate?

The private jet was the epitome of understated luxury. Polished wood, cream leather seats, silent efficiency.

I sat by a window, staring out at the dark, swirling clouds below as we flew north, towards New England, towards this mysterious Thorne "Patriarch."

The distinguished man, who introduced himself as Mr. Harrison, sat opposite me, polite but distant.

He hadn' t explained what "assistance" this Patriarch needed, only that it was vital and only I could provide it.

My power was gone. What could I possibly offer them?

The thought that I was merely being transferred from one gilded cage to another, from one set of demands to a more powerful, more influential one, settled in my stomach like a stone.

Ethan' s words echoed in my mind: "Perform well."

I was still just a performance, a trick.

Below us, through a break in the clouds, I saw a vast expanse of water, a huge, dark lake, its surface like black glass under the night sky.

A sudden, overwhelming wave of despair washed over me.

I couldn' t do it anymore. I couldn' t face another Ethan, another Tiff, another set of expectations I couldn't meet, another life of servitude.

The "mending" was gone, but the instinct to please, to submit, was so deeply ingrained.

I had to break it.

Now.

Before they could own me too.

In a swift, desperate movement, I unbuckled my seatbelt, lunged for the emergency exit, and wrenched the handle.

The roar of the wind, the sudden decompression, the alarms blaring.

Mr. Harrison shouted, lunging for me.