Chapter 8

Christie sobbed in Declan' s arms, but her eyes, when they met mine over his shoulder, were cold and triumphant.

"She' s lying, Declan," Christie whispered, her voice a pathetic whimper. "I didn' t touch the ashes. She threw them on the floor herself and then attacked me."

"I know, I know," he soothed, stroking her hair. "It' s okay. I' m here."

He looked at me, his eyes filled with a terrifyingly calm fury. He nodded to the two bodyguards who had materialized in the doorway.

They moved toward me. I scrambled backward, but there was nowhere to go. They each took an arm, their grips like iron vices, and hauled me to my feet.

They dragged me out of the living room and to the main staircase. It was a grand, sweeping structure of marble and dark wood.

One of the bodyguards had the decency to look ashamed. "I' m sorry, Ms. Avery," he mumbled.

Then they shoved me.

I tumbled down the first few steps, my body hitting the hard marble with a series of sickening thuds. Pain exploded in my back and shoulder.

Before I could even process what had happened, they were dragging me back to the top.

And they pushed me again.

And again.

And again.

"Mr. Phelps said this is what happens when you don' t learn your lesson," one of them said, his voice flat and emotionless.

I was a broken doll, a heap of pain and bruises at the bottom of the stairs. My body was screaming, but my mind was strangely calm. It was the calm of absolute certainty. This was the end. My old life was over.

The next morning, I woke up in the hospital again. Every inch of my body ached.

Declan was there. He didn' t apologize. He just handed me a plane ticket.

"It' s a one-way to a private resort in the Maldives," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Go there. Rest. Think about what you' ve done. I' ll come get you in three months."

He believed that after everything, I would still wait for him. The arrogance was breathtaking.

"I had your mother' s ashes collected," he added, as if it were a great kindness. "They' re safe."

I took the ticket, my hand steady. "Thank you, Declan," I said, my voice quiet.

My calmness seemed to unnerve him. He stared at me, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. He opened his mouth to say something else, then closed it.

He drove me to my father' s house and dropped me at the gate. He watched me walk up the path, a strange, uneasy look on his face.

Then a call came through on his car' s display. Christie. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then his face hardened. He answered the call, turned the car around, and drove away without a backward glance. He was confident I was his, that I would always be his.

He was wrong.

My father was waiting inside. He saw the bruises, the raw pain on my face, and his own eyes filled with tears. I collapsed into his arms and finally let myself sob, all the pain and terror and rage of the last week pouring out of me.

A short while later, a discreet black car with no license plates pulled up. A man in a sharp suit got out. It was Holt' s assistant. He handed me a folder. Inside were new passports, new identities, and plane tickets to Sydney, Australia.

"Mr. Brewer has arranged everything," the man said. "Once the fire is reported, no one will ever be able to find you."

I wiped my tears and nodded, a new, fierce strength filling me. I helped my father into the car. As we drove away, I looked back at the house, my childhood home.

A moment later, it erupted in flames. The fire was a brilliant, roaring orange against the night sky, a funeral pyre for Emily Avery.

I leaned my head on my father' s shoulder and, for the first time in a very long time, I smiled. A real smile.

Let Declan have his ashes. Let him mourn the woman he thought he owned. He would spend the rest of his life haunted by a ghost, drowning in a regret so profound it would consume him.

And I would be free.