Where she'll stay. Forever.
Chapter Seventeen
Seraphina
My hands gripthe balcony railing as I scan the grounds below, but I feel a spreading warmth in my chest, an uncomfortable heat that I recognize as hope. Knox is gone. I noticed it first at breakfast when he didn't appear with his usual commanding presence, then confirmed it through careful questioning of the staff, who exchange nervous glances whenever I ask directly about his whereabouts. "Mr. Vance had business to attend to," is all they'll say, their eyes sliding away from mine with the practiced evasion of people who've been instructed exactly what not to tell me. He's left the island—the same island he swore he wouldn't let me leave until I accepted I was his. Well, two can play at that game. If Knox thinks his security systems and loyal staff can keep me here in his absence, he's about to learn exactly how resourceful Seraphina Vale can be.
I retreat from the balcony, mind racing with possibilities. Knox wouldn't leave without ensuring I remained securely trapped in my gilded cage. The helicopter pad will undoubtedlybe locked down, the boats secured, the staff vigilant. But no system is perfect. There are always vulnerabilities, especially when the primary architect of my imprisonment is absent.
First, I need to establish a routine that won't arouse suspicion. I request lunch on the terrace, smiling pleasantly at the housekeeper who eyes me with barely concealed wariness. I eat slowly, making a show of enjoying the view, of seeming resigned to my situation. When I ask for a book from the library, no one bats an eye—the perfect compliant captive settling in for a quiet afternoon.
The library provides both cover and opportunity. While pretending to browse the shelves, I study the estate map framed on the wall—Knox's pride in his domain extending to a detailed rendering of every building, path, and feature of the island. There, on the northern tip, a small boathouse I've never visited during our previous stays. Separate from the main dock where the larger vessels are kept, less likely to be as heavily secured.
My target identified, I select a book—something mindless and romance-related that reinforces the image I'm trying to project of a woman resigned to her circumstances—and retreat to the master suite. There, I change into sensible clothes: fitted shorts with pockets, a light t-shirt, boat shoes that won't slip on wet surfaces. Nothing that screams "escape attempt," but practical enough for what I'm planning.
"I'm going for a walk," I announce to the staff member hovering near the grand staircase. "The doctor said exercise is important during pregnancy."
A flicker of uncertainty crosses his face, but he nods. "Of course, Miss Vale. Would you like company?"
"No, thank you," I reply with a pleasant smile. "I need some time alone with my thoughts. Doctor's orders for stress management."
Invoking both the pregnancy and medical advice is calculated—the staff has clearly been instructed to cater to my health needs above all else. The man hesitates but acquiesces with a nod.
I set out along one of the well-maintained paths that wind through the lush tropical gardens, making no effort to hide my direction initially. Only when I'm certain I'm not being directly observed do I veer off toward a less traveled route that should, according to the map, lead to the northern shore and the boathouse.
The path becomes more overgrown as I move away from the manicured areas near the mansion. Sweat trickles down my back in the humid Caribbean air, but determination drives me forward. Every step takes me closer to freedom, to regaining control over my own life, to escaping the magnetic pull of Knox Vance and the way he dismantles all my carefully constructed defenses.
I think of our child as I push through a particularly dense patch of foliage. Am I doing the right thing? Running away from the father of my baby? The thought gives me momentary pause, but I shake it off. This isn't about denying Knox access to our child—it's about establishing that I won't be controlled, possessed, imprisoned. If Knox wants to be a father, he'll need to accept that I'm an equal partner in this relationship, not a prize to be claimed and locked away.
The sound of water lapping against shore tells me I'm close before I actually see the boathouse—a modest structure compared to the opulence of the main estate, weathered wood silvered by salt and sun. I approach cautiously, alert for any sign of security cameras or personnel. Nothing obvious presents itself, which either means I'm lucky or, more likely, Knox didn't consider this forgotten corner of his domain worth securing.
The door yields to my push—unlocked, another stroke of luck. Inside, the air is heavy with the scents of oil, engine grease, and sea water. Light filters through dusty windows, illuminating what looks like a workshop space. Fishing gear hangs on one wall, tools on another. And there, secured to a small floating dock accessible through the open back of the boathouse, a modest motorboat bobs gently in the water.
My heart races as I examine it. Nothing fancy—clearly a utility craft for the maintenance staff rather than one of Knox's luxury vessels—but it looks functional. The key is missing from the ignition, but a quick search of the workshop yields a promising metal box mounted on the wall. Inside, labeled keys hang in neat rows, including one marked "Service Boat."
I can barely believe my luck. This is almost too easy. I should be suspicious, but the possibility of escape overrides caution. With trembling fingers, I grab the key and return to the boat, stepping carefully onto the floating dock.
The vessel rocks slightly as I board, my weight shifting it in the water. I take a moment to orient myself—I've driven boats before, nothing I'd call expertise but enough to handle a simple craft like this. The mainland isn't visible from here, but I know it's roughly thirty miles east. With a full tank of gas, which a quick check confirms, I should make it easily.
I insert the key in the ignition, say a silent prayer to whatever gods might be listening, and turn it. The engine sputters, then roars to life, the sound deafening in the enclosed space of the boathouse. No turning back now—anyone nearby will have heard that. I need to move quickly.
I untie the mooring lines, my hands working with urgent efficiency, then use a boat hook to push away from the dock. Freedom is so close I can taste it, salt spray on my lips as the boat glides out of the boathouse and into open water.
The sun is bright on the waves, the breeze cool against my flushed skin as I turn the boat toward where I believe the mainland must be. I push the throttle forward, the engine's pitch rising as the boat picks up speed. The shoreline of Knox's island begins to recede behind me, and with it, the suffocating sense of being trapped, controlled, possessed.
For five glorious minutes, I taste freedom. The open water, the endless horizon, the knowledge that I've outwitted Knox Vance at his own game. I even allow myself to imagine what comes next—returning to New York, reclaiming my life, establishing boundaries for co-parenting that don't involve being kidnapped or imprisoned.
That's when I hear it—the unmistakable whump-whump-whump of helicopter rotors, growing louder by the second. My stomach drops as I look up to see a sleek black helicopter descending toward the water ahead of me, hovering in my path like an airborne predator.
Knox. Somehow, he knew.
Of course he knew.
The fucking bastard knows everything.
The helicopter drops lower, close enough that the downdraft from its rotors creates a circle of chopping waves that rock my small boat dangerously. I cut the engine, knowing it's futile to try to outrun an aircraft. Rage and frustration burn in my throat as I watch the helicopter land on a floating platform I hadn't noticed before—a helipad anchored just offshore, hidden from view of the island by a rocky outcropping.
Knox emerges from the cockpit, his expression thunderous even from this distance. He says something to the pilot, then steps onto a small speedboat tethered to the platform. Within moments, he's skimming across the waves toward me, moving with the ruthless efficiency that characterizes everything he does.
