I should have felt relief. Should have felt the first stirrings of freedom, of possibility, of a future I could shape for myself. Instead, I felt... nothing. A hollow emptiness where emotion should have been, a numbness that had settled into my bones like a physical presence.
We'd been driving for perhaps twenty minutes when I noticed another car behind us—a black SUV, similar to the one we were in, maintaining a consistent distance despite the varying speed of traffic. I watched it in the side mirror for several minutes, a vague unease beginning to penetrate the numbness that had enveloped me.
"Marco," I said, my voice sounding strange to my own ears. "I think we're being followed."
He glanced in the rearview mirror, his expression unchanging. "Yes," he said simply. "We are."
The admission, delivered with such casual certainty, sent a chill down my spine. "By whom?"
He was silent for a moment, his eyes meeting mine briefly in the mirror before returning to the road. "I'm not sure," he said finally. "But they've been behind us since we left the estate."
I turned to look out the back window, studying the SUV more carefully now. Tinted windows. No visible license plate. Professional. Anonymous. Threatening in its very blandness.
"Should we be concerned?" I asked, a strange calm settling over me despite the potential danger. After everything that had happened, after all the betrayals and revelations and shattered illusions, what was one more threat? One more complication in a life that had become a series of them?
Marco's hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel—the only sign of tension in his otherwise composed demeanor. "I'm going to try something," he said, his voice still steady. "Hold on."
He accelerated suddenly, weaving through traffic with a skill that spoke of professional training, of experience in situations far more dangerous than a possibly suspicious vehicle on a public highway. The SUV behind us matched our movements, maintaining the same distance despite Marco's efforts to lose it.
"Definitely following us," Marco confirmed, his voice tight now. "I'm calling for backup."
He reached for his phone, but before he could dial, another SUV appeared ahead of us, slowing deliberately in our lane, forcing Marco to brake. A third vehicle materialized on our left, boxing us in, leaving no room for evasive maneuvers.
"Grace," Marco said, his voice urgent now, "get down. Now."
I slid to the floor of the back seat just as the first impact came—the SUV behind us ramming our vehicle, sending us lurching forward into the one ahead. Metal screamed against metal, glass shattered, and the car spun, coming to rest against the guardrail with a sickening crunch.
For a moment, everything was silent except for the hiss of steam from the damaged engine, the distant sound of hornsand screeching tires as other vehicles reacted to the collision. Then doors were opening, footsteps approaching, voices calling out instructions in tones that were professional, efficient, coldly determined.
"Stay down," Marco ordered, but it was too late. The door beside me was wrenched open, and hands reached in, grabbing me, pulling me from the wreckage with a strength that brooked no resistance.
I found myself standing on the highway shoulder, surrounded by men in dark suits, their expressions blank, their movements coordinated with military precision. One held Marco at gunpoint, preventing him from reaching for his own weapon. Another spoke rapidly into a phone, reporting success, requesting extraction.
And one—the leader, I assumed, from the way the others deferred to him—stood directly before me, studying me with cold, assessing eyes that seemed vaguely familiar, though I couldn't place where I might have seen him before.
"Ms. O'Sullivan," he said, his voice as emotionless as his expression. "Your father sends his regards."
The words hit me like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs, making my knees weak with shock and confusion. My father? The man who had abandoned me, who had written me off as a loss, who had declared me no longer his concern?
"My father?" I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper. "I don't understand. He told the Contis he didn't want me back. That I was... a complication he'd moved on from."
The man's lips curved in a smile that never reached his eyes. "Plans change," he said simply. "Your father has reconsidered your value to the family. You're coming with us now."
I looked at Marco, saw the fury and frustration in his eyes, the helplessness as he stood with a gun to his head, unable to protect me as he'd been ordered to do. Saw him reach slowlyfor his phone, no doubt to alert Rafe, to summon whatever forces the Contis could muster to prevent this unexpected development.
"Don't bother," the leader said, noticing the movement. "By the time Conti gets here, we'll be long gone. And if you try to follow us, if you try to contact us, if you make any move at all... well, let's just say Mr. O'Sullivan's patience with his daughter's situation has limits. Understood?"
Marco's jaw tightened, but he nodded, recognizing the threat for what it was—not against him, but against me. Against my safety if the Contis attempted to interfere with whatever my father had planned.
"Good," the leader said, turning back to me. "Now, Ms. O'Sullivan, if you'll come with us. Your father is eager to see you again after all this time."
I should have been terrified. Should have fought, screamed, done anything to avoid being taken by these cold, efficient men who spoke of my father's "reconsideration" of my value with such casual certainty. Should have clung to Marco, to the last connection to Rafe, to the life I'd been leaving behind but that now seemed preferable to whatever awaited me at my father's hands.
Instead, I felt... nothing. A hollow emptiness where fear should have been, a numbness that had settled into my bones like a physical presence. What did it matter who held me captive? What did it matter whether I belonged to Rafe or to my father or to some other man who saw me as property rather than person? I was still a pawn, still a possession, still something to be used rather than someone to be valued.
"Alright," I said, my voice steady despite everything. "I'll come."
The leader nodded, satisfied with my compliance, and gestured toward one of the SUVs—not the one that had rammedus, but another that had pulled up during the confrontation, its engine running, its doors open in expectation of a quick departure.
