The words disappear as the steam dissipates, leaving no trace of my private promise. But I've made it nonetheless, committed it to memory if not to record. Gage Blackwood believes he's broken my resistance, channeled it into the framework he's created.
He's wrong.
I may have to play along, may have to smile and nod and sign his documents. But I will never surrender. Never accept this cage, no matter how gilded.
I wipe the mirror clean and prepare for dinner.
The game has only just begun.
CHAPTER 8
The bus station at 4 AM is a liminal space—neither fully night nor morning, populated by the desperate, the transient, and those fleeing something worse than temporary discomfort. I clutch my small duffel bag, containing only essentials and the emergency cash I managed to withdraw from an ATM before my accounts were inevitably frozen again. My heart pounds so loudly I'm certain the few other passengers can hear it over the droning television mounted in the corner.
I hadn't planned to run so soon. The past week at Gage's estate had been a careful performance—accepting his terms with apparent resignation, reviewing prenuptial documents with feigned interest, even allowing him to place an obscenely large diamond on my finger during a coldly efficient "proposal" witnessed only by his attorney. I'd smiled at appropriate moments, asked reasonable questions about my continued involvement with Wildflower, and given every indication that I was adjusting to my new reality.
All while watching, waiting, planning.
The opportunity had come unexpectedly. A rare gap in surveillance during a staff shift change, a kitchen doortemporarily unlocked while deliveries were accepted, and the groundskeeper's vehicle left running while he hauled bags of mulch from the storage shed. I'd moved without hesitation, slipping through the momentary blind spot and driving off before anyone realized I was gone.
The groundskeeper's ancient pickup had gotten me to the edge of the city, where I'd abandoned it in a shopping center parking lot and continued on foot to a 24-hour diner. There, I'd used their courtesy phone to call a taxi, paid cash to a driver who asked no questions, and directed him to the bus station on the opposite side of the city from my apartment and shop.
Now, with a ticket purchased under a false name with cash, I wait for the 4:30 AM bus to Minneapolis—the first leg of a meandering journey I hope will eventually lead me far enough away to start over. Again.
The station is nearly empty—just a homeless man sleeping on a bench, a young couple with backpacks whispering together, and an elderly woman knitting despite the hour. The ticket agent dozes behind his glass partition. No one pays attention to a woman in nondescript clothing, baseball cap pulled low over copper hair hastily dyed brown in a gas station bathroom.
The departure board shows my bus arriving on time. Twenty more minutes of freedom, then hours on the road. How long before his resources locate me? Hours? Days? I've left my phone, credit cards, and anything else traceable behind. The only connection to my former life is my grandmother's pendant, tucked beneath my shirt, impossible to abandon despite the risk.
The station's automatic doors slide open, and my heart stops.
Gage Blackwood enters, scanning the sparse crowd with predatory focus. Alone—no security team, no Victor, just him in dark jeans and a black sweater that somehow makes him more intimidating than his usual suits. His eyes lock on mine immediately, as if he'd known exactly where to find me.
I don't run. There's nowhere to go, and the futility of further escape settles over me like a physical weight. How did he find me so quickly? How did he know which station, which departure time?
He approaches slowly, hands visible, expression unreadable. The few other travelers give him a wide berth, instinctively recognizing a dangerous presence.
"Penelope." He stops a few feet away, voice low enough that only I can hear. "Are we really doing this again?"
I grip my bag tighter. "How did you find me?"
"You're wearing a two-million-dollar engagement ring with a GPS tracker embedded in the setting," he replies, his tone conversational despite the circumstances. "Did you think I wouldn't take precautions?"
The ring. Of course. I'd considered removing it, but feared that might trigger immediate alarms. Instead, I'd planned to sell it at the first opportunity after putting sufficient distance between us.
Too late now.
"Get up," he says quietly. "We're leaving."
"And if I refuse? Make a scene? Call for help?" The desperate options of someone with nothing left to lose.
Something like disappointment crosses his face. "You won't. You're smarter than that." He glances meaningfully at the elderly woman, the young couple, the sleeping homeless man. "Innocent bystanders don't deserve to be collateral damage in our private disagreement."
The threat is clear despite its subtle delivery. I rise slowly, clutching my bag like a shield.
"My car is outside," he continues in that same quiet, controlled voice. "Let's avoid unnecessary drama."
I follow him through the station doors into the pre-dawn darkness, acutely aware of how completely I've failed. Less thantwelve hours of freedom, ended not by his security team but by Gage himself, calmly retrieving his wayward property.
A sleek black Aston Martin idles at the curb—no driver, no security detail. He opens the passenger door, waiting for me to enter.
