ONE
Willow
The truck fishtailsacross the icy road, tires shrieking as they lose traction. A white-out swallows the headlights, transforming the world into a spinning tunnel of snow and black asphalt.
I clutch the wheel with bloodless fingers, heart slamming against my ribs, eyes straining to find something—anything—to orient myself. The guardrail looms too fast. I yank the wheel, but it’s too late. Metal screams against metal, a shrill, gut-twisting wail that cuts through the storm.
Not like this. Not when I’m so close.
Impact. Everything tilts. My body slams sideways. Silence falls in the aftermath, broken only by the hiss of steam from the radiator and the tick-tick-tick of a dying engine. The world settles at a sick angle, and the truck crumples against the guardrail like a broken toy.
Pain arrives in waves—sharp, splintering agony radiating from my ribs, a wet warmth seeping down my chin.
Blood drips from my split lip onto the steering wheel. Themetallic taste floods my mouth, a familiar tang I’ve grown used to. Not from this crash. No, this is older. Deeper.
The blood mixes with the copper pennies I’ve been swallowing since Steffan’s boot caught me under the ribs. Every breath feels like a razor, sending lightning-hot shards stabbing through my chest.
I reach under the passenger seat with hands that won’t stop trembling, my fingertips scrabbling for the hidden drive I planted months ago. There—cold and solid. I find the small backup drive I taped there three months ago.
It’s identical to the one Steffan ripped from my hands in his study, the one he crushed under his heel while Drake held me down.
He thinks he destroyed everything. He’s wrong.
Three years of marriage. Three years of brutality hidden behind charm and tailored suits.
Steffan Reynolds.
Federal judge, rising political star, master manipulator, he treated me to three years of his fists, his belt, and his careful cruelty disguised as discipline and command. Behind closed doors, he’s a monster. His cruelty is surgical, meticulous, the kind that leaves no trace unless he wants it to.
And Drake—his shadow, his enforcer—was always watching, always smiling.
The engine ticks as it cools. The cab fills with steam. I cough, wince, force myself to move.
Move or die.
The truck sits at a sickening angle, front end crumpled against the twisted guardrail, steam hissing from the punctured radiator. The driver’s side is wedged into the guardrail, but the passenger door opens toward the forest.
Hope flickers. I crawl across the bench seat, every shift igniting white-hot pain in mychest.
The door handle fights me, warped from the impact. When it finally gives way, the door screams against its hinges, metal grinding against bent metal, the sound lost in the howling wind.
I tumble out into knee-deep snow. The cold hits like a slap, shocking my system awake. Wind slaps against my face, driving snow into the cuts on my cheek where Steffan’s ring caught and ripped skin.
My breath catches, ragged in the frozen air. I stagger, turn back toward the road, and see headlights.
No! No. No!
Headlights, low and fast, slice through the storm. Still distant, but unmistakable. I know that truck. I know who’s driving it.
Drake.
Steffan’s enforcer. His shadow. The man who held me down while my husband’s belt found its mark, who smiled when I screamed, who took his turn when Steffan was finished breaking me.
Panic ignites like a fuse in my bloodstream. He’ll see the wreck. He’ll know where I went off the road. There’s no time. No time for plans, no time to think.
Terror floods my system, hot and electric despite the killing cold. Snow sucks at my feet with every step, dragging me down. My canvas sneakers are soaked instantly, offering neither warmth nor protection.
I didn’t plan this escape well, not really. I had a window and I took it. I ran for the truck and didn’t look back.
