Chapter 33
My mind empties out. What’s left comes in flashes that won’t stay still—shouting, the crack of gunfire, a hand clamped around my wrist, dragging me forward.
Then the bike—one of my father’s—the engine screaming as we tear away from the mansion.
Father’s men follow close behind us, but Adam rides fast and doesn’t slow down.
We cut through narrow roads and filthy neighborhoods, places I don’t recognize, twisting and doubling back until, somehow, we finally lose them.
That’s when the questions start clawing their way through the numbness.
These sickening thoughts I should have had long ago.
What just happened?
Did he kidnap me? Or did I go with him without really fighting it? I try to remember if I screamed, if I resisted, if I told him no. I can’t tell anymore.
All I know is that I’m here. With him.
And I don’t understand why—why I’m not gone, why I didn’t run, why some part of me feels like this was inevitable.
Everything fell apart in minutes. And somewhere in the middle of it, I lost track of myself—when I stopped resisting, when fear turned into something else, when following him started to feel unavoidable.
After they lost us for good, we pushed the bike off a cliff, and he stole another one. I suppose he wants us to look dead or … something like that.
I don’t know where we’re going. I don’t know who he is now.
I only know that whatever line he crossed back there, he didn’t look back—and I don’t know if I did, either.
After hours of driving just beyond LA, we finally reach our destination.
A mansion rises from behind iron gates, pristine and shiny. Opulent, expensive, and restrained.
It reminds me of my house in the same way a scalpel reminds you of a knife. Similar shape but entirely different purpose.
This place is immaculate, like nothing bad has ever been allowed to linger long enough to leave a mark. The lawn is perfect. The glass is flawless. A giant maze in the corner gives it a haunting, almost unsettling edge.
There’s something calm about it. Cleaner on a moral level, I think.
Immediately, I distrust the thought.
Because morality this polished usually means someone else paid the price for it.
“What is this place?” I ask, pulling off the helmet, my head still ringing as I look around.
“This, little orchid, is the place where it all began,” he says, amused, before setting his helmet casually on the fuel tank.
He looks different again. Like he’s flipped a damn switch.
The monster I saw earlier—the violence, the blood, the way he enjoyed it—is gone. That part of him is still there, I know it is, but it’s tucked away now.
In its place is that cocky and confident grin he always has.
His face is still splattered with blood, drying in dark streaks along his clean-shaven jaw, but my eyes won’t stay there. They keep drifting back to his smile, daring me to forget what he did.
And screw me, it’s working.
I’m standing here, staring at him, wondering what kind of sick control he has over me—and how long before it costs me something I can’t get back.
He gives me a casual nod to follow him and starts up the stairs. I hesitate, then go anyway.
At the entrance, the door opens, and an old man steps out. His smile is bright, stretched thin across his face.
“Adam Manson,” he says, a soft smile tugging at his mouth.
“The one and only.”
Manson? I thought his last name was Mitch?
“Let me guess—none of this was your fault?” the old man scolds.
“You know me.” He rubs the back of his neck. “If I can’t get out of it, I make it worse,” Adam replies dryly.
The man shakes his head with a smile, like a father who disapproves while still being proud of what his boy has accomplished.
Then he pulls him into a hug, not even hesitating over the blood. That answers more than the words do. This isn’t new to him.
“It’s good to see you again, trouble.”
Adam pats the man’s back.
“Good to see you too, Grayson.”
Grayson pulls back and holds Adam’s face tenderly, looking deep into his eyes.
“Welcome home.”
Strangely, Adam doesn’t throw out one of his usual comebacks.
I rock back on my heels, then take a step away, eyes flicking anywhere but them. I rub my thumb against my palm, swallow, and hover awkwardly.
They don’t notice me. Adam’s face softens, and the man’s smile lingers, like this is something they’ve been missing.
Home …
I’m wondering if this is the place where he grew up, and that’s why he said it’s the place where everything began. But what is that “everything”?
“Apologies for not introducing myself,” Grayson says softly, his eyes squinting with a genuine smile behind them. “I’m Grayson.”
He extends his hand to me, and without thinking, I shake it.
“I’m Isabella.”
“I suppose you’re the reason that brought him back.” He cups my hand warmly. “Thank you for that. You’re welcome here.”
Despite everything that’s happened, Grayson still draws a soft smile from me. It comes uninvited, and I can’t control it.
Maybe it’s his warmth, the unguarded curve of his smile, the quiet, fatherly way he looks at us. Whatever it is, it stirs something old and unfamiliar at the same time. Something I’ve never witnessed and didn’t realize I missed until now.
“Shut up, old man,” Adam says lazily.
“Language, boy,” he reprimands him sternly. “Isabella is not to hear that from you.”
I smile again as Adam answers with a scoff and a lazy eye-roll, brushing past us as he steps into the mansion.
“He can be an ass sometimes,” Grayson whispers playfully.
“That I know.”
He gives a low chuckle.
“Come along, dear. I’ll show you around.”