Chapter 10
RILEY
The desert has no end.
I’ve been staring out the window for what feels like an eternity, and the landscape never changes.
Sand. Rocks. Dried-up bushes that look like the skeletons of plants that gave up long ago.
Every now and then, a boulder juts out of the flat earth like a rotten tooth.
The sky above is so limitlessly blue it feels like a mockery.
My father was right.
The thought sits in my head like a nail, driven deeper with every minute this car travels through the middle of nowhere.
He was always right. The warnings, the rules, the cameras, the control—everything I perceived as a cage my whole life was a shield.
He told me the world out there is dangerous.
That people lie. That men only want one thing.
That I’m safe as long as I stay close to him.
And what did I do? I broke out of my cage. For the first man who made me laugh. For the first tequila, the first kiss, the first touch that felt like something real. I ran like a stupid child who finds the front door open and bolts into the street without looking left or right.
And now I’m sitting in a locked car next to a man who lied to me, married me, and dragged me into the desert, and I don't even know why.
My eyes burn, but I blink the tears away. I won't cry in front of him.
I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth. Stay calm. Think. There has to be a reason why he’s doing this. People don't do things without a reason. Even the crazy ones have logic; you just have to find it.
Vaughn Mercer. I don't know the name. I’ve never seen it in any database, any guest list, any report. Either he’s nobody, or he’s someone who knows how to stay invisible. Both terrify me, but I have a sickening feeling it’s the latter.
The car turns.
The paved road ends, and the tires crunch over a sand track that winds between two ridges. Clouds of dust swirl up behind us, swallowing the world we came from. There are no road signs here, no markers—absolutely nothing to indicate this road leads anywhere.
We drive behind a massive rock outcrop, and the valley opens up.
Tucked between sand-colored hills lies a house made of brick.
A flat roof with solar panels. A covered entrance with a wooden bench.
In front of it stands a single tree with a trunk so crooked it looks like it spent its whole life fighting the wind and finally decided to reach a compromise.
The house isn't run down. No boarded-up windows, no crumbling plaster. On the contrary—everything is clean, maintained, functional. As if someone prepared this place. For us.
For me.
The car stops. Vaughn opens his door and steps out, but I stay put. The child safety lock keeps my door shut, and I certainly won't beg to be let out.
Through the tinted glass, I watch Vaughn walk around the car and speak to the driver. The dark-haired guy with the sunglasses who didn't say a single word the entire trip. Vaughn speaks quietly. The driver nods. They shake hands—a brief, businesslike gesture—and then Vaughn comes to my door.
When he opens it, the desert heat rushes in like a living creature made of dry air, instantly sucking the moisture from my lungs.
“Get out,” he says.
I get out because I have no other choice. My heels sink into the sand. The green evening gown sticks to my sweaty skin. I’m standing in front of a house in the middle of nowhere, in a party outfit that looks about as out of place as a chandelier in a barn.
Behind me, the engine starts again. Shortly after, the black Mercedes turns on the sandy lot, tires grinding over the ground, and then the car heads back down the sand track we came from. I watch as it disappears behind the rock outcrop and the dust cloud slowly settles.
What remains is a suffocating silence.
You only hear the wind brushing over the crests of the hills and the soft creaking of the crooked tree in front of the house.
Vaughn goes to the front door and unlocks it. He holds it open for me as if I’m a visiting guest and not his hostage.
I step inside. The interior of the house smells of wood and cleaning supplies. I enter a hallway with stone tiles; the walls are bare. No pictures, no decoration. Everything is functional and empty.
“Asshole,” I say.
Vaughn walks past me toward the kitchen without reacting to the insult.
“You’re a damn, selfish, manipulative asshole.” I follow him through the hallway. My heels clatter on the tiles. “You planned all of this. From the very first moment. The blackjack table, the drinks, the Ferris wheel, the chapel—it was all a game. A disgusting, calculated game.”
Vaughn opens a kitchen cabinet and takes out a bottle of water. He sets it on the counter and turns to me.
“Drink,” he says.
“Go to hell.”
“You’re dehydrated. Drink the water.”
“I’m not drinking anything you give me. How do I know there isn't poison in there? Or sleeping pills? Or whatever else you psychopaths mix together in your spare time.”
He unscrews the bottle, takes a sip himself, and sets it in front of me. “No poison. No sleeping pills. Just water.”
I stare at the bottle. My mouth is so dry my tongue is sticking to the roof of my mouth. Then I take the bottle and drink. The cool water is the best thing I’ve ever tasted, thanks to both my hellish thirst and the fact that I haven't had anything to drink since the coffee this morning.
“Your room is at the end of the hall.” Vaughn points to the left. “Right side. There are fresh towels in the closet and clothes in the dresser.”
Clothes in the dresser. In my size, probably. Because he planned everything. Because he knew he’d bring me here before he ever sat down at the blackjack table.
“I’ll make something to eat,” he says, turning to the stove.
I stand in the kitchen of this strange house, in a crumpled evening gown, with a water bottle in my hand and a ring on my finger, watching this man pull a pan out of the cabinet as if this were a perfectly normal Tuesday morning.
Then I turn and run.
Not toward the room. I run down the hall, wrench open the first door—a bathroom, small window, I reach for the handle—locked. Not just closed, but locked. From the outside. No latch for me to turn. I hammer my fist against the glass, but nothing happens.
Next room, a bedroom. I check the window with the same result. Locked and unbreakable. I almost tear the skin on my knuckles hitting it.
I keep running. Through the hall, past the kitchen, where Vaughn is standing at the stove, watching me with an unbearable composure. I storm to the front door. I press the handle. Nothing. I rattle it. I pull. I throw my entire body weight against the wood.
The door doesn't move a millimeter.
“Riley.”
His voice comes from the kitchen. Calm and unhurried.
I turn around. He’s leaning in the doorway between the hall and the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest. I see no triumph on his face. No malice. He looks like a man observing something that doesn't surprise him, but doesn't leave him cold either.
“The windows are secured,” he says. “The doors are locked. The nearest occupied building is a hundred and eighty-three kilometers away. The nearest paved road is over twenty. In this climate, without water, at over forty degrees, a healthy person lasts about eight kilometers before their system collapses. And you’re wearing heels. ”
I stare at him. My chest heaves. My hands shake.
“Even if I open the door for you,” he continues, “you aren't getting away. There’s no road to follow. No cell signal to connect to, even if you had your phone. There isn't a single person you could ask for help.”
Something in me breaks.
It’s not a dramatic collapse, but a quiet giving in, like a crack in a dam where only a thin stream of water seeps through at first before everything comes crashing down.
I sink down against the front door. My back slides over the wood. My heels slip on the tiles. I land on the floor, knees pulled up, the green dress around me like a ring of wilted leaves.
And then I cry.
Not quietly. Not in control. I cry the way I haven't since I was a child. Deep, ugly sobs that rise from my chest and shake my entire body. Tears run down my face and drip onto the fabric of my dress. My breath comes in short, jagged gasps.
I cry because I’m afraid. Because I don't know what this man intends to do with me. Because my father is sitting somewhere in Las Vegas and doesn't know where I am. Because last night I believed I was free, and it turns out I only changed cages.
And I cry because the man who brought me here is the man who held me last night like I was the most precious thing in the world.
Vaughn is still standing in the doorway. He doesn't move. He doesn't come closer. He doesn't offer a tissue, a hug, or empty words. He just stands there and lets me cry.
When the sobs finally subside and my breath turns into a shaky wheeze, I wipe my face with the back of my hand. The mascara residue smudges over my cheeks. I don't care.
“Why?” I ask. My voice is hoarse and raw. “Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?”
Vaughn moves from the doorway, goes into the kitchen, and returns with a plate. Scrambled eggs and toast. A fork and a napkin beside it. He sets the plate on the floor next to me. Then he crouches down so his eyes are level with mine.
“I’ll tell you that,” he says. “Everything. But not now. Right now you need to eat, drink something, and rest. You haven't eaten since last night, and your body is still full of alcohol.”
I stare at the plate. The scrambled eggs are steaming. The toast is golden brown.
“I don't want your damn eggs,” I whisper.
He stands up and goes back to the kitchen. I hear him put his own plate on the table. The sound of a fork scraping porcelain. He eats as if this were a perfectly normal day.
I sit on the floor in front of the locked door and stare at the eggs.
Five minutes pass. Ten. My stomach growls. Loud enough for him to hear in the kitchen.
I take the fork and eat.