CHAPTER TWO
The Escape
“What is your location, ma’am? Are you hurt?” The 911 operator’s voice echoed in Jenna’s ear.
She pulled the phone away, her mind reeling, the fragile thread of reason breaking through the terror. The police couldn’t help her. Killing him had been an accident—a mistake born of fear and desperation—and she had no way of knowing what the system would do to her.
As it was, she could never afford a lawyer, and Mr. Crown owned all the Crown Banks. His lawyer would probably be the best of the best.
The point was that she had seen people go to prison for less—a lot less.
Jenna hung up, staring blankly around the room,
her breath coming in shallow gasps. Panic clawed at her insides—she had to think. The movies made escaping through air vents look easy, but those were lies. There was only one way out—the same door she had come in.
Her body trembled uncontrollably, tears streaming down her face. She couldn’t afford to fall apart.
Her gaze drifted to his desk, where his laptop displayed a reminder for a meeting with International Affairs at ten a.m. Papers were strewn across the surface, along with a phone and a framed photo of him with a woman and three children.
His family. She hadn’t noticed a wedding ring on his finger, but the photo made it clear—he wasn’t just a man. He was a father, a husband.
Her eyes moved back to his lifeless form. She half-expected him to move, for his chest to rise and fall, but he remained unnervingly still.
“Focus, Jenna!” she hissed at herself, forcing her mind back to the present.
She had to get out. Nothing on the desk would help. Her gaze shifted to a glass table on her right, where a crystal decanter of whiskey sat alongside tumblers and a box of tissues.
“That’s it,” she whispered, rushing over.
Her hands shook as she poured a shot and downed it in one gulp. The burn of the alcohol steadied her just enough to pour another. Grabbing a handful of tissues, she soaked them in whiskey and began wiping the drying blood from her hands and limbs. Holding her breath, she
cleaned the sensitive areas between her legs, adjusting her soaked thong.
After several moments, Jenna inspected herself and wiped away the final blood spots she could see, leaving the glass of whiskey now a dark brown. Rushing to her discarded handbag, she pulled out her makeup set and flipped open the mirror, refusing to dwell on how pale she looked. Black streaks of eyeliner ran down her cheeks, forming dark rings under her eyes, and her lips were a disaster of their own.
It took several more minutes before she could finally look in the small mirror and believe the lie of cool, calm, and collected staring back at her.
Taking a deep breath, she ran a hand through her hair, refusing to look back at the body. Tiptoeing around the blood, she retrieved the gun she had used to shoot him.
The last thing she needed was to leave behind the murder weapon. Jenna dropped it into her bag, along with the tablet displaying her résumé from the couch. The only thing she couldn’t fix was her smeared, bloody fingerprints on the pillows barring the door.
“International affairs,” she whispered, swallowing the fear threatening to consume her. Now was not the time for panic. She took a few deep breaths, steadied herself, and walked toward the door, smoothing her blouse one last time.
Gently scooting the pillows aside, she stepped carefully over the blood and rested her hand on the door handle. With a final deep breath, she looked down at herself, willing her trembling hand to be still.
Jenna had taken drama in school, aspiring to be an actress when she was younger. Her dreams had obviously changed, but now she hoped those classes would help her pull off this act.
“International affairs,” she whispered again. With a small, trembling hand, she pulled the door open just enough to confidently step out, shutting it firmly behind her.
All eyes locked on her, and she forced a smile, swallowing a scream. The assistant scanned her up and down with a jealous sneer, and Jenna now understood her rudeness.
Mr. Crown had been handsome as hell, and this little bitch clearly knew what happened behind closed doors, obviously wanting to be the only object of his desire.
“You took longer than usual,” the assistant sneered.
“Well, Mr. Crown had many questions.” Jenna smirked, wiping the corner of her mouth to imply oral sex, cringing inside. The assistant’s eyes darkened as she rose to her feet with a huff.
“Well then, good day to you,” she sneered, walking past Jenna toward Mr. Crown’s door.
“Oh, um, Mr. Crown said not to bother him,” Jenna blurted, panic evident in her tone. All the guards focused on her, hanging on every word. Jenna took a deep breath, forcing a smile as she felt herself paling.
“Why not?” the assistant demanded, stopping short of his door.
“He said he had a meeting with international affairs at ten a.m. and needed to be left alone to prepare. He asked that you please call on him again at one p.m. for lunch.”
Thank fuck his laptop had still been on.
“Fine,” the assistant sighed dramatically, walking back to her desk to answer a ringing phone.
Jenna couldn’t move; the lie had come so easily, and now her nerves were shot, cementing her in place.
The assistant looked up from her phone and the notes she was jotting down, frowning. “Hold on a sec,” she spoke into the receiver. “Were you hired to start immediately? If so, go down to floor three for Human Resources. If not, leave.” She snapped her fingers at one of the guards and pointed at Jenna before returning to her phone call.
A guard slipped his hand around Jenna’s upper arm, and she jumped, suppressing a yelp.
“This way, Miss,” he said, towering over her, his gaze drifting from her face to her cleavage as he led her into the elevator.
To her dismay, he joined her on the ride down. She looked away into the mirror beside her, recalling how she had smacked her lips and adjusted her top, thinking her only concern for the day was landing this job.
Tears started to cloud her vision as the silent but powerful pop of the gun echoed through her mind on repeat. Thank goodness the weapon had a silencer, or she might have been cold on the floor next to Mr. Crown. She
gripped her handbag, holding the gun and tablet tightly, terrified by the thought.
“Don’t go talking shit now, you hear?”
Jenna jumped, looking back at the guard standing next to her. “Huh?” She was shocked that Mr. Crown’s guards even spoke.
“Don’t speak about your time with the boss to anyone,” he whispered again.
Jenna began to hyperventilate as her mind ran through a million scenarios. Oh shit! Did he know she killed him? Was this her end?
“Many women, fine like yourself, enter, fuck him, and leave claiming rape or abuse just because he has money,” he continued, unaware of her panic.
“Fuck him? I didn’t fuck him!” Jenna objected.
“Whatever you say.” He smirked down at her with a knowing look. “Your moans were loud and clear.” He winked, his gaze dropping to her chest again.
“So was my cry for help!” she snapped, turning to face him, anger fueling her.
“Your cries for help turned to cries of pleasure,” he chuckled. “Look, I don’t care if you want to deny fucking him or not. I’m just warning you not to report it.” He waved it off as they reached the bottom floor.
“Why?” Jenna asked, hearing the warning in his voice.
“Because he takes things personally and will ruin your name, life, and any job you try to apply for. One fuck
is not worth a lifetime of misery, is it?”
“What?” She blinked in confusion. Why was he working for such a man? Why warn her?
The elevator doors opened, and people piled in. The guard grabbed her arm again, escorting her out and toward a side service door, clicking his tongue with frustration.
“Listen, you little hussy, I’m only trying to save you. You opened your legs for the wrong man. Go against him, and he will kill you,” he snapped, letting go of her arm before giving her a once-over. “I’ve seen it with countless women. I suggest you spread your legs somewhere else and forget my boss.”
He smiled, a lustful look in his brown eyes. “I could help you. It’s not as if you would remember. You smell drunk and ready for me.”
He stepped closer and slipped a business card from his pocket. “Keep this.” The card’s logo—a Japanese construction company she recognized instantly—caught her eye. The name ‘Damien’ was printed in bold letters. Without another word, he shoved it into her bag and stepped back, a twisted grin on his lips.
Jenna stepped away from him, her hands going straight to her skirt, ensuring it was still by her knees. It was true—she smelled like a bar and shame—but he had just made her feel far worse, like a common slut for hire. Tears threatened her eyes again as she caught him staring at her breasts, heaving with emotion.
“Fuck off,” Jenna managed to hiss, turning on her heel to leave, cringing at the laugh behind her.
Without looking back, she power-walked through the security side door, dimly aware that he had just helped her escape without going through the scanners, and stepped out onto the busy street.
Taking large, gulping breaths to stave off the onslaught of tears, she checked her watch. It was nine fifteen a.m., and she was done.
Done with this day.
Done with life.
Calling a cab, she hopped in the back, and forty-five minutes later, she locked her front door and stood in her quiet apartment, feeling numb.
Getting home had been a blur. Standing in the lounge, everything suddenly felt like a distant dream, her brain tricking her into believing that perhaps it was.
Slowly pulling her handbag off her shoulder, she opened it with a shaking hand, praying there was nothing in there. Praying her mind had created one hell of a sick, caffeine-deprived dream.
But there it was: the gun and the tablet.
Jenna dropped to the ground as all the emotions she had been holding back crushed her. Placing a hand over her mouth, she broke down in uncontrollable tears. Her life was over.