Isabelle
Idon't sleep.
How could I? I'm lying in a strange bed in a rental villa on the outskirts of Santorini, with a man who just nearly killed someone in front of me, who dragged me through the streets like I was nothing, who told me people want me dead, and then refused to explain why or how he knows or what the fuck any of this means.
Every instinct I have is screaming at me to run. To get out of this villa, get to the airport, get on the first flight back to New York where I can lock myself in my father's mansion and pretend none of this ever happened.
But I don't move. As terrifying as Julian is, as insane as this entire situation feels, there's a part of me that believes him. That trusts him, despite everything.
Or maybe I'm just too scared to be alone.
The thought makes my stomach twist with shame, but I can't deny it. I'm terrified. More terrified than I've ever been in my privileged, sheltered life. And Julian, for all his violence and mystery and cold distance, is the only thing standing between me and whatever danger he says is hunting me.
So when morning comes and he knocks on the bedroom door, his voice rough with exhaustion, telling me we need to leave immediately, I don't argue.
I just pack my suitcase and follow him out into the pale dawn light.
—
The first hotel he takes me to is a shithole.
There's no other word for it. The building is crumbling stucco painted a faded yellow, the windows are grimy, and the lobby smells like cigarette smoke and mildew.
The man behind the desk doesn't even look up when Julian pays in cash, just slides a key across the counter and goes back to watching a soccer match on a tiny television with terrible reception.
I stand in the middle of the lobby with my designer suitcase and my Chanel sunglasses and feel completely, absurdly out of place.
Julian notices, of course. "Problem?" he asks, his voice flat.
"No," I lie.
His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close. "You've never stayed anywhere like this before."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "No."
"Get used to it." He picks up his duffel bag and heads for the stairs without waiting to see if I follow. "We can't use your credit cards or mine, and we can't stay anywhere that requires ID or asks questions. This is what off the grid looks like."
I want to argue. I want to tell him that surely there are nicer places that take cash, that we don't have to stay in a place where I'm genuinely afraid to touch anything.
But I don't say any of it, because the look on his face when he glances back at me makes it clear he's not interested in my complaints.
In fact, despite everything that happened between us in Ibiza, he doesn't seem to want me at all anymore.
He barely even looks at me, and certainly not with that heat in his eyes that he had before.
So I follow him up three flights of narrow stairs that creak ominously under our weight, down a hallway with peeling wallpaper, to a room at the very end.
The room is exactly as depressing as I expected.
Two narrow beds with thin mattresses and scratchy-looking blankets, a bathroom barely big enough to turn around in, a closet that would hold a few pieces of clothing at best, and a small window that overlooks an alley filled with overflowing dumpsters.
Julian sets his bag down and immediately goes to the window, scanning the alley below in a way that makes my skin prickle with unease. "Is someone out there?" I ask, my voice coming out smaller than I intend.
"Not yet." He moves to the door, testing the lock, the chain, the deadbolt. "But they will be. Eventually."
"Who?" I set my suitcase down and wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the stuffy warmth of the room. "Who's coming after me?"
He doesn't answer immediately. He just finishes his inspection of the room, checking under the beds, in the bathroom, behind the thin curtains.
When he's satisfied, he finally looks at me, and the expression on his face is carefully blank.
"Assassins," he says simply. "Hitmen—or women, occasionally.
Professional killers. People like—" He stops himself, jaw tightening. "People who do this for a living."
The word assassins hits me like a slap. I sink down onto the edge of one of the beds, my legs suddenly unsteady. "That's insane. Why would assassins want to kill me? I'm nobody. I'm just—"
"Someone wants you dead. I don't know why. I don't know how it connects back to your family, if it even does. Maybe it has something to do with your father's name, maybe it doesn't. But your life is in danger."
I stare at him, trying to process what he's saying. My father. Dangerous people. Professional killers. It sounds like something out of a movie. Like fiction. Like something that happens to other people, not to spoiled heiresses who spend their days shopping and their nights at charity galas.
"I don't believe you," I whisper.
"Yes, you do." He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the wall. "You wouldn't have come with me if you didn't."
He's right, and I hate that he's right. Some part of me knows he's telling the truth.
"What are we doing here?" I ask, gesturing at the depressing room around us. "If people are hunting me, why are we hiding in cheap hotels? Why aren't we going to the police? Why aren't we—"
"The police can't help you." His voice is hard. "The people who want you dead have reach. Money. Influence. Going to the police would just make you an easier target."
"Then what's your plan?" My voice rises, frustration bleeding through. "We just keep running forever? Hiding in shitty hotels and paying cash for everything until what? Until they give up?"
"No. I'm going to find out who ordered the contract and convince them to call it off."
My eyes widen. "How?"
"I have connections. People who owe me favors.
It's going to take time, and it's going to be dangerous, but it's the only way to end this.
" He says it like he's sure, but I'm not certain that he is.
There's something about his voice, about the look in his eyes, that makes me think he's not sure he can pull this off.
That maybe I'm going to die no matter what.
A shudder runs down my spine, and I want to ask what kind of connections he has, demand answers about who he really is, what he really does, why he's helping me. But the look on his face tells me I won't get those answers. Not yet. So instead I ask, "How long?"
"I don't know." He turns away, moving back to the window.
"Could be days. Could be weeks. Depends on how fast I can track down the right people and what kind of leverage I can find.
And in the meantime, we have to stay hidden and on the move.
You do what I tell you when I tell you to do it.
You stay put, and you don't go out alone. "
Weeks. Weeks of running, hiding, living in places like this with a man I barely know. Weeks of being hunted. The reality of it crashes over me all at once, and I feel my breath catch in my throat. My hands are shaking. My vision blurs at the edges.
"Hey." Julian's voice cuts through the panic rising in my chest. He's in front of me suddenly, his hands on my shoulders, steadying me. "Breathe. Just breathe."
I try to follow his instruction, dragging air into my lungs in short, gasping bursts.
His hands are warm through the thin fabric of my dress, solid and real, and I focus on that sensation, using it to anchor myself, even if he no longer seems like the man I met in Ibiza.
That wild, unhinged, feral man who fucked me like an animal is not the controlled, hard creature who has plucked me out of Santorini and brought me here.
"I've got you," he says, and his voice is softer now, almost gentle. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you. I promise."
I look up at him, searching his face for any sign that he's lying. But all I see is determination… and something that looks almost like fear. He's scared too, I realize. Maybe not for himself, but for me.
The thought should be comforting. Instead, it makes everything feel more real. More dangerous.
"Okay," I whisper. "Okay."
He holds my gaze for another moment, then releases my shoulders and steps back, putting distance between us again.
I feel the space, and I wish he would close it again.
Turn back into the party boy from Ibiza, the man who made me come undone.
I want that man, not this unfeeling one in front of me who looks at me as if he couldn't be less interested in me, not as if he's tasted every part of my body.
"Get some rest. We're leaving in a few hours. "
I swallow hard. "Where are we going?"
"Somewhere else." He pulls out his phone, his attention already shifting away from me. "I'll let you know when it's time to move."
And just like that, the moment of connection is gone. He's back to being cold and distant, focused on whatever plan he's working through in his head.
I lie back on the narrow bed and stare at the water-stained ceiling, wondering how the fuck my life turned into this.
—
We leave Greece on a ferry to Italy, then take a series of buses and trains north through the countryside.
Julian changes our route constantly, doubling back, taking detours that add hours to our travel time.
He never explains why, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes constantly scan our surroundings, and I understand that he's making sure we're not being followed.
The realization makes my skin crawl. Every stranger on the train becomes a potential threat.
Every person who looks at me too long makes my heart race.
Men who stare at me are no longer men checking me out, and I no longer feel the thrill of masculine attention.
I find myself mimicking Julian's vigilance, checking over my shoulder, watching for anyone who seems too interested in us.
It's exhausting, terrifying… and strangely exhilarating.