Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Reese
I know the part I’m supposed to play tonight—smile, nod, stay quiet. Pretend I don’t ache with every step. Pretend the bruises under my dress don’t exist.
Otherwise, I’ll be sent back to my room, a.k.a. my cell—the four walls with one door that always remains locked.
The laughter feels louder tonight, sharper, like it’s aimed at me.
Glasses clink, ice rattles, and the Hale’s Hamptons estate hums with wealth and cruelty in equal measure.
I move through the crowd with a glass of vodka I don’t drink, my free hand brushing past sequined gowns and starched sleeves.
Every glance sticks to me—pity, disdain, smug triumph.
Let them look. Let them whisper. I’m not here to charm them.
I’m here to survive.
I spot Vander across the room, holding court with two men whose cufflinks gleam like trophies, acting as if he isn’t holding a woman against her will.
A frantic bird in a gilded cage, willing to break her neck for freedom, only to realize too late that her wings are clipped.
But he’s smiling tonight. Pleasant, even.
And although he’s been anything but amenable to me since my forced return, I have to believe some kernel of goodness still exists inside him.
Time to put that theory to the test.
His colleagues see me before Vander does, tipping their glasses in my direction. They don’t know the truth. All they see is Vander’s willful fiancée is safely back under wraps.
Of course they’re polite, but they have undoubtedly dragged my name through the mud repeatedly.
“Vander, may I speak with you for a moment?” My voice is steady, though my chest aches from the effort.
He hesitates, suspicion flickering, then excuses himself and follows me to the side. “Something wrong?”
“How much longer do you intend to keep up this ruse?” I rest a hand gingerly on his forearm, receiving a pointed glare in return, as if I’m contagious. “You deserve better. You have everything—your name, your money, and lines of women who would kill to stand beside you.”
His gaze sharpens. “True, but that’s not the point.”
I push on, desperate. “Can’t you have mercy on me? What happened to the man I met in the club all those years ago? We had some great times together.”
He tilts his head, curious. “What, you loved me?”
I should lie, but my mouth can’t form the words. “I tried. But after so many women, so many lies… you made it impossible.”
His lip curls as he adjusts the cuff of his suit, the motion sharp, dismissive. “So you think playing nice for a few days will repair what you’ve broken?”
What I broke? That’s rich.
“I thought—” The words tangle on my tongue. “I thought I would announce tonight what I’ve done to you. Take all the blame. Humiliate myself so you can walk away untarnished. You could call off the engagement publicly. I’ll make myself the villain.”
For a moment, silence stretches between us. Then his smile sharpens, cruel. “Do you really think that gets you off the hook?”
“I thought it might get us both off, actually.” Glancing around the room, I scan the faces of the partygoers. “Where are your parents?”
“They’re not coming out this weekend.”
My heart seizes. Vander’s mother never approved of me. But maybe—just maybe—I could’ve reached her.
“When can I expect to see them?” My voice cracks.
“The holidays.”
The air leaves my lungs. Three months. I could be locked in that bedroom upstairs for three months.
Vander leans close, his voice low and cutting. “We’re playing by my rules.”
“I don’t know what your game is.” The words are hissed and frantic, matching the pounding in my ears.
“Exactly.”
His hand clamps down on my arm, hard enough to make me wince. “You’re hurting me.”
His breath brushes my ear. “You don’t know what pain is.” Then he releases me, smoothing the fabric of my dress as if nothing happened.
But before I can step back, his hand darts up, gripping my chin between his fingers, forcing my gaze to his.
“Don’t get any ideas, Reese. You’re in the lion’s den. And I’m not afraid to eat you alive. I have guards in every corner, eyes on you at all times. One wrong move and…” His thumb drags across my lip, cruel. “You wouldn’t want your little whore to get hurt, would you?”
My stomach knots, but my mind clings to the only thing that steadies me—my darling Griffin. The man I dream about in fitful sleep. The man I pray I might belong to in a different world.
“Now go,” Vander orders, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “Don’t bother me again tonight.”
I stand frozen as Vander melts back into the crowd, laughter and chatter swallowing him whole.
I have no phone. No wallet. No allies. No one to call. That leaves only one choice.
I have to escape.
My gaze flicks toward the front door. Too obvious. Too many eyes, too many guards. I’d be caught before I touched the handle.
The back terrace glitters with fairy lights and clusters of guests, their laughter rolling like waves.
But beyond it, the drop is two stories onto cold concrete.
Even if I landed in one piece, the place is crawling with security.
And the beach—God, I’d never make it past the sand before they dragged me back.
I sip my vodka, pretending to mingle as my eyes sweep the room, but I feel the guards’ eyes tracking me. They’ve been told I’m a liability. I know it.
Think, Reese. Think.
I rake through memories of this house, every corner where I used to disappear when the charade got too heavy. The library. The sitting room. And then—my heart kicks. The study.
A tiny little room tucked at the back of the east wing, where I’d curl up with a book when the parties became too much, when the whispers and the stares cut deeper than the champagne bubbles ever soothed. A forgotten corner of the house.
And the balcony—no, not even a balcony. A Juliet, barely wide enough to stand on, with its delicate wrought-iron railing. But the drop is nothing. Six feet, maybe. Easy.
If I could just slip out that window, I could climb into the neighbor’s yard, vanish before anyone noticed. It’s not a plan. It’s a prayer. But it’s all I have.
I set my untouched glass on a passing tray and move through the throng, head held high as if I belong here, as if my skin isn’t crawling and my heart isn’t screaming.
Because if Vander was right, if betrayal is unforgivable to a man like him, then staying means death. Whether immediate or in tiny incremental doses, I can’t be sure.
The study is exactly as I remember it—tucked away at the far end of the hall, quiet as a mausoleum while the party hums behind me. My heart hammers as I ease inside.
The balcony doors gleam in the moonlight. My fingers fumble at the handle.
It turns. The door swings open a few inches, and the night air rushes against my face.
“Thank God.” The whisper rips out of me. Salvation. Six feet, maybe. I can do it. I can?—
“Ma’am.”
I freeze.
The voice is low, polished, and when I turn, it’s not one of Vander’s faceless guards. It’s Whitaker, the house steward—stern, silver-haired, immaculate in his dark suit. He’s watched me pour champagne at charity events, handed me coats at galas. I’ve known him for years.
Whitaker isn’t just staff. He’s lived within these walls since childhood, his father before him serving in the same position. His loyalty is resolute, not to Vander, not even to Mrs. Hale, but to the Hale name itself. To the legacy.
“What are you doing?” His words are calm, but his eyes pin me in place.
I force a trembling laugh. “I just wanted some air.”
Whitaker shuts the door with a quiet click, hand lingering on the handle. “That’s not for you, ma’am.”
But I press on, desperation lining the edges of my voice. “You know what he does to me. Don’t pretend you don’t.” I tug my sleeve up, revealing the edge of a bruise. “Do you want to see? Because I’ll show you every mark.”
His expression doesn’t change. Years of service have carved him into marble.
“How do you live with yourself?” My voice splinters under the strain. “Do you have a wife? Children?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then I hope you treat your wife better than he treats me.”
The silence stretches.
I press a hand to my stomach, desperate. “Can’t you help me? Please. You’ve known me for years. If you do nothing, then you might as well be planning my funeral, because you’ll probably be one of the last people to see me alive.”
Something alights in his eyes. Not pity. Not sympathy. Calculation. But it’s enough to tell me I’ve planted a seed.
I brush past him, my head high though my insides are trembling. “You can at least tell my parents where to send the flowers.”
He doesn’t answer. But his gaze follows me all the way out of the study, heavy and unreadable.
I force a few bites of food, washing them down with a sharp sip of vodka. The alcohol burns, but I welcome it. If he beats me later, maybe I’ll be too numb to feel it.
I keep to myself, head down, but they find me anyway. Women in couture gowns, lacquered smiles that cut sharper than glass—the wives of Vander’s colleagues, the hedge fund sharks and real estate kings he runs with.
One of them leans close, her perfume choking the air. “I heard you had quite the scandal. A prostitute, was it?”
Anger flares hot in my chest. “Griffin is not a prostitute. He’s a wonderful man, and we made love. For the first time, it meant something.”
Her smirk widens. “Only because you paid him to care.”
My teeth clench as a spike of anger flares inside me. “I’ve never paid Griffin a dime.”
Another wife laughs, tapping her diamond against her glass. “Honestly, we all do it. Just don’t get caught. What were you thinking?”
Disgust burns on the back of my tongue at their blasé description of wedded bliss. “How do you live like this?”
The woman shrugs, casual. “They fuck who they want to fuck, we fuck who we want to fuck. Everyone stays happy.”
“That’s not love.”
Her laugh rings out again. “Who said anything about love?”
“A foreign concept, right?” Something inside me snaps. “I think I’m done with this party.”