Chapter 15 #2
I want to scream. To rage. To flip his desk, shatter that crystal decanter, and demand that he see me as something more than a pawn.
But I don't. Because I know it would do no good. His mind is made up. My fate is sealed.
"May I go?" My voice barely rises above a whisper.
He nods. Turns back to the window, dismissing me. "Yes."
I stand on shaky legs, willing them to carry me to the door. To not collapse. To maintain this facade of composure for just a few more seconds.
"And Viv?"
I stop. Don't turn around. Can't bear to see his face. "Yes?"
"I think it's best to limit your outside communications for a while. Focus on the wedding preparations." A pause. "Marcus will accompany you if you need to leave the house."
The last shred of freedom, snipped away. Clean. Surgical. Final.
"Yes, Father." The words come out woodenly. Mechanical. "Of course."
I reach for the door handle—brass, cool under my palm.
"I do love you, Viv." His voice is soft. Almost pained. "Everything I do is to protect you."
My hand freezes on the handle. There's something in his tone—raw, haunted. Like he's carrying a weight I can't see.
"There are worse prisons than the ones you know about." So quiet I almost miss it. "Worse sacrifices than the ones you've been asked to make. I've built walls to keep you safe, even knowing you'd hate me for them."
A chill runs down my spine. The way he says it—walls—like he's talking about something more than metaphor. More than the locked doors and surveillance cameras.
"Sometimes love looks like cruelty." His voice drops further. "Sometimes the only way to keep someone alive is to let them believe you're the monster."
I want to turn around. To ask what he means. But something stops me—some instinct that knows if I look at his face right now, I'll see something I'm not ready to understand. That he's protecting me instead of protecting his secrets.
Without a word, I slip into the hallway. Pull the door closed behind me.
Back in my room, I curl up on the window seat, forehead pressed against the cool glass. The gardens spread below, perfectly manicured. The roses are beginning to bloom, their petals unfurling in the warm spring air. They'll be at their peak in three months.
Just in time for my wedding.
Unless Paul gets my message.
Unless he comes.
Unless this isn't all a lie.
I close my eyes, but that makes the tears come faster. Hot. Silent. Useless.
The weight of secrets and lies presses down, threatening to crush me. But beneath it all—buried deep—a spark of defiance still burns.
I am Vivianne Faulks. And I will not go quietly into the cage they've built for me. I have to believe that. Have to cling to it. Because if I let go, there's nothing left.
I will find a way out.
I have to.
The alternative is unthinkable.
The rumble of engines pulls me from my thoughts. I lift my head, peer down at the driveway where a convoy of black SUVs winds up toward the house. Three. Four. Five of them. Their tinted windows reflect the last rays of sunset, turning them into moving mirrors.
My stomach drops.
They stop in front of the main entrance. Doors open in synchronized precision. Men in dark suits emerge—tall, broad-shouldered, moving with the coordinated efficiency of soldiers.
Or guards.
My door swings open without warning. No knock. No courtesy.
Marcus fills the doorway. "Miss Faulks. Your father requests your presence in the main hall. Immediately."
Two summons in one day. My mouth goes dry. "What's happening?"
He doesn't answer. Just waits, immovable, until I stand and follow.
The stairs feel steeper than usual. Each step takes effort, like walking through water. Through the windows, more men circle the house, speaking into radios, pointing at corners, doors, and windows.
Father stands in the center of the foyer, surrounded by the men from the SUVs. Their faces are blank. Professional. But there's an undercurrent of tension in their postures, in the way they scan the space with trained eyes.
Assessing. Cataloging. Planning.
Father's gaze locks onto mine as I descend the last few stairs. "Ah, Viv. Good. Some changes are being implemented. For your safety."
Safety. The word tastes like a lie.
One of the men steps forward. He's older than the others, maybe fifty, with silver at his temples and eyes that miss nothing. "Miss Faulks. Donovan Price. We'll be upgrading the security measures around the estate. I'll need your cooperation to ensure everything runs smoothly."
"I don't understand." I look between him and Father. "What's going on?"
"Just a precaution, my dear. With the wedding approaching, we can't be too careful." Father's smile is tight. Doesn't reach his eyes.
"We'll be installing additional surveillance cameras." Donovan's voice is flat. Informative. Like he's discussing the weather. "Inside and outside the house. There will also be a rotating security detail on the grounds. Twenty-four seven."
The implications hit like a fist to the gut.
Cameras. Inside the house. In the hallways. Watching. Recording.
Twenty-four-seven security detail. Guards. Barriers. No way in or out without being seen.
They're not protecting me.
They're containing me.
I open my mouth to protest, but Father's eyes narrow. A warning. Clear and unmistakable.
My words die in my throat.
"Thank you, Donovan." Father's voice is smooth. Pleasant. "My daughter will provide any assistance you need. Won't you, dear?"
Not a question. Never a question.
I nod. The movement feels disconnected from my body, like I'm watching someone else surrender.
"Excellent." Donovan gestures to his men. They disperse throughout the house like water finding cracks—methodical, thorough, unstoppable.
The sounds start immediately. The whir of drills. The click of locks being changed. The mechanical hum of cameras being mounted and adjusted.
Each sound is another nail in my coffin.
Father dismisses me with a wave. I retreat to my room on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.
The men work through the night. From my window, they circle the grounds, installing motion sensors and cameras. Bright work lights flood the gardens, turning everything stark and shadowless.
I sink onto my bed, pulling a pillow to my chest. The tears want to come, but I blink them back. Crying won't help. Won't change anything.
I need a plan. A way to reach Paul before it's too late.
But as the camera's red light blinks its steady rhythm—watching, recording, reporting—I wonder if I haven't already lost.
The wedding looms. Three months away. Getting closer with each tick of the clock.
I'm running out of time.