Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Marie
Iwas winning.
Honey was sprawled across Wade's side of the bed, her head on his pillow, snoring softly. She'd commandeered his spot the second he left, and I'd laughed watching her settle in like she owned the place.
“Cutie,” I whispered, stroking her fur. Wade spoiled her almost as much as he spoiled me.
I clicked on a set of equipment for $1,100 and added it to the cart. That brought me to $9,347.
"Just need six hundred and fifty-three more dollars," I muttered to Honey, who cracked one eye open at my voice before going back to sleep. "What else is pink and expensive?”
The sun was bright through the windows, and I could already see the pink kayak in my mind, imagining taking Wade out on the water and teaching him how to paddle.
He was my daddy. My daddy, who'd given me everything, who made me feel safe, who looked at me like I was the most precious thing in his world.
I clicked on a mini doggy pool slide for $425. Why not?
$9,772.
I needed $228 more, and I'd win. I'd get to paint Wade's masculine bedroom whatever shade of pink I wanted, and he'd let me because he'd promised. Because he loved seeing me happy more than he cared about his own aesthetic preferences.
God, I loved him.
His laptop chimed sharply, nothing like the normal notification sounds.
A banner appeared at the top: PRIORITY EMAIL - PRIVATE ACCOUNT
Subject line: For Rivers.
My hand froze on the trackpad.
Rivers was my last name. Someone sent an email to Wade Easton's private email account, addressed specifically to me. Every instinct I had screamed not to open it.
But my finger was already moving. Clicking. Watching the email expand before I could think better of it.
Three images loaded slowly, one after another.
The first was a grainy security camera angle looking down at a desk. At me. I was wearing that polyester uniform I'd burned in my nightmares a thousand times in The Sanctuary's administrative ‘office.’
My stomach dropped.
The second image appeared. It was me trying to walk past someone in a hallway, whose face was blurred but whose build I'd recognize in my sleep. The timestamp said three years ago.
The third image loaded, and my vision tunneled.
It was Castellanos's office. His desk. Me—
I slammed the laptop shut, my breath coming in sharp gasps that wouldn't slow down. Honey jerked awake with a startled bark, scrambling upright with worried eyes.
I took a deep breath and reopened the lid, but the screen went black—it locked.
No. No, I needed to see the rest. I needed to know what else the email said.
My hands were shaking so badly I could barely type, but I forced my fingers to enter Wade's password, the one he’d openly typed in front of me a few different times.
The laptop unlocked, and the email was still there, those three images mocking me, and below them, text:
These are samples. I have complete footage from every camera, every room, every moment of your five years. Hours you didn't know were being recorded.
If you don't want Wade Easton to see what was done to you, what you did to survive, come to the address below. Alone. In one hour.
This email will be deleted in 180 seconds. Tell anyone, bring anyone, and I will send everything to him. Every photograph, every video, every moment.
An address followed. It was inland, near where The Sanctuary had been.
And there was the timer at the bottom: 2:03... 2:02... 2:01...
I stared at the screen, at those three images that represented hours of footage I'd never known existed. Security cameras had recorded things I could barely survive experiencing once, let alone have documented forever.
Wade couldn't see this. That was the only clear thought in my head. He couldn't see me like that—broken and used and doing things I'd had to do just to survive another day.
He looked at me as if I were perfect. Like I was his good girl, his darling, something clean and whole. If he saw these videos, everything would change. He'd see me differently. He would know things about what happened to me that I could never explain, could never make okay.
He would see the shame I’d worked so hard to hide.
And worse, I didn't want him to carry those images. I didn't want them in his head forever, poisoning what we had.
The email was from a Minister Moreau's account.
One hour. Come alone. Or Wade sees everything.
I closed the laptop and stood on legs that didn't feel entirely connected to my body. Honey whined, pressing against my legs, sensing something wrong.
I went to the closet and pulled out clothes. Jeans, long and covering. A sweater with sleeves that went past my wrists. Socks, sneakers I could run in. Everything covered as much skin as possible, protecting me, making me feel less exposed.
My small tote bag sat on the shelf and I dumped it out, leaving everything except for my old wallet, then went downstairs.
The house was quiet, most staff dismissed during the day. The kitchen was empty, too.
I stared at the knife block for a moment. My hands were still shaking, but I pulled one out anyway. It was substantial, sharp enough that I'd watched the chef slice through raw meat easily. I'd gutted fish growing up, knew how to clean conch, and spear lionfish. I knew where to cut.
Not to hurt anyone, but just in case. Just to have something.
I wrapped the blade in a kitchen towel and tucked it into my bag.
Honey followed me to the side door, whining louder now. I knelt down and wrapped my arms around her neck, burying my face in her fur.
"Daddy will take care of you," I whispered, my voice breaking. "He loves us so much. Be good for him, okay?"
She licked my face, whining, and I had to force myself to let go. To stand up and leave before I lost my nerve entirely.
I went out the side entrance parallel to the beach. The garden path was sunny and completely wrong for what I was about to do. Each step away from the estate hurt physically, as if I were tearing out all the healed parts of me.
The shore stretched to the side of me, white sand and blue water, memories of the island, of my parents teaching me to swim, of feeling safe and free floating through me.
The exterior side gate loomed ahead, locked. It was one of the security measures Wade had around—keeping the private beach actually private.
I stared at the keypad, panic rising. I didn't know the code, though I could probably find some way around it. But I did know Wade's laptop password.
I punched in the numbers, and the gate began swinging open.
My heart squeezed in my chest at that small proof of his trust. Even his security codes were designed to let me in, to give me access, to ensure I was never locked out of anything he had.
And I was using that trust to leave him. To walk into something dangerous without telling him.
I kept telling myself it was to protect him. To keep him from seeing those videos, to make sure the man I love never has to carry those images in his head.
I hurried through the gate and followed the shoreline. The address was inland, and I had to get to the main streets.
Forty-five minutes left.
I’d handle this myself and face whatever waited at that address alone, and Wade would never see those photos.
I kept the knife pressed against my side through the bag, mostly just to feel slightly less defenseless, and kept walking, leaving the estate behind.
Not because I was brave, but because I was terrified of something worse than danger. I was terrified of Wade seeing those videos and looking at me differently forever.
So I walked toward whatever the minister, whoever sent that email, had waiting.
And I told myself I was protecting the man I loved, even if I was scared, even if every step felt wrong, even if leaving Wade was the hardest thing I'd ever done.
The taxi I’d flagged down didn't ask questions. It just picked me up from the side road where Wade's property ended and the public roads began, and plugged in the address I'd given him.
Twenty-three minutes. That's what the GPS said. Twenty-three minutes inland to wherever that email had told me to go.
I stared out the window as the scenery changed—open beaches and resort properties giving way to more rural areas, smaller homes, dense vegetation. The inland roads where locals lived and worked, away from the glossy island image.
My heart wouldn't slow down. It pounded hard enough that I could feel it in my throat, against my ribs. Anxiety twisted through my stomach, making my hands tremble where they gripped my bag.
This should have sent me into full panic mode. It should have made me tell the driver to turn around, to take me back to Wade, to safety. But I kept breathing through it, kept focusing on why I was doing this.
Wade wouldn’t see those videos. That was the only thing that mattered.
I thought about Honey curled up on his pillow, waiting for him to come back. Thought about Wade handling business, completely unaware that I was doing this.
He was my daddy, the man who'd given me everything. Who looked at me like I was his treasure. Who'd spent time helping me heal, helping me feel safe enough to be strong again.
I was protecting him. That's what this was, with each mile taking me further from safety.
"Here," the driver said finally, pulling up to a small, flat building along a quiet road.
It was old, traditional island construction with stone walls and corrugated metal roofing that would sound nice in the rain. But there was nothing nice about this place. It sat isolated, surrounded by overgrown vegetation, windows dark and unwelcoming.
"You sure this is right?" the driver asked, clearly uncertain about leaving me here.
"Yes. Thank you." I got out before he could ask more questions, before I could change my mind.
The car pulled away, leaving me standing alone on the cracked pavement, staring at this building that looked abandoned except for the hole where the front door should have been