Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Vaughn
The call comes while I'm in a meeting with my CFO.
My phone vibrates on the conference table.
Callum's name on the screen.
He never calls during business hours unless it's an emergency.
I excuse myself and step into the hallway, answering on the second ring.
"Sir." His voice is tight. "We have a situation."
My blood goes cold.
Every nerve in my body goes on alert. "What situation?"
"Eden's gone."
The world stops.
Everything—the hallway, the fluorescent lights, the muffled voices from the conference room—all of it fades to nothing.
"What do you mean, gone?"
"There was a furniture delivery. I was supervising the placement in the west wing.
The front door was propped open for the movers.
She—" He pauses. I can hear him breathing.
"She slipped past while I was signing the delivery paperwork.
Ran into the woods on the northwest side.
I've got men searching the immediate perimeter, but—"
"How long?" My voice doesn't sound like my own.
Too calm. Too cold. Like ice over a volcano.
"Thirty-seven minutes, sir. I called you immediately after securing the property and initiating search protocols."
Thirty-seven minutes.
She's been running for thirty-seven minutes while I sat in a fucking conference room discussing quarterly revenue projections and market expansion strategies.
While I smiled and nodded and pretended to care about numbers on a spreadsheet.
While Eden was running through the woods, alone, terrified, and desperate enough to risk everything just to get away from me.
"Get the dogs," I say. My hand tightens around the phone. "Now. Immediately. And pull every security camera feed within a five-mile radius. Traffic cams, business security systems, residential doorbells, everything. I want to know which direction she went and how far she could have gotten."
"Already on it, sir. I contacted the K-9 unit as soon as I realized she was gone. They'll be on site in fifteen minutes. And I've got my tech team pulling camera feeds now. But sir—"
"What?"
"It's going to be cold tonight. Really cold. The forecast is calling for temperatures in the low thirties. Maybe a hard frost. She's in jeans and a sweater. No coat. No supplies that we could see."
The words hit me hard.
Freezing. She's going to be out there in freezing temperatures.
And it's my fault.
My pushing. My manipulation.
"I'm on my way," I say. "Twenty minutes."
"Sir, should I contact—"
"No. No one else. This is between her and me. Keep the search teams active, but I'm handling the retrieval personally."
"Understood."
I hang up.
Stand there in the hallway, phone in my hand, trying to process what just happened.
Trying to breathe through the rage that's threatening to consume me completely.
Eden ran.
She actually ran.
After this morning.
After she looked me in the eye and said yes.
After she admitted she wanted more, that she was ready, that she'd come to my room tonight and let me show her what else her body could do.
After everything.
She ran.
The rage hits me like a tidal wave.
Hot and vicious and utterly consuming.
It fills my chest, my throat, my head until I can't think about anything except finding her and dragging her back and making her understand exactly what she's done.
She's mine.
I bought her.
Paid two million dollars for her.
I've been patient with her—so fucking patient.
Careful.
Giving her choices, giving her space, doing everything right.
Everything the books said to do.
Everything Dr. Caldwell recommended.
And she fucking ran.
Like I'm nothing.
Like the past ten days meant nothing.
Like what I showed her, what I gave her, what I offered her—none of it mattered enough to make her stay.
I want to put my fist through the wall.
Want to find her and drag her back and show her exactly what happens when someone tries to escape from Vaughn Sutherland.
Want to make her understand that running from me was the biggest mistake of her life.
But underneath the rage, buried deep but undeniable, is something else.
Fear.
Cold, sharp, paralyzing fear.
Because she's out there. Alone.
With no money, no phone, no resources.
And it's going to freeze tonight.
She could die.
Could get hypothermia.
Could fall and hurt herself and lie there unable to get help.
Could get lost in the woods and never find her way out.
Could die hating me.
The thought makes my chest so tight I can barely breathe.
No.
I force myself to breathe.
To think. To focus.
Rage won't help me find her.
Fear won't bring her back.
Emotion won't solve anything.
I need to be cold.
Calculating. Strategic.
I need to hunt.
I head back into the conference room.
My CFO looks up, concern written all over his face. "Everything all right?"
"Emergency," I say shortly. "We'll need to reschedule."
"Is it something I can help with? Because if the Singapore deal—"
"It's personal. And it's handled."
I'm out of the building in five minutes.
In my car in eight.
On the highway toward the estate in ten, pushing the Range Rover well above the speed limit, my mind racing even faster than the engine.
Why did she run?
The question circles in my head like a vulture.
This morning, she said yes.
Looked me in the eye and admitted she wanted more.
Agreed to come to my room tonight.
She was nervous, yes.
Conflicted, absolutely. But she'd made the decision.
What changed between breakfast and three in the afternoon?
Something must have happened.
Something that scared her enough to make her risk running with no money, no phone, no plan, no resources whatsoever.
Something that made staying with me scarier than freezing to death in the woods.
What did she find out?
The question nags at me as I weave through traffic, as the city gives way to suburbs, then gives way to the rural roads leading to my estate.
Eden isn't impulsive.
She's been careful, strategic, observing, and planning every move even when she's been terrified.
Even at the auction, even that first night when she tried the front door, she's always thought things through.
She wouldn't run without a reason.
A good reason.
A reason strong enough to override her fear of the unknown, her lack of resources, and her complete vulnerability.
What the fuck did she find?
My phone rings.
Callum again.
I answer via Bluetooth. "Talk to me."
"Dogs are on site and they've picked up her trail.
Heading northwest through the woods behind the estate.
She's on foot, moving fast initially but the pace seems to be slowing.
No signs she had any supplies or that this was premeditated.
No money missing from the household accounts. This was spontaneous."
Northwest. Deeper into the forest, away from roads, away from any chance of flagging down help.
Exactly the wrong direction if she's trying to reach civilization.
But exactly the right direction if she's just trying to get as far away from me as possible.
"Weather update?" I ask, though I already know it won't be good.
"Temperature's dropping faster than the forecast predicted. Currently forty-one degrees and falling. The projection is thirty-two degrees by midnight. Possible hard frost. If she's out there all night in just a sweater—" He doesn't finish the sentence.
He doesn't have to.
Hypothermia. Exposure. Death.
The fear sharpens into something that feels like a blade between my ribs.
She's out there in jeans and a cashmere sweater, running through the woods, and it's going to freeze tonight.
She could die.
The rage shifts, transforms into something colder and infinitely more dangerous.
Focused rage.
Purposeful rage.
Rage with a target.
"Keep the dogs on her trail," I say, my voice deadly calm now. "I'll be there in eight minutes. Have my field gear ready—cold weather clothing, first aid kit, thermal blankets, water, emergency supplies. Everything."
"Sir, the search teams can handle—"
"No. I'm going after her myself."
"Sir, protocol suggests that we let the professionals—"
"I don't give a fuck about protocol, Callum. She's mine. This is my responsibility. My failure. And I'm the one who's going to find her and bring her back."
"Understood, sir. Your gear will be ready."
I hang up and push the accelerator harder.
Eight minutes.
I can cut that to six if I ignore every traffic law between here and there.
I ignore them all.
The estate is in complete chaos when I screech to a stop in the circular drive.
Callum has positioned men at every possible exit point from the property.
Dogs and handlers are clustered near the tree line where Eden entered the woods.
Security feeds are pulled up on laptops that have been hastily set up in my office.
I stride inside.
Callum falls into step beside me.
"Show me," I say.
He leads me to my office.
Three laptops are open on my desk, each showing different camera angles.
He pulls up the perimeter camera feed from a little after four, and clicks play.
There—a figure in cream-colored cashmere, running across the drive with surprising speed, glancing back once before disappearing into the tree line.
Eden.
My Eden.
Running from me like I'm the monster she's always feared I might be.
I watch it loop three times.
Study every detail.
The fear on her face during that backward glance.
The determination in her stride.
The complete lack of hesitation.
She wasn't running on impulse.
She was running like she'd already made peace with the consequences.
"Dogs tracked her northwest for approximately two and a quarter miles," Callum reports, his voice carefully neutral. "Trail goes cold at Boulder Creek. She either followed the water to break the scent or crossed and continued on the other side. We have teams searching both directions now."
Smart girl. Using the water to confuse the dogs.
I taught her too well.
Gave her too many books about survival, too much information, too much access to knowledge she could use against me.