Chapter 2

I sat in the sterile, brightly lit terminal of the Ocean City International Airport, staring at the glowing screen of my phone.

Thirty-two missed calls.

All from Matthew.

I didn't need to be psychic to know exactly what was happening across town.

My husband, his resurrected ex-wife, and the son I had raised had finally returned to our house after their luxurious three-day stay at the Plaza Hotel.

Matthew had probably walked through the front door expecting the usual: me, weeping on the sofa, desperate for his attention, begging him to explain why he had abandoned me at my mother's funeral.

Instead, he had walked into a cold, dark, and utterly empty house.

I had packed a single suitcase and left my diamond wedding ring on the cold marble of the kitchen island, right next to the framed photograph of my mother.

A new voicemail popped up on my screen.

"Beatrice, where the hell are you?" Matthew's voice hissed through the speaker. "I come home exhausted, and the house is pitch black? Elara is a guest in this house, and Ethan is hungry. Did you really think throwing a pathetic tantrum and hiding at a friend's house would make me feel sorry for you? You think I'm going to chase you? You're my wife, Beatrice. You belong in this house, serving this family. Get over your little pity party and get your ass home now, or I swear to God, I will make you regret it."

I deleted the message.

I looked down at the boarding pass clutched in my trembling hand.

A one-way ticket to Europe.

It was the furthest place I could think of, a desperate attempt to put an ocean between myself and the suffocating memories of my mother's agonizing death.

I had no family left.

I closed my eyes, taking a deep, shaky breath.

The terminal announcements echoed overhead, calling my flight. It was time.

I stood up, gripping the handle of my suitcase.

"Ticket and passport, please," the gate agent said.

I handed them over, my heart fluttering with a fragile, newborn hope. I was almost free.

But the agent's smile faltered as she scanned my boarding pass. The machine beeped a harsh, angry red. She frowned, typing rapidly on her keyboard.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," she said, her voice tight. "There seems to be an issue with your clearance. Please step aside."

"An issue?" Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in my chest. "That's impossible. I bought the ticket an hour ago. Everything is in order."

"Ma'am, please step out of the line," she repeated, gesturing to a pair of security officers approaching the desk.

Before I could even open my mouth to argue, two massive shadows fell over me. They weren't airport security. They were two large men in black suits, their faces carved from stone, their eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.

"Beatrice Thorne?" the taller one asked.

"Vance," I corrected instinctively, my voice trembling. "My name is Beatrice Vance. What do you want?"

"You need to come with us."

Without waiting for my consent, the man seized my left arm. His grip was like a steel vise, bruising my flesh instantly.

The second man grabbed my right arm, effectively lifting me off my feet.

"Hey! Let go of me!" I screamed, thrashing wildly against their hold. "Help! Somebody help me!"

I looked around frantically, but the gate agent had looked away, and the other passengers were suddenly very interested in their shoes or their phones.

My suitcase tipped over, spilling nothing but shadows as they hauled me backward.

"Help me! Please!" I begged a passing businessman, but he just lowered his head and hurried his pace.

They ignored my screams completely. They dragged me through a side exit, down a sterile concrete hallway, and pushed me out into the humid night air.

A sleek, tinted black SUV was idling at the curb.

The back door swung open. I fought with every ounce of strength I possessed, clawing at their hands, but I was no match for them. They shoved me brutally into the backseat.

My head slammed against the leather interior, a burst of white-hot pain exploding behind my eyes.

The doors locked with a heavy, final click.

The exhaustion of the past three days—the grief, the funeral, the betrayal—crashed over me.

The last thing I felt was the SUV speeding away into the night before the darkness swallowed me whole.

I woke up groggy, my head pounding with a sickening, rhythmic ache.

Before my eyes could even adjust to the light, a vicious, stinging slap cracked across my cheek.

The force of the blow snapped my head to the side.

My cheek burned like it had been branded with a hot iron.

I gasped, fully awake now, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I looked up, trembling, my eyes wide with terror.

Standing over me, his chest heaving, was Matthew.

His tie was loosened, his hair disheveled, and his eyes were blazing with a furious, bloodshot rage I had never seen before.

He leaned down, grabbing a fistful of my hair and yanking my head back until I was forced to look directly into his wrathful eyes.

"Did you really think," he hissed, "that you could just run away from me?"