Chapter 2

The spark ignited. It burned through the fog of resignation that had settled over me, a fierce, cleansing fire. *Choose yourself.* My grandmother's words were a command, a permission slip I never knew I needed. But how? The wedding was in less than an hour. The machine was in motion, and I was just a cog, expected to turn when prompted.

My eyes scanned the suite, feeling trapped. The lilies on the mantelpiece seemed to mock me with their funereal purity. The white dress in the mirror was a beautiful shroud. I needed proof. I needed a reason so undeniable that it would shatter any lingering doubt, any shred of guilt about what I was contemplating.

And then I remembered.

The baby monitor.

Last week, Isabelle had brought her little boy, Leo, over to my apartment while she ran errands. He'd been recovering from a cold, and I'd set up the old monitor so I could hear him if he woke up from his nap in the spare room. In the rush of wedding preparations, I'd forgotten all about it. I had tossed the parent unit into my overnight bag, but the other unit, the transmitter, was still plugged in, tucked behind a photo frame on the mantelpiece in the adjoining sitting room where my mother, Mark, and Isabelle were now gathered.

My breath hitched. It was a crazy, desperate long shot.

My movements were furtive, quiet. I crept to my bag, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. My fingers closed around the cool plastic of the receiver. I switched it on, the static hissing to life. I turned the volume down to a bare whisper, pressing the speaker to my ear.

The static crackled, then cleared. A voice filtered through, distorted but clear. My mother's.

"...absolutely sure the dose is right, Mark? I don't want her catatonic, just... manageable. Like we discussed."

The air left my lungs in a painful rush. *Dose?*

Mark's voice, tight with irritation. "Of course it's right. It's a mild sedative. The doctor said it's perfectly safe. It will just take the edge off her hysterics. We'll put it in her pre-ceremony champagne. She'll think it's just the bubbles making her feel floaty. By the time the reception starts, she'll be sleepy, and we can just tuck her into bed."

*Hysterics. Sedative. Tuck her into bed.* The words were clinical, cold, utterly monstrous. They were talking about me. They were planning to drug me on my wedding day.

Isabelle's voice, laced with excitement, cut in. "And the cake? Did you confirm with the caterer? The 'Happy Birthday Leo' banner is hidden behind the floral arrangement on the main stage, right?"

"Everything is handled, Izzy," Mark sighed, the sound weary. "The moment we announce Clara has been 'overcome with emotion' and has retired for the evening, the staff will switch everything over. Her boring wedding reception becomes your son's spectacular fifth birthday party. Two events for the price of one. It's efficient."

Efficient.

The word slammed into me with the force of a physical blow. My life, my love, my marriage-it was all just an inconvenient transaction to be managed with ruthless efficiency. They weren't just looking past me; they were actively plotting to erase me from my own celebration. The calculated cruelty of it, the sheer, breathtaking arrogance, shattered the last vestiges of the compliant, fragile Clara they thought they knew.

A white-hot rage, pure and undiluted, surged through my veins. It was an alien feeling, powerful and terrifyingly clean. For years, my emotions had been a tangled mess of anxiety and self-doubt. This was different. This was clarity.

My gaze locked on a tall, crystal vase of lilies on a side table. Without a second thought, my hand shot out, sweeping it to the floor.

The crash was explosive, a satisfying symphony of destruction. Crystal shattered against the marble floor. Water and flowers sprayed across the expensive rug. It was the most decisive, honest thing I had done all day.

I heard shouted questions from the next room, the sound of chairs scraping back. The diversion. I had seconds.

Adrenaline was a fire in my blood. I ripped the heavy veil from my hair, the pins tearing at the intricate updo. I grabbed my grandmother's box, the smooth wood a solid reality in my shaking hands. The business card was my North Star.

My dress was a prison. I couldn't run in it. My eyes darted to the simple leggings and camisole I'd worn to the hotel that morning, discarded on a chair. Over them, I pulled on the silk robe I'd been wearing earlier. It was flimsy, inadequate, but it was freedom.

My phone lay on the vanity, a sleek black rectangle of connections and obligations. I left it. I was severing everything. My purse, my shoes, my identity as Clara Davenport-to-be. All of it, gone.

The door to the suite would be blocked. They were coming. I spun around, spotting a narrow door I hadn't noticed before, half-hidden by a drapery. A service exit.

I wrenched it open. It led to a dim, narrow hallway that smelled of dust and industrial cleaner. The concrete was cold and rough beneath my bare feet. I didn't look back. I ran.

The service elevator was blessedly empty. It descended with a low hum, carrying me away from the gilded cage on the penthouse floor. The ride felt like an eternity. Every floor we passed, I expected the doors to open, to see Mark's furious face. But they didn't.

The elevator opened into the hotel's bustling, cavernous lobby. For a moment, I froze. I was a spectacle: a disheveled woman in a silk robe and leggings, her hair a mess, her feet bare, clutching a small wooden box to her chest. People stared. Bellhops paused. A woman in a Chanel suit raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

I didn't care. I pushed through the revolving doors and out into the cool, damp air of Veridia. The sounds of the city-traffic, sirens, the chatter of a hundred conversations-hit me all at once. Rain had begun to fall, a fine, misty drizzle that clung to my hair and robe. I hailed the first taxi I saw, the yellow car a beacon of escape.

"Where to, lady?" the driver asked, his eyes finding me in the rearview mirror, his expression a mixture of curiosity and concern.

I looked down at the business card I was still clutching in my hand. The silver letters seemed to glow in the dim light of the cab.

"Thorne Industries," I said, my voice hoarse but steady. "As fast as you can."

The drive was a blur of rain-streaked windows and traffic lights. I paid the driver with the emergency hundred-dollar bill my grandmother had insisted I always keep, tucked into the lining of the cedar box.

Thorne Industries was not a building; it was a statement. A sleek, black glass monolith that pierced the grey Veridia sky, scraping against the clouds. It radiated power and intimidation. For a moment, my courage wavered. What was I doing? This was insane.

But the memory of my mother's voice, of Mark's casual cruelty, propelled me forward. I had nothing left to lose.

The lobby was a cathedral of marble and steel, hushed and cold. A severe-looking receptionist with a sharp black bob looked up as I approached, her eyes widening in disbelief at my appearance.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her voice dripping with disapproval.

"I'm here to see Julian Thorne," I said, my chin held high.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No," I said. "But it's an emergency."

"Mr. Thorne does not take unscheduled appointments," she said, her tone final. She was already reaching for the phone, likely to call security.

I wasn't going to be stopped. Not now. I saw a bank of elevators behind her, one with its doors just beginning to close. I ran.

"Ma'am, you can't go up there!" she shouted, her voice echoing in the cavernous space.

I slipped through the closing doors just in time. I scanned the buttons, my eyes landing on the highest one, marked with a simple, elegant 'P' for Penthouse. I pressed it.

The elevator ascended in unnerving silence, my reflection a ghostly, wild-eyed apparition in the polished steel walls. When the doors opened, they did so onto a spacious, minimalist reception area. A young man, a personal assistant perhaps, sat at a large desk. He looked up, startled, as I stormed past him towards a set of imposing double doors.

"Excuse me! You can't go in there!" he yelped, jumping to his feet.

I ignored him. I pushed the heavy doors open and walked in.

The office was vast, with a panoramic view of the rain-swept city. Several men in dark, expensive suits were seated around a massive mahogany conference table. At the head of the table sat a man who could only be Julian Thorne.

He was even more intimidating than his building. He was tall and lean, dressed in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that seemed molded to his frame. His dark hair was cut short, ruthlessly neat. His face was all sharp angles and severe lines, his expression a mask of cold, controlled power. He didn't look surprised or angry. He simply looked... interested.

All conversation stopped. Every eye in the room was on me. The silence was absolute.

I walked straight to the head of the table, my bare feet silent on the plush, dark carpet. My hand was steady as I slapped my grandmother's business card down on the polished mahogany surface in front of him. The sound was a sharp crack in the silent room.

His eyes, the color of storm clouds, lifted from the card and met mine. They were intelligent, calculating, and utterly unreadable.

"My grandmother called you an escape hatch," I said, my voice ringing with a clarity that surprised me. "I need to disappear, and I want to burn my old life to the ground."

Julian Thorne didn't move. He didn't speak. He just watched me, his gaze intense, as if he were peeling back every layer of my desperation and rage to see the machinery working underneath. A long, charged moment passed. And then, the corner of his mouth twitched, the barest hint of a smile.