Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

THE RULES

WHITNEY

I learned a long time ago that there were three versions of Dwayne Martago.

There was the man the world knew.

That Dwayne Martago wore five-thousand-dollar suits, donated obscene amounts of money to children’s hospitals, shook hands with politicians, and smiled beside governors, senators, businessmen, and celebrities who would have crossed the street to avoid him if they knew what those hands had actually done.

He appeared in magazines.

Business journals called him disciplined.

Newspapers called him private.

Charity boards called him generous.

Men who knew better called him sir.

Then there was the man my mother loved.

That Dwayne sent white roses to her bedroom every Sunday morning because she had mentioned once—nearly thirty years ago—that they were her favorite.

He opened doors for her.

Pulled out her chair.

Kissed her forehead when he thought no one was watching.

He remembered anniversaries without needing an assistant to remind him. He bought her emeralds because she’d once stopped in front of a jewelry-store window and stared at a necklace for three seconds too long.

My mother could walk into his office in the middle of a meeting with dangerous men, lean over his shoulder, kiss his cheek, steal a sip of his whiskey, and leave laughing.

Nobody stopped her.

Nobody corrected her.

Nobody punished her.

Then there was my father.

Yes, all three men had the same face.

The same dark eyes.

The same expensive whiskey.

The same carefully controlled voice.

But they were not the same man.

My mother got flowers.

I got rules.

My mother could interrupt meetings.

I had to knock.

Wait.

Enter when summoned.

Stand in front of his desk.

Keep my hands still.

Keep my voice level.

Never question him in front of other people.

Never embarrass the family.

Never ask about anything I wasn’t supposed to know.

And call him sir.

I was twenty-six years old.

And I still called my father sir.

That probably told you everything you needed to know about my family.

Almost everything.

I stared at the numbers on my computer until they began blurring together.

Shipping invoices.

Storage reports.

Quarterly revenue.

Inventory transfers.

Property holdings.

Shell companies.

Companies owned by companies that were controlled by holding corporations registered to men who probably didn’t exist.

Normal family stuff.

At least if your last name was Martago.

My father liked keeping me close.

He called it teaching me the business.

I called it surveillance with a salary.

My office sat on the second floor of the Martago corporate building overlooking the eastern side of the island. Through the windows behind me, the ocean stretched beneath the late-afternoon sun, sparkling blue and deceptively peaceful.

Martago Island looked like paradise from a distance.

Private beaches.

White stone villas.

Palm trees.

Yachts.

Security gates discreet enough that tourists might mistake them for privacy instead of containment.

Beautiful things were very good at hiding ugly truths.

I looked back at my screen.

Something was wrong.

Three storage facilities had reported almost identical revenue for six consecutive months. Nothing unusual about that by itself.

Then one doubled.

Not gradually.

Not because of a new contract.

Not because of increased shipping.

It simply jumped.

I checked the corresponding manifests again.

No additional cargo.

No new clients.

No increase in employees.

No renovations.

No legitimate explanation for millions of dollars suddenly moving through a facility that, according to its own records, was doing exactly the same amount of business it had done before.

I leaned closer.

“Where the hell are you coming from?”

The numbers didn’t answer.

Numbers were usually more cooperative than people.

I opened another ledger.

Then another.

A company name repeated at the bottom of the transfer sheet.

VOLKOV INTERNATIONAL HOLDINGS.

I frowned.

I had seen it before.

Not often.

Just enough to bother me.

I clicked the name.

Restricted.

Interesting.

I tried another route.

Restricted again.

That was considerably more interesting.

My father had given me broad access to Martago financial systems because he wanted me to understand the legitimate businesses.

What he hadn’t realized was that telling me not to look at something practically guaranteed I would eventually look.

I opened an internal search program.

Typed the company name.

Pressed enter.

Nothing.

I tried Volkov.

The cursor spun.

A warning appeared.

ACCESS LEVEL INSUFFICIENT.

“Well, now you’re just being rude.”

I reached for the secondary keyboard beneath my desk.

I’d discovered my father’s private administrative pathway six months earlier.

I had never used it.

Technically.

Today seemed like an excellent day to redefine technically.

My office door flew open.

“I DID IT!”

I nearly fell out of my chair.

“Jesus Christ, Sierra!”

Sierra Martago came flying into my office like she’d personally discovered fire.

She clutched a thick white envelope against her chest and wore a smile large enough to power the island.

“They said yes!”

I pressed a hand against my chest.

“Who said yes?”

“Everybody.”

“That clears it up.”

She rolled her eyes.

I looked back at the computer.

The restricted screen was still open.

Good.

“What are you doing?”

“Working.”

“Obviously.”

“Then why ask?”

“Because you look like you’re hacking the Pentagon.”

“Please. Their security is probably better.”

“Whitney.”

“One second.”

“You always say one second.”

“Because people keep interrupting me when I’m doing things.”

“I am not people.”

I finally looked at her.

“What are you?”

She lifted her left hand.

The diamond on her finger caught the light.

“The bride.”

I groaned.

She grinned.

Sierra had been using that excuse for everything since Daniel proposed.

Couldn’t decide between chocolate and vanilla cake?

I’m the bride.

Wanted us to spend six hours comparing nearly identical shades of ivory flowers?

I’m the bride.

Made me try on seventeen dresses in one afternoon and then announced she liked the first one best?

Bride.

I loved her.

I also considered pushing her into the ocean at least twice a week.

“You have exactly thirty seconds before I return to whatever financial crime I’m probably accidentally auditing.”

Her smile disappeared.

“Financial crime?”

“Joke.”

“Was it?”

“No.”

She stared.

I sighed.

“Probably.”

“Whitney.”

“Sierra.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“Constantly.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Her eyes narrowed.

I smiled sweetly.

“Show me the envelope.”

That worked.

Sierra brightened instantly and dropped into the chair across from my desk.

She placed the envelope in front of me.

Then pushed it toward me with one finger.

I stared at it.

Then her.

Then the envelope again.

“What?”

“Open it.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s generally how envelopes work.”

“I don’t trust that smile.”

“Whitney.”

“Fine.”

I picked it up.

Heavy paper.

No writing.

No company seal.

I tore open the flap.

Three first-class airline tickets slid onto my desk.

I saw the destination.

LOS ANGELES.

And immediately thought of him.

Avery.

No.

I killed the thought before it could finish forming.

“What is this?”

Sierra clapped her hands.

“My bridal trip.”

I looked at the tickets again.

“Your what?”

“We’re going to Los Angeles.”

“No.”

Her smile faltered.

“Yes.”

“No. You’re going to Los Angeles.”

“We.”

“You.”

“We.”

“Sierra.”

“Whitney.”

I pushed the tickets toward her.

“I can’t.”

“You haven’t even heard the plan.”

“I saw the destination.”

“So?”

“So my answer is no.”

Her expression changed.

Not anger.

Hurt.

Damn it.

Sierra was technically my niece.

We didn’t use that word.

I was only a year older than her, and we’d grown up more like sisters than aunt and niece. Same schools. Same vacations. Same holidays. Same impossible family dinners where everyone smiled while pretending not to know where half the family’s money came from.

She was my best friend.

Which meant she knew exactly where to stab when she wanted something.

“You promised.”

“I promised what?”

“That you’d be there for everything.”

“I am.”

“You missed the dress fitting.”

“Dwayne had me working.”

“You missed the cake tasting.”

“Dwayne.”

“You almost missed my engagement dinner.”

“Again—”

“Dwayne.”

She folded her arms.

“Yes.”

I leaned back.

“So you understand.”

“No. I understand that you’re twenty-six years old and still act like you need permission to leave the island.”

My spine stiffened.

Because I did.

She simply didn’t understand why.

The skin beneath my blouse suddenly felt too tight.

Old scars had a strange way of remembering things the rest of you tried to forget.

Leather.

Pain.

A locked door.

My hands gripping the edge of a table.

A man’s voice ordering me not to move.

Dwayne standing nearby.

Watching.

My father had never beaten me.

Not with his own hands.

Technically.

He simply gave orders.

And men followed them.

That distinction probably helped him sleep.

It had never helped me.

“There’s nothing to explain.”

“Then come.”

“I have work.”

“Bring it.”

“I have meetings.”

“Cancel them.”

“My father—”

“Grandpa Dwayne doesn’t own you.”

A laugh escaped me.

Wrong response.

Sierra frowned.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Whitney.”

I looked toward the windows.

She lowered her voice.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

Too much.

“He’ll say no.”

“Then don’t ask.”

My head snapped toward her.

She shrugged.

“What?”

“Did you seriously just suggest I leave Martago Island without telling Dwayne?”

“Yes.”

“You really want to become a widow before the wedding?”

She laughed.

I didn’t.

Her laughter faded.

“Whitney.”

“I was kidding.”

“You don’t look like you’re kidding.”

“I have one of those faces.”

“No, you have a terrible lying face.”

I gathered the tickets.

“Take Cassy and Piper.”

“And you.”

“No.”

“And Aurora.”

I paused.

“Aurora’s going?”

“Yes.”

Of course she was.

Sierra had assembled the entire bridal crew.

“You’ll have fun without me.”

“I don’t want to have fun without you.”

My heart squeezed.

“Sierra.”

“Four days.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“Stop.”

“Why?”

“Because I said no.”

Her eyes flashed.

“You sound like Dwayne.”

That landed harder than she intended.

She saw it immediately.

“I’m sorry.”

I stood.

“It’s fine.”

“No. It wasn’t.”

“I have work.”

She remained seated.

Then she delivered the blow she’d clearly been saving.

“We’re staying at Avery’s.”

Everything inside me stopped.

Not slowed.

Stopped.

Sierra knew exactly what she’d done.

I turned around carefully.

“What?”

“Avery’s house.”

“I heard you.”

“He’s not there.”

“I don’t care.”

“Liar.”

“Careful.”

“He’s in Florence.”

“Wonderful.”

“For business.”

“Even better.”

“He won’t be back while we’re there.”

“Then maybe you should invite every woman in Los Angeles. Apparently they’ll have an empty mansion available.”

Sierra’s eyebrow rose.

Jealous.

I hated that eyebrow.

“I don’t care about your brother.”

“Liar.”

“Whatever.”

“He’s still family.”

“Unfortunately.”

“He asks about you.”

My heart betrayed me with one violent beat.

I turned toward my computer.

“No, he doesn’t.”

“He does.”

“What does he ask?”

Damn it.

Sierra smiled.

I hated her.

“I thought you didn’t care.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why ask?”

“I was making conversation.”

“Terribly.”

I glared at her.

She laughed.

“He asks how everyone is.”

“That isn’t asking about me.”

“He asks how everyone is in a very specific tone.”

“There’s a specific tone?”

“Yes.”

“You’re delusional.”

“Maybe.”

She stood.

“But he hasn’t brought a woman home in years.”

My eyes snapped toward her before I could stop them.

Her smile widened.

“Get out.”

“Whitney—”

“Out.”

“You love me.”

“Debatable.”

“You’re coming.”

“No.”

She walked around my desk and kissed my cheek.

“Think about it.”

“I won’t.”

“Love you.”

“Unfortunately, I love you too.”

She reached the door.

Stopped.

Turned.

“Oh, and Whitney?”

“What?”

Her expression softened.

“You deserve four days where nobody tells you what to do.”

Then she left.

The door clicked shut.

I stared after her.

She had no idea.

Nobody did.

Not even my mother.

Especially not my mother.

Clara Martago believed Dwayne hung the moon.

Sometimes I wondered whether he would have tried if she’d asked him.

I loved my mother.

But when it came to my father, love had made her blind.

She saw the man who still opened doors for her after nearly thirty years.

The man who kissed her every morning before leaving their bedroom.

The man who remembered anniversaries.

She didn’t see what happened after the office doors closed.

I did.

I looked at the tickets Sierra had left on my desk.

Los Angeles.

Four days.

Avery’s house.

My chest tightened.

I hadn’t seen Avery Cole in eight years.

Not since I was eighteen.

Not since the night I’d been stupid enough to tell him I loved him.

Not since he’d looked at me like he wanted to say something and then said nothing at all.

Not since he left Martago Island.

Not since he destroyed me.

There had been a time when Avery was the only person who made the island feel less like a cage.

Then he became the reason the cage hurt.

I shoved the tickets into my desk drawer.

Hard.

Then returned to the computer.

Work was safer.

Numbers didn’t abandon you.

Usually.

I reopened the Volkov file.

That was my second mistake.

My first had been looking at all.

I used Dwayne’s administrative credentials.

The screen flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Then opened.

A photograph appeared.

A man.

Black hair.

Gray eyes.

No smile.

NIKOLAI VOLKOV.

There was something unsettling about his face.

Not because he looked monstrous.

Because he didn’t.

He was handsome.

Controlled.

Expensively dressed.

The kind of man who could stand in the middle of a crowded ballroom without raising his voice and somehow make everyone else lower theirs.

I clicked his name.

ACCESS DENIED.

The screen glitched.

A warning flashed.

Then everything went black.

I sat perfectly still.

“Shit.”

At eight-oh-five that evening, I placed the final stack of folders on Dwayne’s desk.

His eyes went immediately to the clock.

Damn it.

“You’re late.”

“Five minutes.”

His eyes lifted.

That was all it took.

I corrected myself.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

Better.

He leaned back.

Dwayne Martago was the kind of man strangers automatically moved out of the way for.

He wasn’t especially tall.

He didn’t need to be.

Power had its own height.

His dark hair had begun graying at the temples. My mother claimed it made him more handsome.

I thought it made him look like an expensive villain.

He opened the first folder.

“You left notes.”

“Yes.”

“You know I dislike notes.”

“The Volkov storage numbers don’t make sense.”

His eyes lifted.

Everything changed.

Not dramatically.

Dwayne didn’t need drama.

His face simply emptied.

“What did you say?”

“Their reported income increased forty-three percent, but shipping volume stayed almost identical. I checked the corresponding accounts and—”

“Enough.”

He closed the folder.

Slowly.

Too slowly.

“You checked the Volkov accounts?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How far?”

I hesitated.

His hand flattened against the desk.

“How far, Whitney?”

“I checked the transfers.”

“What else?”

“I tried accessing the corporate records.”

His chair moved backward.

He stood.

“How far?”

“I found a restricted section.”

His fist slammed onto the desk.

The sound cracked through the room.

I flinched.

I hated myself for it.

His eyes caught the movement.

“How fucking far did you go?”

“Far enough that I accessed an encrypted file.”

His face went still.

“And?”

“I got a warning. Then access was denied.”

“You used my credentials.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

“Your job is to review numbers.”

“I was reviewing numbers.”

“Your job is not to dig into private accounts!”

“They’re moving millions of dollars and there’s no corresponding—”

“Stop!”

I froze.

Something was wrong.

Not irritated-Dwayne wrong.

Not disappointed-father wrong.

This was different.

Fear.

For one astonishing second, I thought I saw actual fear in my father’s eyes.

Then the telephone rang.

We both looked at it.

Nobody called that line unless they had the number personally.

The phone rang again.

“Dad?”

His gaze snapped toward me.

The word had escaped before I could stop it.

I hadn’t called him Dad in years.

Not since he stopped acting like one.

Not since that night.

No.

I wasn’t going back there.

Dwayne picked up the phone.

“Yes. This is Dwayne Martago.”

Silence.

His expression changed.

“Who is this?”

More silence.

Then his eyes found mine.

My stomach dropped.

“That was my daughter’s mistake,” he said.

My blood went cold.

“She was unaware of the situation, and I can assure you it won’t happen again.”

Fuck.

Volkov.

It had to be.

I thought about the photograph.

Black hair.

Gray eyes.

Nikolai Volkov.

I hadn’t downloaded anything.

Hadn’t copied anything.

Hadn’t even reached a real file.

How the hell had he known?

Dwayne turned slightly away from me.

“There’s no need for that.”

Pause.

His jaw tightened.

“There has to be another way we can settle this, Nikolai.”

My heart stopped.

He said the name.

Nikolai.

Dwayne looked at me.

I had seen my father angry.

I’d seen him furious.

I’d watched him order men dragged from rooms.

I’d watched blood stain expensive carpet while Dwayne continued drinking his whiskey.

But I’d never seen him look at me the way he did then.

Like I had stepped on a land mine and he was calculating how much of the family it would take with me.

“She’s my daughter.”

Silence.

His expression hardened.

“Don’t threaten my wife.”

My stomach turned.

“What?”

He held up one finger.

I went silent.

“No. You listen to me—”

Whatever Nikolai said interrupted him.

Dwayne’s nostrils flared.

Several seconds passed.

Then—

“Fine.”

That single word frightened me more than shouting would have.

“If that’s how you want it, we’ll discuss the details tomorrow morning.”

He hung up.

The office became painfully quiet.

I swallowed.

“Dwayne?”

He stared at the phone.

Then at me.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“I didn’t take anything.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“I only saw a name and photograph.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“I didn’t copy the files.”

“Whitney.”

His voice cracked like a whip.

I shut my mouth.

“That was Nikolai Volkov.”

“I figured.”

“He knows you accessed the system.”

“How?”

“Because men like Volkov know when someone breathes too close to their secrets.”

My hands felt cold.

“Who is he?”

Dwayne laughed once.

There was no humor in it.

“You break into my private system, access a protected Russian account, and only afterward think to ask who you’re investigating?”

“I wasn’t investigating him. I was following the money.”

“Money is never just money.”

“I know that.”

“Clearly you don’t.”

I folded my arms.

“Then tell me.”

Dwayne stared at me for several seconds.

“Nikolai Volkov runs one of the most powerful Russian criminal organizations operating between Europe and the United States.”

My arms slowly dropped.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“The Russian mafia?”

“Don’t say it like you’re discussing something you watched on television.”

My mouth had gone dry.

“He’s actually—”

“Yes.”

I remembered the photograph.

The cold gray eyes.

The restricted files.

The computer shutting itself down.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I made a mistake.”

Dwayne laughed bitterly.

“You made a mistake.”

“I didn’t know.”

“That’s precisely why you obey rules you don’t understand.”

There it was.

The lesson.

Everything always became a lesson.

“I won’t access it again.”

“Too late.”

“I’ll delete anything—”

“You have nothing to delete.”

“Exactly. So tell him that.”

“I did.”

“And?”

Dwayne walked toward the liquor cabinet.

He poured whiskey.

Didn’t offer me any.

“He doesn’t care.”

The twisting sensation in my stomach worsened.

“What does he want?”

Dwayne drank.

“Dwayne.”

His eyes met mine.

“What does he want?”

“He wants certainty.”

“Certainty about what?”

“That you’ll never speak about anything you saw.”

“I can give him that.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“Men like Nikolai don’t accept promises.”

“Then I’ll sign something.”

Dwayne actually smiled.

It was horrible.

“You think a nondisclosure agreement is going to satisfy the Russian mafia?”

“When you say it like that, it does sound stupid.”

“It is stupid.”

“Then what?”

He put down the glass.

“Nikolai offered a solution.”

Something inside me whispered to run.

“What solution?”

Dwayne said nothing.

“Dad.”

His eyes hardened.

I corrected myself automatically.

“Sir.”

“Tomorrow morning, he’ll call back to finalize terms.”

“What terms?”

“Marriage.”

For a moment, I genuinely didn’t understand the word.

“What?”

“He wants a binding arrangement between the families.”

I stared at him.

“No.”

“Whitney—”

“No.”

“Listen.”

“I’m not marrying somebody because I clicked on the wrong fucking computer file.”

“You went considerably further than clicking.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“No.”

My voice shook.

I hated that.

I shook my head harder.

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Lower your voice.”

“I’m twenty-six years old!”

“And behaving like a child.”

“Because I don’t want to marry a Russian mob boss I’ve never met?”

“Because you’re refusing to understand the consequences of what you did.”

“Then tell him I’ll keep quiet.”

“He doesn’t trust you.”

“He doesn’t know me!”

“Exactly.”

“Then why the hell would he want to marry me?”

Dwayne’s expression darkened.

“Because marriage gives him leverage.”

The answer chilled me.

“Over who?”

“Me.”

I stopped.

“The Martagos.”

Silence.

My heart began pounding.

“So this isn’t only about keeping me quiet.”

“No.”

“What else does he want?”

“That’s what we’ll learn tomorrow.”

I stepped backward.

“No.”

“You keep saying that as if it changes something.”

“It changes everything.”

“It changes nothing.”

“I won’t marry him.”

Dwayne moved around the desk.

“You don’t have a choice.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, Whitney. You don’t.”

“I can leave.”

“And go where?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’ll find you.”

“I’ll go to the police.”

Dwayne stared at me.

I realized how absurd that sounded before he spoke.

“You want to walk into a police station and explain that the head of a criminal organization is threatening the daughter of Dwayne Martago?”

My mouth closed.

“Exactly.”

“I could disappear.”

“Nikolai Volkov has people on three continents.”

“Then protect me.”

“I am.”

“By giving me to him?”

The words came out sharper than I intended.

Something moved behind Dwayne’s eyes.

I didn’t care.

“You’re my father.”

His jaw tightened.

“Protect me.”

“I am protecting you.”

“That’s not protection.”

“It is in our world.”

“Our world?”

I laughed.

“Your world.”

“You were born into it.”

“I didn’t ask to be.”

“Neither did I.”

For the first time that night, his voice lowered.

“Nikolai gave me two options.”

I didn’t want to ask.

I did anyway.

“What options?”

Dwayne looked directly into my eyes.

“Marriage.”

My throat tightened.

“Or?”

“Your death.”

Silence.

The room seemed to tilt.

I laughed once because my brain couldn’t decide what else to do.

“You’re kidding.”

“No.”

“He’s going to kill me because I saw his name?”

“He has killed people for considerably less.”

I stared at my father.

“Then kill him first.”

Dwayne’s face changed.

There was the smallest pause.

And that pause told me everything.

He couldn’t.

Or wouldn’t risk trying.

“He threatened more than you.”

My stomach dropped.

“What does that mean?”

“Your mother.”

Every trace of anger left me.

“What?”

“If you disappear, if we hide you, if I refuse the arrangement, he’ll consider the Martago family hostile.”

“No.”

“He specifically mentioned Clara.”

“No.”

I stepped toward him.

“You keep Mom out of this.”

“That isn’t my decision.”

“Then make it your decision!”

“I’m trying!”

Dwayne shouted it.

I froze.

He almost never lost control.

His chest rose once.

Twice.

Then the mask returned.

“Men like Nikolai are ruthless. They do not care about the boundaries you expect decent people to respect. They use mothers. Wives. Children. Friends. Whatever hurts most.”

My eyes burned.

“So I marry him.”

“If that’s what the final terms require.”

“And Mom lives.”

“If the agreement holds.”

I felt sick.

I thought of my mother arranging white roses in the bedroom.

Laughing over breakfast.

Kissing Dwayne’s cheek.

Completely unaware that somewhere in Russia—or Los Angeles, or hell itself—a man she’d never met had just used her life to bargain for mine.

“Okay.”

The word barely existed.

Dwayne exhaled.

Relief.

Actual relief.

That hurt almost as badly as everything else.

“Okay?” he repeated.

I nodded.

Not because I accepted it.

Not because I would willingly become Nikolai Volkov’s wife.

Because I loved my mother.

And because, despite every angry thought I’d ever had about dying just to spite Dwayne, I discovered something important when death became an actual option.

I wanted to live.

Desperately.

“What are you going to tell Mom?”

“I’ll handle Clara.”

“She won’t believe I suddenly fell in love.”

“Then we won’t tell her that.”

“She knows I haven’t been dating anyone.”

“Whitney.”

“She knows me.”

“I said I’ll handle it.”

I stared at him.

There were a thousand things I wanted to say.

None of them would help.

I turned toward the door.

“Whitney.”

I stopped.

“Until the terms are finalized, you tell no one.”

I looked over my shoulder.

“Not Sierra. Not Aurora. Not your mother. Nobody.”

“What am I supposed to do? Pretend everything is normal?”

“Yes.”

“That’s insane.”

“That’s survival.”

My hand tightened around the doorknob.

Then Dwayne spoke again.

“Archer came to see me this afternoon.”

My entire body went still.

“He tells me Sierra is traveling to California.”

“Yes.”

“For a bridal celebration.”

“Yes.”

“And you were invited.”

I swallowed.

“Yes, sir.”

“Yet you didn’t ask me.”

“I wasn’t going.”

“Why?”

Because California contained the one man you once nearly had me beaten half to death for loving.

Instead I said, “I assumed you wouldn’t approve.”

“Interesting.”

He stepped closer.

I resisted the instinct to move backward.

“You assumed.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been doing too much of that lately.”

My palms dampened.

“I’m sorry.”

“Archer assured me the women will be staying at Avery’s property.”

My pulse jumped.

I hated that.

Eight years and his name could still do that to me.

“Avery isn’t supposed to be there.”

“I know.”

I kept my face blank.

Dwayne studied me.

“You may go.”

I stared at him.

“What?”

His eyebrow rose.

“Would you prefer I change my mind?”

“No.”

“Then?”

“Thank you, sir.”

Something dangerously close to excitement tried to rise in my chest.

I strangled it immediately.

Dwayne noticed everything.

“You’ll use the family jet.”

“Sierra already bought tickets.”

“I’ll reimburse her.”

“Why can’t we fly commercially?”

His expression answered before he did.

Control.

Always control.

“You’ll use the jet.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You will call when you arrive.”

“Yes.”

“You will tell me where you’re going each evening.”

My stomach tightened.

“Yes.”

“You will remain with Avery’s security detail whenever you leave the property.”

I frowned.

“Security detail?”

Dwayne ignored the question.

“And Whitney?”

I looked at him.

“Avery is off-limits.”

There it was.

Eight years disappeared.

I was eighteen again.

Standing outside the mansion.

Crying.

Watching taillights disappear down a road.

Feeling like somebody had reached inside my chest and torn something out with their bare hands.

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

Dwayne came closer.

“You caused enough embarrassment the last time.”

My jaw tightened.

“I was eighteen.”

“You behaved like a trollop.”

I almost laughed.

Only Dwayne Martago could make a word from the nineteenth century sound threatening.

“Nothing happened.”

“Because Avery had enough sense to leave.”

That hit exactly where he intended.

My face must have changed because satisfaction flickered in his eyes.

“He didn’t want you then.”

I said nothing.

“He doesn’t want you now.”

My nails bit into my palms.

“Then you have nothing to worry about.”

Wrong answer.

His face hardened.

I lowered my eyes.

“Sir.”

“Step out of line once and there will be consequences.”

The scars beneath my blouse seemed to burn.

I hated that my body remembered before my mind did.

“I understand.”

“Do I need to remind you what happened the last time?”

“No.”

“Look at me.”

I did.

His eyes were cold.

“Do I?”

“No, sir.”

“Good.”

He turned away.

I thought it was over.

Then—

“And remember this, Whitney. Nobody learns about Nikolai until I know exactly what he intends.”

My throat tightened.

“Yes, sir.”

“If Sierra asks, you’re going to California because you’ve changed your mind.”

“Yes.”

“If your mother asks, everything is fine.”

“Yes.”

“If Avery asks—”

My eyes snapped toward him.

Dwayne paused.

The silence stretched.

“If Avery asks,” he continued, “you tell him nothing.”

I forced myself to breathe.

“Why would Avery ask?”

Something unreadable crossed Dwayne’s face.

“Because Avery has never known how to mind his own fucking business.”

For some reason, that frightened me almost as much as Nikolai.

“You may go.”

I left.

Slowly.

Calmly.

I walked past Dwayne’s secretary.

Down the corridor.

Into the private elevator.

I kept my back straight while the doors closed.

I kept breathing while it descended.

I smiled at one of the housekeepers when I crossed the main residence.

I told my mother goodnight when she called from the sitting room.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“Goodnight, Mom.”

“I love you.”

My throat nearly closed.

“I love you too.”

I climbed the stairs.

Walked down the hall.

Entered my bedroom.

Closed the door.

Locked it.

Then locked it again.

I stood there for three seconds.

Four.

Five.

My stomach turned.

I ran.

Barely reached the bathroom.

I dropped to my knees and threw up.

When there was nothing left, I sat on the marble floor with my back against the bathtub.

My hands shook.

Tomorrow, a Russian mafia boss was going to negotiate the terms of marrying me.

In two days, I was flying to California.

To Avery Cole’s house.

I laughed.

It sounded slightly hysterical.

“Perfect.”

I covered my face.

Eight years.

I hadn’t seen Avery in eight years.

I had spent every one of them trying to convince myself I hated him.

Some days I succeeded.

Other days I remembered his eyes.

His voice.

The way he’d looked at me the last night.

Then I hated myself instead.

I lowered my hands.

The woman in the mirror looked pale.

Terrified.

Trapped.

I hated her most of all.

“Four days,” I whispered.

Four days away from Martago Island.

Four days away from Dwayne.

Four days before whatever nightmare Nikolai Volkov had planned swallowed the rest of my life.

Maybe Sierra had been right.

Maybe I deserved four days where nobody told me what to do.

Even if I had to spend them inside the home of the man who had broken my heart.

Even if that man was Avery Cole.

Especially then.

Two days later, I sat aboard Dwayne Martago’s private jet with a crystal glass of his best wine in my hand.

Sierra was talking.

Cassy was laughing.

Aurora was beside her.

I heard almost none of it.

Martago Island disappeared beneath the clouds.

For the first time in years, my father couldn’t reach me by walking down a hallway.

I took another drink.

It was a bottle from Dwayne’s private collection.

Nearly four thousand dollars.

I had opened it without asking.

Petty?

Absolutely.

Worth it?

Completely.

I rested my head against the leather seat and stared through the window.

California waited on the other side of the country.

So did Avery’s house.

Avery himself was supposed to be thousands of miles away in Florence.

That was good.

That was safe.

That was exactly what I wanted.

At least that was what I kept telling myself.

Because there was another thing I’d learned growing up as a Martago.

Rules existed for a reason.

Don’t ask questions.

Don’t open locked doors.

Don’t look into accounts you weren’t supposed to see.

Don’t fall in love with men your father forbade you to have.

And, above all else—

Never mistake temporary freedom for actual freedom.

I’d already broken one rule.

I was beginning to wonder how many more I’d break before California was finished with me.