CHAPTER 6

NANCY'S POV

He was serious. Completely serious.

I wanted to argue more. Wanted to tell him this was insane, that I couldn't just throw my life into a suitcase in ten minutes.

But I looked at his face—at that cold, implacable expression—and I knew there was no point.

Zade wasn't going to budge. He'd probably stand there counting down the seconds, and when time was up, he'd drag me out of here with whatever I'd managed to pack.

Or maybe with nothing at all.

"Fine," I bit out.

I stormed toward my bedroom, then stopped and turned back.

"Are you going to stand there and watch me pack?"

"Yes."

"That's creepy."

"That's my job."

"Can you at least wait in the living room?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I need line of sight on you at all times. Those are my orders."

"So you're just going to follow me around my own apartment like a stalker?"

"I've been following you for three weeks, Miss Valentino. This is just the first time you know about it."

The casual way he said it made my skin crawl.

I went into my bedroom and slammed the door as hard as I could. The bang was satisfying, even if it was childish.

I stood there for a second, breathing hard, trying to calm down.

Then I heard Zade's voice through the door. "Nine minutes."

"I know!" I shouted back.

I looked around my bedroom—my sanctuary, my private space—and felt overwhelmed.

What did I pack for an indefinite stay on a Greek island with a killer bodyguard?

What did I bring when I didn't know if I'd be gone for a week or a month or longer?

What did I take when I was leaving my entire life behind?

I pulled my largest suitcase out of my closet and threw it on the bed. Started grabbing clothes without really thinking about it.

Jeans. T-shirts. Sweaters. Underwear. Bras. Socks.

My hands were shaking so badly I kept dropping things.

I went to my bathroom and swept toiletries into a bag. Toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, conditioner, face wash, moisturizer, makeup, tampons—

"Eight minutes," Zade called through the door.

"Stop counting!" I yelled back.

I grabbed my laptop from my desk. My phone charger. My favorite books from the shelf.

The suitcase was getting full but I kept stuffing things in. A jacket. My running shoes. That sundress I'd bought last summer and never worn.

What else? What was I forgetting?

My thesis notes. I needed those.

I ran to my desk and grabbed the binder with all my research, all my work from the past two years. It was too big to fit in the suitcase. I'd have to carry it.

"Seven minutes."

"I heard you the first time!"

I looked around frantically.

My art supplies. But there was no way to pack all of that. I grabbed my favorite set of brushes and a small sketchbook.

What else?

My passport. Did I need my passport?

Probably. If we were going to Greece.

I found it in my desk drawer and threw it in.

"Six minutes."

I wanted to scream at him to shut up, but I was too busy trying to zip my suitcase. It was too full. I had to sit on it to get the zipper closed.

"Five minutes."

"Okay, okay!"

I looked around one more time. My eyes landed on my bed—the bed I'd slept in for three years. The place where I'd cried over breakups and stressed about exams and dreamed about a future that was nothing like this.

I'd probably never see this apartment again.

The thought hit me like a punch to the stomach.

This was it. This was goodbye to my life, my independence, my freedom.

All because I'd wanted to walk two blocks alone.

"Four minutes," Zade said.

I picked up my suitcase. It was heavy—too heavy, probably. I grabbed my thesis binder and my purse.

Then I opened the door.

Zade was standing right there, exactly where I knew he'd be. Still covered in blood. Still watching me with those empty eyes.

"I'm ready," I said.

He looked at my overflowing suitcase, my armload of stuff, and something that might have been amusement flickered across his face.

"That's a lot for ten minutes," he said.

"Yeah, well, I'm efficient when someone's counting down like a ticking bomb."

He reached for my suitcase. "Let me take that."

"I can carry my own—"

He took it anyway, lifting it like it weighed nothing. He carried it to the door, then turned back to me.

"Anything else?"

I looked around my apartment one last time. At the couch where I'd spent countless hours reading. At the kitchen where I'd burned more meals than I'd successfully cooked. At the walls I'd painted myself when I first moved in, wanting to make this place mine.

All of it was about to become a memory.

"No," I said quietly. "Nothing else."

"Then let's go."

He opened the door and checked the hallway before gesturing for me to come out.

As I stepped into the hallway, I looked back at my apartment one more time.

The lights were still on. The door was still open. It looked like I was just stepping out for a minute, like I'd be right back.

But I wouldn't be.

We got to my father's mansion about forty minutes later.

The drive was silent. Zade didn't talk. Didn't play music. Just drove. I was glad. I didn't want to talk to him anyway.

The mansion was huge—three stories of gray stone with big columns and fancy windows. It sat on twenty acres behind tall walls and iron gates. I'd grown up here until I turned eighteen and finally got my own apartment. Now I was back.

But not for long.

Zade parked in front of the main entrance. He got my suitcase and opened my door.

Maria, one of the housekeepers, was waiting at the front door. She looked worried.

"Miss Nancy, thank God you're okay," she said. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," I lied. My head hurt. My wrists hurt. Everything hurt.

"Your father is waiting in his office," Maria said. She looked at Zade with distrust. "Should I take your things to your room?"

"No," Zade said. "We're not staying long."

Maria nodded and let us in.

Inside, everything looked the same as I remembered. Marble floors, expensive paintings, crystal lights hanging from the ceiling. It was beautiful but cold. It had never felt like home.

Zade carried my suitcase to my father's office. He knocked once, then walked in without waiting.

My father was sitting behind his big wooden desk. He looked tired. When he saw me, his face softened a little.

"Nancy," he said, standing up. "Come in. Sit down."

I sat in the chair across from his desk. Zade stood by the wall, watching.

My father looked at me carefully. "You're angry."