CHAPTER 3 RUN AWAY

(Lara POV)

Five in the morning. The motel parking lot is dead quiet as I throw my bag in the backseat and drive. I don't know where I'm going—just away from here, away from Maxton's threats.

My hands grip the steering wheel so tight my knuckles are white. "Think, Lara. Think." But my mind is blank with panic.

I end up in the office building's parking garage without even realizing it. The concrete walls feel safer than the open road. Safer than anywhere Maxton might look.

I curl up in the backseat, my ribs screaming with every breath. The car smells like my fear—sharp and metallic. Sleep comes in broken pieces between nightmares and the sound of every car that drives past.

Sunday night I don't sleep at all. I just stare at the garage ceiling, watching shadows move across the concrete. Every sound makes me jump.

"You can do this," I whisper to myself. "You have to do this."

Monday morning arrives gray and cold. I use my employee key card to get into the office early, sneaking into the bathroom like a thief. The fluorescent lights are brutal—they show every bruise, every sleepless hour written across my face.

My reflection looks like a stranger. Purple fingerprints circle my wrist. A bruise blooms across my cheek despite the makeup I pile on. Dark circles make my eyes look hollow, haunted.

I change into work clothes in the bathroom stall, my hands shaking so badly I can barely button my blouse.

"Morning, Lara!" Sarah from accounting breezes past the sink. "How was your weekend?"

"Fine." I don't look up from washing my hands. "Quiet."

"Lucky you. I had my mother-in-law visiting." She laughs, fixing her lipstick. "Sometimes I think I'd rather work weekends than deal with family drama."

If only she knew. I force a smile. "Yeah."

Other employees filter in, chatting about movies and dinner dates. Normal weekend things. I keep my head down, avoiding eye contact, trying to blend into the walls.

At my desk I try to focus on emails, but my hands shake too much to type properly. Every word comes out wrong. Every sound makes me jump—is that Maxton's voice in the hallway? His footsteps on the stairs?

My coffee grows cold as I stare at the screen, running on nothing but adrenaline and terror.

The intercom on my desk crackles to life. Kyle's voice cuts through the office noise like a blade—cold, professional, absolute.

"Miss Howard. My office. Now."

My heart stops. I've been avoiding him all morning, hoping he wouldn't notice my absence, my distraction. But Kyle notices everything.

I check my makeup one more time in my compact mirror, force my expression blank, and walk toward his office on legs that feel like water.

Kyle sits behind his massive desk like a king on a throne. My work reports are spread in front of him—budget analysis, client correspondence, research files. All the work I've been screwing up for weeks.

His expression is ice. Pure, cold judgment.

I stand across from him, trying not to tremble. The office is too quiet, too still. Just the sound of my breathing and the distant hum of the air conditioning.

He doesn't look up immediately. When he does, his dark eyes are unreadable. Calculating.

He slides papers toward me across the polished wood. "Budget analysis from Friday."

I see the red ink immediately. Errors circled, calculations wrong, entire sections missing.

"Client correspondence from last week."

More red ink. Typos, wrong dates, incomplete information.

"Research for the Morrison account."

My stomach drops at Maxton's last name. The data is incomplete, sources missing, conclusions that make no sense.

"This is unacceptable." Kyle's voice is sharp, controlled. "You've been unfocused for weeks. Your work is sloppy. Your attention is elsewhere."

I want to explain but the words stick in my throat.

"Explain yourself or you're fired."

The threat hangs in the air between us. I need this job desperately, but my pride won't let me beg. Maxton spent months telling me how Kyle destroyed their family, stole their father's love, ruined Maxton's chances. I hate him. I hate his cold voice and his perfect suit and the way he looks at me like I'm dirt.

"I'll fix it." That's all I can manage.

"That's not an explanation." He leans back in his chair, studying me with unsettling focus. "I hired you because Maxton recommended you. Said you were competent. Was he wrong?"

The mention of Maxton makes my chest tight with panic. "No, I—I can do better."

"Can you? Because from where I sit, it looks like you're falling apart."

I reach for the papers to take them back, to prove I can handle this. My sleeve rides up my arm.

Finger-shaped bruises circle my wrist, dark purple against my pale skin.

Kyle sees them.

The room goes completely silent. His expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his eyes. Something dangerous and calculating.

"Miss Howard." His voice is quieter now, but somehow more terrifying. "How did you get those bruises?"

My heart hammers against my ribs. I yank my sleeve down, but it's too late. He's already seen.

"I fell." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.

"You fell." He repeats the words slowly, like he's tasting them. "And these finger-shaped marks just happened to appear where someone might grab you?"

"It's nothing." I back toward the door. "I should get back to work."

"Sit down."

It's not a request. I sink into the chair across from his desk, trapped.

Kyle leans forward, his eyes locked on mine. "Who did this to you?"

"No one. I told you, I fell."

"Don't lie to me." His voice cuts through my defenses like a knife. "I can see the fear in your eyes. Someone has beaten you up."

I couldn't breathe, for a second, I felt that I couldn't even think. The walls seem to be closing in.