Chapter 2- Clueless.

My phone kept ringing.

Again.

And again.

And again.

I had been gone for less than five minutes, but it felt considerably longer than that.

I felt as though I were being chased.

As though I hadn't simply driven away from my home, but escaped from something—and now I needed to keep moving before it caught up with me.

My mind was still numb.

Sedated, almost.

It was the strangest sensation. I knew something catastrophic had just happened to me, yet somehow, I couldn't feel the magnitude of it.

No anger.

No devastation.

Nothing.

Just numbness.

And the overwhelming instinct to get away.

I glanced at the dashboard.

Gas.

I needed gas.

The Mustang had been sitting beneath that tarp for God only knew how long, and I had no idea how much farther the remaining fuel would take me.

Then another thought penetrated the fog.

My cards.

I couldn't use them.

If I genuinely wanted to disappear without leaving an obvious trail, I couldn't use a credit card. I couldn't make purchases from my phone. I couldn't do anything that might tell William where I'd gone.

William's security team was relentless.

Resourceful.

Far too good at finding loopholes when they needed to locate someone.

And I did not want to be found.

Not tonight.

Possibly not ever.

My phone rang again.

I ignored it.

Then I remembered the cash.

Seraphine.

Before the exhibition, my assistant had handed me three hundred dollars for tips and whatever else I might need throughout the evening. I'd given fifty to the valet.

Which meant I had two hundred and fifty dollars left.

Two hundred and fifty dollars.

For a woman who had never needed to consider whether she could afford a tank of gas, the number suddenly seemed extraordinarily important.

I spotted a Shell station ahead and pulled in.

Cash only.

No cards.

No digital trail.

I filled the Mustang's tank and climbed back behind the wheel.

I had no destination.

No plan.

I simply intended to drive.

As far as two hundred and fifty dollars could take me.

My phone rang again.

This time, I looked at the caller ID.

Bella.

I had to answer.

Before I got rid of the phone, I needed to speak to her. I needed to assure her that I was all right—or at least convince her that I would be.

“Bella.”

She was crying on the other end. Not quietly, either. Her breathing was uneven, her voice filled with panic.

“Where are you?” she demanded. “Mia, where did you go?”

“Bella, listen to me.”

“Where are you?”

“Isabella.”

Using her full name finally silenced her.

“I need you to listen to me very carefully.” My voice sounded remarkably calm considering I could barely feel my own body. “I need to drive away from this nightmare.”

“Then let me come with you.”

“No.”

“Mia—”

“No, Bella.”

“Why the hell not? You're in no condition to be alone!”

She wasn't wrong.

But I couldn't stay.

And I couldn't take her with me.

If Bella disappeared at the same time I did, William would know immediately that she was with me.

More importantly, Bella had a life. A family. A home.

This disaster belonged to me.

“You can't come with me.”

“Yes, I fucking can.”

Despite everything, my eyes closed for a moment.

That was Bella.

“I don't know where I'm going,” I admitted.

“Then we'll figure it out together.”

“No.” I swallowed against the painful tightness in my throat. “I need to do this alone.”

She started crying harder.

“Mia, please.”

“I'll be all right.”

“You don't know that!”

No.

I didn't.

But she didn't need to know that.

“I love you, Bella.”

There was a pause.

Then her voice broke.

“Don't say it like that.”

My chest tightened for the first time since I'd left the house.

“Like what?”

“Like you're saying goodbye.”

I looked through the windshield at the endless stretch of road ahead of me.

Perhaps I was.

“I need you to do something for me.”

“What?”

“Don't tell William anything.”

“I don't know anything!”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

“Mia—”

“I mean it. If you don't know where I am, you can't tell anyone where I am.”

Another silence.

Then, quietly, “What are you going to do?”

I stared at the road.

“I have absolutely no idea.”

And for perhaps the first time in my entire life, that was the truth.

“I promise I'll call you once I get another number. And I promise I'll tell you where to find me once I settle somewhere.”

“Why does it feel like you're leaving forever?” she cried.

Silence.

I didn't know.

I had no idea what I was doing or how long I intended to be gone.

I hadn't even begun to contemplate what waited for me once tonight became tomorrow.

The press would descend upon us the moment they discovered what had happened.

My parents would be devastated.

William's family would undoubtedly go into crisis-management mode.

And I couldn't even stomach the thought of facing William or Malcolm.

Not yet.

Perhaps not for a very long time.

“Bella...” My voice broke.

And suddenly, I was crying.

Really crying.

It was the first genuine emotion I'd felt since walking into my bedroom and finding my husband in bed with my brother.

“I don't know how I'm supposed to react to this,” I sobbed. “I need time to understand what William and Malcolm have done to my life before everyone starts telling me what I'm supposed to do about it.”

Because they would.

Everyone would have an opinion.

William had only recently announced his intention to seek a second term. My own calendar was booked months in advance with exhibitions, galas, private events, interviews, and one enormous fundraiser taking place in less than thirty days.

There would be advisers.

Attorneys.

Publicists.

Campaign strategists.

Family.

Reporters.

Everyone would want something from me.

A statement.

An explanation.

A decision.

I didn't have one.

I couldn't even decide where I was driving.

“I love you, Pookie,” Bella whispered through her tears.

I cried harder.

“I love you more, Sherlock.”

Twenty years of friendship had earned us the right to use ridiculous nicknames without explanation.

“Please be safe.”

“I will.”

“And call me.”

“I promise.”

I ended the call.

For several seconds, I simply stared at the phone in my hand.

Then that horrible sensation returned.

I felt watched.

Followed.

My rational mind told me no one could possibly have caught up with me yet. But William didn't need to physically follow me.

My phone was enough.

I could already imagine him ordering his security detail to find me before I did something reckless.

His gorillas, as Bella affectionately called them. And from William's perspective, reckless could mean anything.

Perhaps he feared I'd drive straight to NBC 4 or contact 77 WABC and expose to the entire state of New York that its governor had been carrying on an affair with his wife's brother while preparing to launch his reelection campaign.

The thought should have made me furious.

Instead, it made me nauseous.

And my body felt numb.

I needed the phone gone.

A few minutes later, I approached a bridge.

I slowed down.

For one brief moment, I hesitated.

My entire life was inside that device.

Seraphine.

Hannah.

My parents.

My work.

Photographs.

Contacts.

Appointments.

Every carefully organized piece of Mia Sterling's existence.

Then I lowered the window.

Cold air rushed inside.

I held the phone in my hand for another second.

And threw it out as far as I could.

I didn't watch where it landed.

I simply kept driving.

Several miles later, I reached automatically toward the empty space where my phone should have been.

GPS.

“Wonderful,” I muttered.

My first words to myself since leaving New York, and apparently sarcasm had survived the trauma.

I had no GPS.

No map.

No destination.

Nothing telling me which exit to take or where the hell I was going.

So I followed the highway signs.

Whenever the road divided, I chose whichever direction seemed to take me farther away.

Away from the mansion.

Away from the cameras.

Away from William Peterson.

Away from Malcolm.

Away from the woman I'd been when I woke up that morning.

For once, there was no Seraphine managing my schedule.

No driver waiting downstairs.

No itinerary.

No reservation.

No one expecting me at a particular place at a particular time.

There was only me.

An old Mustang.

Whatever remained of two hundred and fifty dollars.

And an endless road disappearing into darkness.

I pressed harder on the accelerator.

I didn't care where I ended up. I just wanted it to be somewhere no one knew the name Mia Sterling.

I turned on the radio.

Anything was better than silence.

It was dark.

The highway stretched endlessly ahead of me, illuminated only by the Mustang's headlights and the occasional glow of a road sign.

There were hardly any other vehicles.

For long stretches, it felt as though I were the only person left on the road.

Perhaps that was exactly what I needed.

Then the image came back.

William.

Malcolm.

My husband pressing himself into my brother.

In our bed.

My stomach lurched.

“No.”

I turned up the radio.

I wasn't thinking about it.

I refused.

A familiar beat filled the car.

Just Dance by Lady Gaga.

I turned the volume higher.

And higher.

Until the old Mustang's speakers vibrated around me and the music became so loud that I could feel the bass pounding through the steering wheel.

Good.

If the music was loud enough, perhaps I wouldn't be able to hear myself think.

I pressed harder on the accelerator.

The song intensified.

So did I.

Faster.

The dark pavement disappeared beneath the headlights as the Mustang surged forward.

For a few minutes, there was no William.

No Malcolm.

No campaign.

No exhibition.

No marriage.

There was only Lady Gaga pouring through speakers that probably hadn't been tested so thoroughly in years, accompanied by an engine that seemed positively delighted to have been awakened from its long slumber.

I pressed harder on the accelerator.

The speedometer climbed.

Seventy.

Seventy-five.

Eighty.

I scarcely noticed.

The louder the music became, the more determined I was to put distance between myself and everything I'd left behind.

Then another image threatened to surface.

William turning toward me.

Malcolm desperately reaching for the sheets.

“No!”

I struck the steering wheel with the palm of my hand.

The horn shattered the silence of the deserted highway.

“I refuse to think about either of you!”

There.

Anger.

Finally, something other than humiliation and heartbreak.

I welcomed it.

I increased the volume and fixed my attention on the road ahead.

I had absolutely no idea where I was going.

And for the moment, I couldn't have cared less.

J.Lo and Pitbull came on next, and *On the Floor* filled the Mustang.

A small chuckle escaped me.

Of course.

Apparently, the universe had decided that if my entire existence was going to unravel tonight, it might as well provide an exceptional soundtrack.

I made a conscious effort to redirect my thoughts toward happier memories.

College.

Yale.

Isabella Brown.

Now there was a considerably safer subject.

Bella had been an extraordinary party enthusiast and, somehow, an equally remarkable law student. To this day, I couldn't quite comprehend how she'd managed to devote herself so enthusiastically to both pursuits without sacrificing either.

“Yes,” I murmured. “That's better. Remember who you were before William.”

Because I'd had a beautiful life before William Peterson entered it.

I had an identity long before he placed a ring on my finger.

A reputation before anyone introduced me as the governor's wife.

And a future that had never depended upon his presence.

Perhaps that was why I'd insisted on keeping my maiden name.

I was Mia Sterling.

Born a Sterling.

Married as a Sterling.

And regardless of what tomorrow brought, I intended to remain one.

The sole heiress to the Sterling family fortune.

Although there had been a time when my parents were considerably less enthusiastic about what I intended to accomplish with our distinguished surname.

My father had practically erupted when I announced that I wanted to become a painter rather than enter the family business.

A painter.

The disappointment had been palpable.

Who, precisely, was supposed to inherit responsibility for the Sterling empire if their only daughter preferred canvases and oil paints to boardrooms and corporate acquisitions?

To my father, my artistic ambitions were little more than an expensive indulgence.

A regrettable misuse of an exceptional education.

A passing fascination I would eventually outgrow.

I smiled bitterly.

How spectacularly mistaken he'd been.

The profession everyone feared would squander my future had become a multimillion-dollar enterprise in its own right.

My paintings commanded hundreds of thousands of dollars.

Collectors competed for the privilege of acquiring them.

Prestigious galleries organized entire exhibitions around my work.

And in a particularly satisfying twist of fate, my annual earnings were approximately fifteen times greater than my husband's gubernatorial salary.

Not that either of us had ever needed the money.

William came from considerable wealth.

As did I.

But financial security had never been the point.

Independence had.

My achievements belonged to me.

My reputation had been established through years of dedication.

And whatever talent I possessed had existed long before William Peterson decided to make me his wife.

I had built a life that required neither his permission nor his patronage.

For the first time since leaving the house, the uncertainty ahead seemed a little less terrifying.

William had betrayed me.

Malcolm had betrayed me.

My marriage might very well be beyond salvation.

But I wasn't.

“Mia Sterling,” I whispered.

My own name sounded strangely unfamiliar.

Almost like an introduction.

Or perhaps a reunion with someone I'd neglected for far too long.

I allowed myself a faint smile.

Whatever awaited me beyond the next stretch of highway, surely it couldn't be worse than remaining in a marriage built upon deception.

So I continued driving.

One hour passed.

Then another.

Three.

Four.

Eventually, even the music faded into little more than a distant accompaniment to my thoughts.

The illuminated clock on the dashboard reminded me that morning was approaching, but my attention kept returning to the rearview mirror.

Headlights.

Every pair that appeared behind me demanded scrutiny.

If a vehicle remained in sight for too long, my pulse quickened.

If it followed me onto an exit ramp, suspicion took hold.

And whenever it disappeared, I found myself breathing a little easier.

I despised it.

The uncertainty.

The vigilance.

The dreadful sensation of being pursued when, for all I knew, no one was pursuing me at all.

But that was the unfortunate consequence of being married to a man like William Peterson.

Power had a way of making even the most improbable possibilities seem entirely plausible.

William was the Governor of New York.

He had security personnel, political connections, advisers, attorneys, and an entire network of individuals whose professional responsibilities included preventing inconvenient situations from becoming public scandals.

And tonight, I was potentially an exceptionally inconvenient situation traveling across state lines in an aging Mustang.

I glanced into the mirror once more.

Nothing.

Only darkness.

“I need more gasoline,” I murmured.

My bladder chose that very moment to remind me of another pressing matter.

“And I desperately need to use the restroom.”

Wonderful.

I surveyed my surroundings.

Where on earth was I?

Without GPS, I'd been navigating entirely by highway signs, selecting my route according to one remarkably uncomplicated criterion:

Would this take me farther away from New York?

The last sign I'd passed indicated that I'd crossed into Pennsylvania.

Pennsylvania.

I frowned.

“Still not far enough.”

I needed considerably more distance between myself and William.

Enough that he couldn't simply dispatch someone to retrieve me and have me returned before breakfast.

Returned.

Not home.

The distinction made my throat tighten.

I couldn't bring myself to call that house my home anymore.

Not when every attempt to picture it summoned the unbearable image of my husband and my brother together in our bed.

I immediately forced my attention back to the music.

“Absolutely not,” I whispered.

I would not surrender another moment of this night to that image.

Several miles later, the illuminated sign of a gas station appeared in the distance.

Relief washed over me.

I took the exit and pulled into the nearly deserted lot.

A pickup truck stood outside the convenience store, while an eighteen-wheeler occupied a space along the far edge of the property.

Otherwise, the place was abandoned.

Perfect.

I parked beside a pump and opened my wallet.

Then paused.

For the first time in my adult life, I actually counted the cash before deciding whether I could afford a purchase.

I stared at the bills in disbelief.

“This is absurd.”

I possessed a fortune substantial enough to purchase the entire establishment without giving the transaction a second thought.

Yet tonight, the modest collection of banknotes in my hand represented the entirety of my immediately accessible resources.

Anything more would require using an account or card that might reveal my whereabouts.

The irony was almost exquisite.

I paid for the gasoline in cash, filled the Mustang's tank, and made my way inside.

The fluorescent lighting was particularly unforgiving at this hour.

I caught sight of my reflection in the glass entrance and stopped.

Good heavens.

The woman staring back at me bore little resemblance to the one who had posed for photographs only hours earlier.

My makeup was ruined.

My eyes were swollen.

My carefully styled hair had surrendered whatever elegance the evening's preparations had bestowed upon it.

And I was still wearing an outfit that probably cost more than the cashier earned in several months.

That, I realized, could become a problem.

I lowered my gaze and made my way to the restroom.

Afterward, I stood before the mirror and examined my reflection.

“Mia Sterling.”

For a moment, I scarcely recognized myself.

I washed my hands, splashed cold water over my face, and reached for a paper towel.

Slowly, I wiped away the remnants of my lipstick and the dark traces of mascara beneath my eyes.

Better.

Not particularly attractive.

But considerably better.

I returned to the store and selected a bottle of water.

Then stopped.

Food.

When had I last eaten?

I genuinely couldn't remember.

There had been hors d'oeuvres at the gallery, but I'd spent most of the evening entertaining collectors, greeting guests, and discussing my work.

My stomach felt hollow.

I grabbed a bag of chips.

Then put it back.

Picked up a protein bar instead.

I stared at it.

“What a depressing choice.”

I bought it anyway.

Cash.

Again.

Every dollar I spent made my escape shorter.

That realization should have frightened me.

Instead, it made everything feel strangely real.

I returned to the Mustang and sat behind the wheel with the water bottle between my thighs and the protein bar resting unopened in my lap.

For several minutes, I didn't move.

The gas station was quiet.

No cameras flashing.

No William.

No Malcolm.

No Bella crying into the phone.

No Seraphine reminding me where I needed to be tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

My stomach dropped.

What was I supposed to be doing tomorrow?

I almost laughed.

It didn't matter.

For the first time in years, Mia Sterling wasn't showing up.

Someone else could cancel the meetings.

Someone else could explain my absence.

Someone else could deal with the consequences.

I tore open the protein bar and took a bite.

It tasted like sweetened cardboard.

“Fantastic.”

I ate it anyway.

Then I looked at the highway beyond the gas station.

Pennsylvania wasn't far enough.

I didn't know what far enough meant yet.

Virginia?

West Virginia?

Tennessee?

Some town I'd never heard of where no one cared about New York politics or Manhattan galleries?

The thought settled strangely inside me.

Somewhere nobody knew me.

Mia Sterling, the only daughter and sole heiress of one of New York's wealthiest and most distinguished families.

Not Mrs. Peterson.

Not the governor's wife.

Not Mia Sterling, the artist whose paintings sold for six figures.

Just...

Me.

A simple woman.

I liked the sound of that.

I started the engine.

The Mustang rumbled beneath me.

“All right, beautiful,” I murmured, patting the steering wheel. “It's just you and me now.”

I pulled back onto the highway.

No schedule to follow.

I just needed to follow the signs south and west whenever I could, putting mile after mile between myself and everything I knew.

Eventually, Pennsylvania would be behind me.

Then another state.

Then another.

I didn't know where this road would take me. But somewhere ahead was a place where William Peterson couldn't reach across a bed and touch me.

Where Malcolm's face wasn't waiting around every corner.

Where nobody would ask me for a statement.

Where nobody knew my worth.

I pressed my foot against the accelerator.

Not far enough.

Not yet.

I was utterly clueless about my whereabouts and equally clueless about what the hell I was doing.

But there was one thing I knew with absolute certainty.

I wanted to disappear.