Chapter Two: Escaping the Cage

The plan had been forming for weeks, each detail carefully plotted like a prison break—because that's exactly what it was.

I'd watched my mother's calendar like a hawk, memorizing her schedule, noting when she and my father would be occupied for hours at the Vanderbilt charity dinner. I'd researched bars across the city, looking for somewhere upscale enough that I wouldn't stand out, but far enough from our social circle that I wouldn't risk running into anyone who knew my family. I'd even practiced lying to Margot, our housekeeper, telling her I had a headache and would be retiring early, my voice steady despite the hammering of my heart.

But no amount of planning had prepared me for the actual moment of escape—for the intoxicating, terrifying rush of freedom as I'd slipped past the security gate and into the waiting taxi, my entire body trembling with equal parts fear and exhilaration.

Now, sitting in this bar with my hand still tingling from where the stranger had touched me, watching him walk toward the exit with that confident stride that suggested he'd never doubted I would follow, I felt the weight of my decision settle over me like silk—dangerous and seductive.

This is insane, the rational part of my brain screamed. You don't know this man. You don't leave bars with strangers. This isn't who you are.

But that was exactly the point. I didn't want to be who I was anymore.

Six hours earlier, I'd sat in my bedroom—the one I'd occupied since childhood, still decorated in the soft pinks and creams my mother had chosen when I was twelve, as if changing the color scheme might allow me to develop my own taste—and stared at the dress laid out on my bed.

Cream-colored Chanel. Modest hemline. Pearls to match.

The outfit my mother had selected for tomorrow's introduction to Richard Pemberton III, the man they'd decided would be my husband. Not asked. Decided.

"Evelyn, darling, you'll adore Richard," my mother had said over breakfast that morning, her voice bright with the false enthusiasm she used when discussing anything she considered settled. "Harvard Law, excellent portfolio, and the Pembertons have been in our circle for generations. His first wife simply didn't understand the demands of his position, but you've been raised properly. You'll know how to be the wife he needs."

The wife he needs. Not the wife he wants. Certainly not the woman I wanted to be.

I'd smiled and nodded, playing my role perfectly, while inside I'd screamed.

"The introduction is tomorrow at four," my mother had continued, examining her perfectly manicured nails. "Wear the cream Chanel. It makes you look demure. Richard appreciates traditional femininity." She'd paused, her gaze raking over me with the critical assessment I'd endured my entire life. "And perhaps skip breakfast tomorrow, darling. The dress is rather fitted."

Twenty-four years of those comments. Twenty-four years of being molded, shaped, criticized, controlled.

Twenty-four years of suffocation disguised as love.

I'd excused myself from the table, climbed the stairs to my room, and made my decision. If tomorrow would mark the beginning of my life as someone else's possession, then tonight would be mine. One night. One taste of the freedom I would never have again.

The taxi ride to the bar had felt surreal, the city lights blurring past the window as we drove farther from the pristine neighborhood where I'd spent my entire life. My hands had shaken as I'd paid the driver with cash I'd been secretly saving—my mother monitored my credit cards, of course, tracking every purchase.

Standing outside the bar's entrance, I'd almost lost my nerve. The doorman had looked at me questioningly, probably wondering if I was lost, if I belonged here. I'd almost turned around, almost fled back to the safety of my cage.

But then I'd remembered Richard Pemberton III's cold eyes in the photograph my mother had shown me. I'd remembered the way my parents discussed me like I was a business transaction, a merger of family fortunes rather than a human being with dreams and desires of my own. I'd remembered every time my mother had criticized my weight, my smile, my voice, my existence.

And I'd walked through those doors.

Now, watching the stranger—my stranger, for tonight at least—wait for me near the exit, his gray eyes holding promises that both terrified and enticed me, I felt the final threads of good-girl Evelyn begin to fray.

I stood, my legs surprisingly steady despite the alcohol warming my blood and the adrenaline flooding my system. The bartender caught my eye, and I saw something in his expression—concern, maybe, or recognition of a pivotal moment.

"Be safe," he said quietly, and I nodded, though we both knew safety wasn't what I was seeking tonight.

I crossed the bar toward the stranger, acutely aware of the other patrons, the low music, the crystalline clink of glasses—all the details of this moment I would remember forever. This was it. The point of no return. Once I walked out those doors with him, I would become someone my parents wouldn't recognize.

Someone I didn't recognize.

Someone free.

He watched my approach with an intensity that made my skin flush, and when I reached him, he lifted his hand, his fingers barely brushing my lower back in a touch that felt possessive despite its lightness.

"Last chance to change your mind," he murmured, his breath warm against my ear, sending shivers cascading down my spine. "Once we leave here, I'm not going to be able to stop myself from having you."

The crude honesty should have shocked me. Good girls recoiled from such brazen desire. But I wasn't a good girl anymore—not tonight.

"I don't want you to stop," I whispered back, and felt his sharp intake of breath, the way his fingers pressed more firmly against my back.

"Christ," he breathed, something almost pained in his voice. "Do you have any idea what you're doing to me?"

I looked up at him, at this beautiful stranger with his stormy eyes and barely restrained hunger, and felt power surge through me for the first time in my life. Not the powerlessness of being controlled, but the intoxicating power of being wanted. Desired. Chosen—not because of my family name or my connections, but because of me.

"Show me," I said, and watched his control fracture.

His hand tightened on my back, pulling me flush against him, and I felt the evidence of his desire pressed against my hip, hard and insistent. Heat flooded through me, pooling low in my belly, and I gasped.

"Not here," he growled, his voice rough. "I'm not taking you against a wall in some bar. When I have you—" his lips brushed my ear, his words a dark promise, "—I'm going to take my time. I'm going to make you forget every other man who's ever touched you. I'm going to ruin you for anyone else."

There's never been anyone else, I almost said, but bit back the words. No past, no future. Just now.

He guided me toward the exit, his hand never leaving my back, and I moved with him in a daze of desire and disbelief. Outside, the night air hit me like a slap, cool against my overheated skin. He raised his hand, and a sleek black car immediately pulled to the curb—a driver, I realized. Of course someone like him would have a driver.

Someone like him. Rich. Powerful. Dangerous.

For a moment, reality intruded. I didn't know this man. I didn't know where he was taking me. Every warning I'd ever been given about stranger danger echoed in my mind.

He must have sensed my hesitation because he turned to me, his hand coming up to cup my face with surprising gentleness.

"We can stop right now," he said, and I heard the strain in his voice, the effort it cost him to offer me an out. "I'll put you in a taxi. You'll go home. This never happened."

I stared into those gray eyes, searching for something I couldn't name. And I found it—not just desire, but understanding. Recognition. He knew what it meant to run from something. He understood the need for escape.

"Or?" I whispered.

His thumb brushed across my lower lip, and I shivered. "Or you come with me, and for tonight, we both forget who we're supposed to be."

The car door stood open. The driver looked carefully ahead, giving us privacy. Behind me, the bar hummed with normalcy—people living their ordinary lives, making safe choices.

Tomorrow, I would meet Richard Pemberton III. Tomorrow, my life as I knew it would effectively end.

But tonight...

I stepped toward the car, then looked back at him over my shoulder. "Are you coming?"

His answering smile was pure sin, and as he followed me into the darkness, I felt the cage door slam shut behind me—not trapping me, but closing off my old life forever.

I'd wanted one night of freedom.

I had no idea I'd just walked straight into a different kind of captivity entirely.