Chapter Ten

The Escape Plan

The morning air in Julian Blackthorne’s penthouse was too clean—sanitized, like a hospital pretending to be a home. Camille sat on the edge of the grand velvet chaise in the sunroom, staring out at the city skyline, her fingers absently toying with the sleeve of her blouse.

She was no longer allowed to leave without Julian’s knowledge.

Her phone calls were being “monitored for security.”

The doormen had been “instructed to ensure her safety.”

All sugar-coated phrases for surveillance.

Her life was beginning to feel like a crystal cage, beautiful and suffocating.

Julian was becoming something else—still devastatingly charming, still intoxicatingly generous, but there was a pressure in his presence now. A watchfulness. A possessive edge that tightened around her like a noose lined with silk.

And that was why she needed to get out.

Now.

Camille waited until Julian had gone to a breakfast meeting downtown, the kind where he’d spend two hours pretending to care about charity while brokering million-dollar deals under the table. She moved quietly, almost reverently, as if any noise would alert the walls themselves.

She entered the walk-in closet—larger than her old studio apartment—and pulled down a small wooden box from the top shelf. Inside: a burner journal. Handwritten notes. Maps. Names.

And a number.

Vivian Monroe.

Julian’s ex–best friend and once-upon-a-time business partner turned socialite informant. If anyone knew the cracks in Julian’s perfect empire, it was Vivian. She had once been his match—until she decided she wanted her own empire.

Camille hesitated only a second before texting the number.

CAMILLE: I need to talk. Urgent.

UNKNOWN: Who is this?

CAMILLE: Camille Hart. Julian’s…

UNKNOWN: Mistress? Girlfriend? Captive?

CAMILLE: All of the above.

A pause.

Then:

UNKNOWN: Meet me. No drivers. No cameras. Come alone.

UNKNOWN: Noon. East Village. Café Sorelle.

UNKNOWN: Wear sunglasses. And red lipstick.

Café Sorelle was small and quiet, tucked away behind a florist shop, the kind of place where no one asked questions and everyone wore secrets like perfume. Camille arrived first, heart pounding in her ears, hair tucked under a scarf. She ordered a black coffee and sat by the window, scanning every passing face.

Then she saw her.

Vivian Monroe was taller than Camille expected, with a model’s grace and a mercenary’s gaze. Her sleek black blazer shimmered in the sunlight, and her heels clicked with confidence.

She sat down without a word, took Camille’s coffee, and sipped.

“Still too sweet,” Vivian muttered, grimacing. “You don’t strike me as a sugar addict. You strike me as someone pretending not to be bitter.”

Camille bristled. “Thank you for coming.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” Vivian replied. “I’m curious how far he’s fallen. Julian never lets women stay long enough to start plotting.”

“Well,” Camille said, voice dry, “I guess I’m special.”

Vivian laughed—a bitter, hollow sound. “That’s what the last girl thought.”

Camille straightened. “There was another?”

Vivian tilted her head. “There’s always another. You’re just the first who made it this far.”

That sent a chill crawling down Camille’s spine.

“I need to get out,” Camille said. “Out of the penthouse. Out of the city. Out of him.”

Vivian studied her with cat-like stillness.

“Escape from Julian Blackthorne,” she mused. “Do you have any idea what that takes?”

“I’m willing to find out.”

Vivian leaned forward. “He’s not just obsessive. He’s strategic. He’s prepared for betrayal. He keeps backup footage, alternate bank accounts, private investigators on speed dial. The moment he suspects you’re running, he’ll turn it into a game. One where you always lose.”

“Then help me win.”

Vivian tapped her nails against the porcelain cup. “There’s a price.”

Camille’s stomach dropped. “What kind of price?”

“I want access to the Blackthorne archives,” Vivian said. “Specifically the Valencia files. It’s an offshore account ledger Julian kept hidden from investors—proof of the shady deals he made to build his empire.”

Camille blinked. “That’s—he keeps those locked away in the private study. I’d need a retina scan just to get in.”

Vivian smirked. “Then get your eyes ready, sweetheart. Because if you want out, that’s your trade.”

Camille swallowed hard. She had no idea what those files contained, but she knew one thing: they were powerful enough that Vivian was risking exposure just by asking.

A dangerous alliance was forming—and Camille wasn’t sure who she feared more: Julian, or the woman helping her escape him.

That night, Camille returned to the penthouse like nothing had changed.

Julian greeted her with a slow kiss, holding her chin between his fingers like he was inspecting his favorite sculpture. “You went out today.”

“For coffee,” she said, pulse racing. “Needed air.”

He studied her a little too long. “Next time, tell me first.”

Camille smiled. “Of course.”

But inside, she was already mapping out the exits.

Three days passed.

Camille began planting seeds—moving small amounts of money into a hidden account, sneaking burner notes into the lining of her luggage, memorizing the guard schedules in the lobby. She even faked a migraine one evening so she could access Julian’s private study while he took a business call on the balcony.

She didn’t make it past the second lock.

The door beeped and flashed red, and a robotic voice said: Unauthorized biometric pattern detected.

Camille backed away quickly, heart pounding.

She needed another plan.

The next morning, she found a package on her bed.

Wrapped in brown paper.

No return address.

She unwrapped it slowly, hands trembling.

Inside were two plane tickets—one for her, one marked only “V.”

Departure: Midnight, JFK.

Destination: Lisbon, Portugal.

Tucked beneath the tickets was a burner phone—cheap, prepaid, no contact history. The only thing in the message folder was a single line:

“Run. Before he decides you never will.”

Camille sat down on the bed, staring at the items in disbelief.

Vivian hadn’t mentioned Lisbon.

Hadn’t mentioned a burner.

And she never referred to herself as just “V.”

So who had sent this?

She picked up the phone again, scanned for clues—anything. But it was clean. Wiped.

Then it buzzed.

Camille jumped, nearly dropping it.

A new message lit the screen:

“You only think you’re planning the escape.”

“But someone’s been planning it for you.”

Her blood ran cold.

She looked around the room like eyes were on her.

Because suddenly, she wasn’t sure if she was escaping Julian…

Or being led into something far, far worse.

Camille receives mysterious plane tickets and a burner phone from someone other than Vivian—implying a shadow figure is secretly orchestrating her escape… or her downfall.