Georgia’s penthouse had finally started feeling like a sanctuary, no more Blackwood drama, no more threats. She was in the kitchen, pouring evening tea, when the doorbell rang.She checked the intercom camera.Brandon.Battered, scarred, eyes wild, but alive.Her blood ran cold. She’d seen the reports: escaped convict, dangerous.“Don’t open it,” her assistant whispered from the hallway.But Georgia, always too trusting, too composed, pressed the buzzer. “What do you want?”“Just to talk,” he called up, voice ragged. “Five minutes. About Francesca.”Against every instinct, she cracked the door, chain still on.That was all he needed.He slammed his shoulder into it, the chain snapping. Georgia stumbled back as he barreled in, knife flashing in his hand.“Quiet,” he snarled, grabbing her arm hard enough to bruise. “We’re going for a ride.”She fought, clawed, screamed, but he was bigger, desperate. A cloth over her mouth, chloroform stench, and the world went black.By the time her ass
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