Then it clicks—Jon’s been in the UK.
I run it again and… bingo.
There it is. Clear as day.
My knees hit the floor in front of the painting before I realize I’ve moved, like I’m praying to it.
Her brother sold her off to be someone’s bride… so she sold off a piece of herself first. On her terms.
That’s it. That has to be it.
The rage comes fast, soldering the cracks in my heartbreak into something solid. Unshakable.
I stand and hit Lucian’s number.
“Well, that was quick,” he answers.
“How fast can you have someone in London?” My voice is steady. Deadly.
“Send me an address. They’ll be there before dinner.”
“I’ll have an address soon.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
I hang up, already calling my senior engineer.
“Get the interns into a war room and spin up a bridge,” I order as I push out of the gallery, the door swinging shut behind me. I swing a leg over my bike, and it rumbles to life under me.
“We’re going hunting,”
Ikeep my face still, my stomach turning.
If I don’t find a way to escape before the wedding next week—or if Jaxon doesn’t come looking for me before then—I know I’ll vanish. He’ll never find me.
Lunch on the flight was some dainty salad I ignored. Hours later, a hot dinner was served—beef in some rich-smelling sauce that made my stomach cramp with hunger—but I refused again. The thought of eating athistable made my throat close.
By the time we land, it’s well into the night. London time puts it close to midnight, the city wrapped in a damp, chilly darkness. The car waiting for us is sleek and silent, its tinted windows shutting me off from everything beyond the glass.
Minutes later, we roll to a stop at what looks like a boutique. From the street, it’s all dark windows and polished brass handles—the kind of place where women shop for something special. But I don’t get anywhere near the front.
The muscle opens my door and steers me down a narrow alley to the rear of the building. An unmarked service door waits between two loading docks, propped open by a woman who looks like she was carved from old stone—sharp nose, thin lips, and a permanent frown. She’s holding the door like she’s been expecting us.
Inside it smells of fabric and steam, like freshly pressed dresses. There’s no chatter of customers here. No music. Just the sound of my own pulse thudding in my ears as they lead me deeper inside.
The lord takes a seat and behind him, the wall of muscle shifts. Big. Mean. Silent.
There’s a platform in the center of the room, surrounded by racks of white. Wedding dresses. So many they look like ghosts lining the walls.
A woman enters—haughty, narrow-faced, beady eyes that match his. She doesn’t smile.
“Strip,” he says, as if it’s nothing.
My arms fold over my chest. “No.”
The woman’s tone is deceptively gentle. “Just remove your clothes, dear. Undergarments remain on.”
I start to shake.
