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“She’s going to run.” Mark stares out the windshield, watching Anna disappear through the automatic glass doors. When she’s out of our line of sight, he turns to me. “She’s going to marry Patrick. Or try to anyway. We’re going to have to kidnap her again.”

He says it like it’s a given, like he doesn’t even have to ask whether or not I would be on board with stealing Anna again—because he doesn’t. She’s not marrying Patrick Calhoun. If anyone puts a ring on her finger, it’ll us.

“I think a small part of her is counting on it, bro. It’s not like she loves Patrick. She can’t stand the bastard. The only reason she’s going through with this is because of her mom. A problem we can solve with one phone call to the billing department.” I jerk my head toward the hospital. “We don’t even need to make a phone call. We could walk in there right now and end this whole thing.”

We hash out a few plans on how we can keep Anna and take care of Patrick. The money looks like our best bet, but if it was that easy, we would have hacked his accounts and drained him dry with donations to our favorite charities like the Susan G. Komen Foundation, Alex’s Lemonade, and St. Jude’s, in the first place.

No, Patrick Calhoun’s not only washed his money. He’s stashed it too. What he has on paper is nothing compared to what we suspect he has off the books.

“That only solves part of the problem. Patrick may not love Anna, but he wants her. He wouldn’t be paying hundreds and thousands of dollars for her if he didn’t want her. Clearing the debt won’t stop him from coming after her.”

As if saying his name conjured the devil himself, Patrick Calhoun cuts into traffic, jaywalking across the street like he owns the fucking world. Horns blast. Asshole probably thinks it’s trumpets blaring to welcome the king. He gives one driver laying hard on their horn the finger and strolls into the hospital.

Fuck.

12

ANNA

“Mom. Oh, Mom.”

I rush into the room, occupying the chair at her bedside that my father just vacated with barely a pat on the shoulder for me. Not that I care. The anger and hurt over what my father did are eating me alive. I want to scream and rant, spit in his face, then cut him out of my life for good, but I can’t. This is not the time or the place. Besides, I don’t have the energy or the mental capacity to waste on him now. I’m here for my mom. That’s it. That’s all that matters.

“Mom. It’s me, Anna.” I lower the side rail on her bed, take her hand in mine, and rest my head on the mattress beside her. “I’m here, Mom. I know you’ve been sleeping, but I need you to know I’m here.”

I’m not even sure how much time passes while I’m sitting with my mom. I just keep talking to her, talking to her about everything and anything, and I never let go of her hand. The only subject that’s off-limits is my supposed kidnapping. I’m not sure how much she’ll understand, or how much is getting through, and I don’t want her to be upset. Difficult and painful topics are not up for discussion right now. Happy thoughts and happy memories only.

Still, it’s weird my dad hasn’t asked about it.

He can’t seem to sit still. If he’s not fidgeting in his chair, he’s pacing by the large window or coming in and out of the room. He hasn’t asked to speak to me privately or discussed my kidnapping in front of Mom, even though I know he doesn’t believe she can hear us.

Actually, he hasn’t asked me anything at all. He hasn’t asked if I’m hurt or where I’ve been. He hasn’t asked how I got away or who took me or whether I’m safe now.

Nursing assistants come to check Mom’s vitals, an orderly comes in to collect the trash, and the nurse comes in to add meds to the IV. I know the routine. It’s unwelcome but familiar. We’ve been through this with her before.

And just like last time, I’m at her side, holding her hand. I’m right where I am supposed to be.

Except, Mom’s hand is warm. Her color isn’t bad. Her breathing is slow and even in a way that looks less like a coma and more like the sleep of a woman who has been given something to help her rest. When the nurse leans over to adjust the IV, she smiles at me and says, “She’s been having a nice long nap, dear. She was awake earlier. She’ll probably wake up again in a bit.”

Awake earlier?

I look at my father. My father does not look back at me.

No. No, no, no.

I stand up slowly. My legs don’t feel like mine.

“Anna.”

I turn to my father, expecting it to be him calling my name, but he’s standing with his back to me, staring out the window as if there’s something more important than my mom waiting out there for him. And then the lighting in the room shifts, and I see his reflection in the window.

My fiancé.

Something inside me goes very still. It’s not calm. It’s the opposite of calm. It’s the stillness of an animal that has just realized the trap it walked into was baited on purpose.

Dad lied. Or Dad was made to lie. Either way, my mother is not dying today. My mother is sleeping. And I am standing in a hospital room I was lured to, and the man who paid for that lure just walked through the door.

“Darling, you’re back.” Patrick’s icy tone raises goosebumps across my skin. He crosses the room, stopping when he reaches my side. When I refuse to look at him or acknowledge his presence, he grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks my head back, forcing me to meet his steely gaze. “I’m so relieved to see you. I’ve been worried sick about you, my love.”