“Ma’am.”
The delivery driver—a man in overalls who brings the food supplies every week—walks in for the fourth time with four cartons of apples stacked on top of each other. I nod, and he continues walking, leaving me by the foot of the stairs.
Biting my fingers.
And toying with a very terrible plan in my head. A spontaneous, out-of-the-blue idea that I’m sure will never work, because plans have to be carefully mapped out.
According to my father.
Not that I’m still in the business of listening to his voice in my head when he completely abandoned me.
The plan? Escape. How? In the back of the food van parked outside the house. There are only two problems with my plan.
One. I could get caught while leaving through the front door because there are three men standing between the exit and the van.
Two. Even if I managed to get into the van, I could still be discovered. Unless I have a plan for rendering a man unconscious, I might just be shipped back here.
He comes around again while I’m still biting my cuticles, offering a polite smile.
“Wait—” I call out before I can stop myself.
He turns around. “Were you talking to me, ma’am?”
I nod, clearing my throat subtly and straightening my shoulders. I have to look like I know what I’m doing. “Yes. I’m curious about your supplies,” I say, keeping my tone measured. “Where do you bring the food from?”
He looks confused and rubs the back of his neck. “A farm?”
A farm? That’s like dropping a needle in a haystack. First off, I don’t know exactly where I am. I was kidnapped, shoved into a car, and spent hours trying to break out. “Okay.” I shrug. “What farm? I need to know if it’s organically grown. I don’t know if Polina told you anything, but there are certain foods I can’t eat.”
He rubs his neck harder. “I—yes. We grow our produce organically. If you want proof, I could—”
“No.” I wave my hands, frustrated at the conversation going off course. “How far away is the farm? From here?”
He hesitates, thinking. “About an hour. Maybe more. It’s on the outskirts of the city.”
I bite back my excitement. That’s great. Just far enough from here to disappear and close enough to survive. Once I make it there, I can map out my next strategy.
“Is there anything else you’d like to know?” he asks.
I smile faintly and shake my head. “No, thank you. That’ll be all.”
He nods and heads back out. I bite my nails harder, drawing blood and wincing at the slice of pain.
“Shit,” I mutter, staring at the bright red spreading around a small area. “Just a tiny cut,” I dismiss it aloud. I have other things to worry about, like how to get into the van without getting my brains blown out.
It takes fifteen minutes to devise a plan and ten minutes of rummaging around to find a pair of old overalls. I hold them up like a trophy, grinning proudly. Scampering up to my room, I change into the overalls, tuck my hair under a cap, and run back down, intercepting the van driver as he leaves the storage room.
Keeping my head down and pitching my voice lower, I say, “I’ll, uh…I’ll help you with the rest of the stuff.”
He studies me briefly, probably trying to decipher where I sprung from, but he doesn’t question it. “Sure.” He shrugs. “I could use another pair of hands.”
My heart is racing, and my palms are clammy as I follow him out of the house, keeping my gaze averted from the men standing guard. It’s the first time I’ve felt the sun directly on my face since Roman brought me here, and the urge to take a moment and savor the warmth is tempting, but my desire for freedom is greater.
“Here.” He hands me a box before I can look into the back of the van, and the surprise weight yanks me down. I struggle with it, grunting to play it off. I was going to hide as soon as I got out, but I might have to do some menial work after all. It takes two more rounds for the van to empty, and I come up with a last-minute excuse to remain outside while he heads in to inform Polina.
I climb into the back of the van, hyperaware that Roman’s men are watching me. A lump lodges in my throat as a gun catches the sun’s glint, and for a moment, I lose my courage as my mind paints a vivid picture of what will happen if I get caught.
It’s a gamble—everything is a gamble—and the odds of me leaving unnoticed are slim. Forcing myself to remain calm, I close the doors, plunging the van into darkness. A plastic barrel sits in a corner, the only thing big enough to hide me if the driver decides to do one last inspection before leaving.
I climb in slowly, careful not to make any noise. Then I wait.
The wait feels like forever, but then I hear the sound of footsteps, more than one set. approaching the van. Polina’s voice. “I’ll pass your message along to Mr. Volkov.”
The driver replies, “Thank you. Ah—if you don’t mind me asking, is his wife allergic to anything? She was asking if the items were organically grown and said something about you being aware.”
Shit. Shit. I shouldn’t have said that. It was a spur-of-the-moment idea, and everything that came after was made up on the spot. If Polina decides to confront me before he leaves, my cover is blown. Sweat beads gather on my forehead and drip down into my eyes. I clamp my hand over my mouth to keep the faintest sound from giving me away.
“There’s no problem, then,” Polina replies. “Unless you have something you’d like to say?”
He clears his throat suspiciously. “Ah…no. I should get going.”
Footsteps head for the front of the van, another set retreating. I hold my breath, counting down in my mind. The engine comes to life, and the van jerks, causing the barrel and me to tumble. I bite down hard on my lip as I wince, not moving an inch from my uncomfortable position.
Freedom. I’m free. And I’ll be back for revenge. Roman Volkov will regret not taking my offer of leniency when I first offered it.
“What the hell are you doing in the back of my van?!”
The voice crashes into my sleep like a grenade. I jolt upright, heart hammering against my ribs—and it’s not the driver staring down at me.
It’s someone else. Someone I don’t recognize.
Panic flares hot in my chest. I scramble to my feet, fumbling for the cap I shoved in my pocket and jamming it over my head. My hair’s a mess, and my face is too exposed. “I’m so sorry!” I blurt out, dipping into a hasty, low bow. “I—I must’ve dozed off while unloading. I didn’t mean to—I’ll leave right away!”
I don’t wait for a reply before leaping out of the van, feet pounding against gravel as I break into a jog, then a run, putting as much distance between me and the man as I can. I don’t look back. I can’t risk it. If he recognizes me and figures out who I am, I’m done.
The van is nothing more than a smudge behind me when I finally stop. I double over, hands braced on my knees, wheezing for breath.
As my lungs begin to recover, I straighten slowly, only to freeze as I realize where I am. All around me…fields. Fields and fences, with dirt paths stretching outward like tangled veins. Rows of endless crops that seem to roll right into the sky. But there’s no sign of a road, buildings, or people, except the man who scared me minutes ago.
Just a sea of farmland.
And me.
Standing right in the middle of it. Where’s the driver? And he said the farm was an hour away. I don’t know how long I spent asleep, but this looks like the middle of fucking nowhere. My stomach sinks as I turn in a slow circle, trying to get my bearings, but it’s useless. I can’t tell where this place starts or where it ends. Every direction looks the same—miles and miles of green, brown, and nothing.
Shit.
I drag my fingers through my hair as my optimism deflates. I knew it was too good to be true. Maybe I should’ve listened to my father, as unreliable as he has become. At least he was right. My spontaneous, patched-up escape plan has landed me smack in the middle of nowhere. And I’m on my own.
I need to find a way out. As I thrust my hands onto my hips, pacing and mumbling, I hear an engine roar. From afar, I see the van coming toward me.
My heart leaps. The van! I don’t care if the driver looked like he could toss me around. He’s my only way out of here. “Hey!” I yell, waving my arms above my head. “Please! Stop!” I start running toward it, kicking up clouds of dirt. “Please, wait!”
The driver doesn’t look at me as the van reaches my position and speeds past. I scream louder until I can no longer hear myself, running until my legs give out and I fall to the ground. But it just keeps going, rumbling and growing smaller until it’s swallowed by the heat haze.
“Screw you,” I whisper, too tired to yell. “Screw you to hell.”
There has to be someone else, right? A vast field, crops…there must be someone who can help me. I just have to find them. My feet feel like lead as I pick myself up off the ground and continue walking, each step bringing me closer to my final breaking point. Sweat pours down my face in torrents, and I toss the cap away, cursing under my breath.
My vision begins to fade too, slipping into memories of Roman’s house, like a side-by-side comparison to the hellhole I’m stuck in. A well-played cosmic joke. Just when I’m close to giving up, I see a farmhouse.
And a man, sitting in front of it.
“Hi!” I call out, finding my voice again. “Hey! Can you help me? I need a car to get out of here.”
He stands up, walking down a couple of steps. I pause as he approaches me, taking in his appearance. He’s tall and lean, probably in his forties. A ball cap is pulled low over his brow, dirt smeared on his hands. He squints at me as I approach, his eyes narrowing. I see a flash of recognition in them.
“You look familiar,” he says, tilting his head. “Wait a minute…”
My heart stutters. Let it be someone else.
“I know you.” He grins. “I followed Austin the last time he had to make a delivery. We were at Mr. Volkov’s house. I saw you there.” He points, while my heart digs a hole for me to bury myself. “You’re the boss’s wife, aren’t you? What are you doing here? You look terrible.” He whistles. “Hold on, I’ll call Austin. He can get through to Mr.—”
I don’t wait to find out what he has to say before I turn in the opposite direction, hastily walking away. If he calls Austin and Roman finds out where I am, I’ll never make it out again. I’d rather take the heat and the fatigue than be locked up against my will, forced to marry the man who killed my fiancé and intends to kill my father.
Which means I really have to find a way out of this place.
Like a never-ending comedy piece, it begins to rain. Heavily.
Hours, minutes…I’m unsure how much time passes while I remain huddled under a leaking overhang next to a locked shed, fighting the cold that sinks through my clothes and into my body. The heat was enough to weaken my knees, but the cold is worse. I try rubbing warmth into my arms, but my fingers barely move. Everything feels distant and fuzzy, and I slip in and out of consciousness more times than I can count.
Maybe this is it.
I didn’t think my death was going to be caused by hypothermia in the middle of nowhere, but it feels like this is where it’s going to end. At least it’s better than living a life that isn’t mine. If Roman wants me, he might have to make do with my dead, decomposing body.
I don’t want to die. A small part of me screams, struggling to hold on. But my body slumps, my eyelids dragging shut. Everything tilts and blurs as I surrender myself to whatever comes next, letting go. Then, out of nowhere, warmth. My eyelids flutter, too weak to open, as I feel myself floating, cradled against a warm, solid chest with strong arms cradling my body.
There’s a familiar scent mixed with the rain. It winds around me like a cocoon, wrapping my fading senses in the comfort of recognition.
“You’re one stubborn woman, Isabella Ricci.”
The voice cuts through the haze, rough and gravelly, laced with an exasperated fondness that somehow reaches the part of me that isn’t frozen. A soft gasp escapes my lips. Roman. He’s here.
For a moment, warmth floods my chest—hope blooming like a fragile flower, but it wilts just as fast. Because if he’s here, it means only one thing.
He’s taking me back.
Panic jolts through my weakened limbs, and I push, pressing my hands against his chest in a feeble attempt to free myself. My muscles tremble from the effort, but it’s like trying to move a mountain. His grip tightens—firm and unyielding—as he catches my wrists in one hand and pins them against me.
“Are you really going to fight me now?” His voice is tinged with disbelief and a glimmer of amusement.
A chuckle rumbles through his chest, low and soft, and I feel it against my cheek—like a warm vibration, a tether, a cruel comfort. It’s maddening how tender it feels. Maddening how, even now, in the middle of my defiance, my body reacts like it’s known this warmth all its life. I’m unsure if it’s exhaustion or heartbreak, but I stop fighting. My head tips forward, my lashes brushing against his shirt as I sag in his arms.
“I hate you,” I whisper, though the words lack bite. They barely carry breath.
“I know,” he replies. “But not enough to let yourself die in the rain.”
I hate that he’s right, and I hate my body more for betraying me as it embraces the warmth greedily when Roman gently tucks me into the back seat of a car, closing the door behind him.
