Night had given way to morning, and the first thing Camille noticed was the silence — not the easy quiet of Maple Grove after closing, but the kind that only existed in places too large, too expensive, and too empty to ever really feel lived in.
Her eyes opened slowly, a dull ache pulsing behind her temples.
For a few seconds she just stared upward — impossibly high ceilings, elegant crown molding, a crystal chandelier catching the morning light through floor-to-ceiling windows.
Cream walls held artwork she didn’t recognize.
Rich mahogany furniture filled every corner, and across from the bed sat a white marble fireplace, curtains stirring faintly in the breeze from an open window.
It was beautiful.
More luxurious than anywhere she’d ever set foot.
None of it made her feel any safer.
Then the memory hit all at once — the café, Brandon, Jacob, the gunshots, Liam — and she shot upright.
“No.”
Her breathing turned ragged.
How long had she been out?
She threw the blanket aside and crossed to the nearest window.
The breeze hit her face.
Unlocked.
Hope surged for exactly as long as it took her to look down.
The mansion rose several stories above manicured gardens, fountains glinting in the sun, security patrolling the grounds with the ease of men who’d done this a thousand times before.
Even if she somehow got out, the fall alone would kill her.
The hope died as quickly as it had come.
She backed away and lunged instead for the door, twisted the handle.
Nothing.
Tried again.
Still locked.
“No.”
Panic climbed her chest.
She tore through the room anyway — nightstand, wardrobe, dresser, bathroom — finding nothing useful, though she made herself look properly this time, cataloging every door, every vent, every window latch, the way she might if she ever actually needed to remember the layout of this place.
Her phone was gone, of course.
Liam had taken it.
No way to reach Lauren.
No way to reach her father.
No way home.
Her legs finally gave out from under her, and she sank onto the edge of the bed, hands fisting in the sheets, tears rising again despite herself.
Then—
Click.
The door unlocked and opened.
A dignified older woman entered first, crisp black-and-white uniform, followed by a younger maid pushing a silver breakfast trolley.
The smell reached her almost instantly — fresh bread, coffee, pancakes, fruit.
On any other morning she’d have eaten without a second thought.
Today, none of it registered as anything but noise.
“Good morning, Miss,” the woman said, polite and unbothered.
Camille was on her feet at once. This chapter is updated first at g.com.
“Where am I?
What is this place — where’s Liam?” A step forward.
“Please.
Please get me out of here.”
“You’re at Macford Estate, Miss Wilson.”
“I don’t belong here.”
“I know.”
“Then let me leave.”
“I’m afraid that decision isn’t mine to make.”
“Where is he?
I want to see him.”
“Mr.
Macford will see you when he decides to.” The words landed like a door closing somewhere further inside her chest.
The woman gestured toward the trolley.
“You should eat while it’s warm.”
“I don’t want it.”
“You haven’t eaten since yesterday.”
“I said I don’t want it.”
The woman studied her a beat, then gave a small, respectful nod.
“I’ll let Mr.
Macford know you’re awake.” She turned and left, the maid trailing behind her.
Click.
Locked again.
Camille stared at the door for a long moment.
Whatever this house wanted to call her, guest was not the word for it.
Downstairs, morning light spilled through the towering windows of one of the estate’s sitting rooms, dark walnut shelves lining an elegant bar stocked with whiskey older than she was.
Liam sat on a leather stool, glass in hand, Ethan across from him with one of his own.
Neither spoke for a while.
Ethan broke it eventually.
“About the lady.”
Liam turned the glass slowly, watching the liquid circle without really seeing it.
“You’ve never spared a witness.
Not once, in all the years I’ve known you.” Ethan’s gaze shifted toward him.
“What changed?”
Liam let the question sit a moment before answering.
“She saved my life, Ethan.” His voice stayed quiet, level.
“I can’t possibly kill the woman who pulled me back from death.”
Ethan took a sip, nodding slowly.
“So what’s the plan?
Keep her locked in this house forever?”
A pause stretched between them.
“Yes.” No hesitation in it at all.
“She stays here until I decide otherwise.” New chapters come out on g.com first.
He set the glass down.
“Raphael would use anyone to get to me if it meant weakening my position — he’s spent the better part of two years looking for exactly this kind of opening.” His expression cooled further.
“He wouldn’t think twice about her.”
“And her family?”
“No one finds out she’s here.” A slow, almost wicked smile crossed his face.
“If they do, they may end up exactly like Brandon and Jacob.”
The room went quiet again.
A moment later, the house manager appeared and stopped a respectful distance off.
“Sir.”
Liam looked up.
“Miss Wilson is awake.”
“I assumed she would be by now.”
“She refused breakfast.” A brief pause.
“And she’s asking for you.”
He sighed, turning fully on the stool.
“Why is she so stubborn?”
Ethan let out a quiet laugh.
“You’re one to talk.”
A small grin tugged at the corner of Liam’s mouth.
“Looks like you’ve finally met someone you can’t manage the usual way,” Ethan added, smiling knowingly.
Liam turned back to the house manager.
“Send someone into the city.
Clothes — dresses, casual wear, shoes.
Skincare, toiletries, whatever else she needs.” A brief pause.
“Nothing should be lacking.”
“Yes, sir.” She inclined her head and left.
Ethan watched him a moment longer.
“You’re still not going to see her?”
Liam lifted his glass again.
“Not yet.” A faint, amused curve touched his mouth as he turned it slowly in the light.
“Curiosity has a way of making people more cooperative.”
Meanwhile Upstairs, Camille sat alone on the edge of the bed, eyes drifting once more over the room — the luxury, the silence, the locked door, the fatal drop just outside the window.
Nothing here felt normal.
Nothing about the man who owned it did either.
She wrapped her arms around herself, only now registering how hungry she actually was, though the knot of fear sitting low in her stomach swallowed whatever appetite was left underneath it.
Still — she found herself cataloguing what she could actually see from where she sat: the single door, the window with its fatal drop, the fireplace, the wardrobe she’d already searched.
It wasn’t much.
She had no memory of how she’d gotten into this room in the first place.
“…Just what kind of man have I gotten myself involved with?” she whispered.