3

Chapter 3

The next morning, my home was invaded.

I was sitting at the dining table drinking coffee when the elevator doors dinged open. Two security personnel emerged first, carrying suitcases and garment bags.

Victoria followed behind them.

She wore a pale dress, her face wan as if she'd just escaped a nightmare. But her eyes were steady, sweeping over the living room, kitchen, hallway, finally landing on me, as if confirming her place.

Marcus came in right behind her.

His shirt cuffs were stained dark red, his right shoulder clearly restricted in movement.

"Morning," Victoria spoke first, inappropriately cheerful. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

I ignored her, looking at Marcus instead.

"What happened to your shoulder?" I asked.

"Ran into some trouble with competitors," he answered vaguely, as if afraid I'd press for details, then immediately directed his security chief: "Take her things to the guest room. Keep the personal items separate, don't let anyone touch them."

"Yes, sir."

Marcus walked over to me, his tone brooking no argument.

"Help me with this."

He removed his jacket; the shirt at his shoulder was stuck with blood. I brought the first aid kit, cutting away the fabric. The wound ran along the lower shoulder blade, edges irregular—clearly sliced by some blade, then torn worse by forced movement.

I disinfected it with alcohol. His breathing hitched slightly, but he made no sound. The wound would heal, but it would take time with proper treatment.

Victoria sat on the sofa, arms wrapped around her knees, looking genuinely terrified.

"Last night was absolutely horrible," she said softly. "I thought I was going to die."

Marcus didn't look at her, but his voice softened, his protective instincts kicking in: "You won't. I'll protect you."

I sutured, medicated, bandaged—my movements clean and efficient. As I finished the last wrap, Victoria stood up as if suddenly remembering something.

"Oh," she opened an elegant box. "I brought you cake, as a thank you for... being willing to help him."

The lid lifted, releasing the sweet scent of mango mousse.

I glanced at it.

"I'm allergic to mangoes," I said.

She froze momentarily, then looked apologetic: "Oh my God, I'm so sorry. I really didn't know."

Marcus had already buttoned his shirt, moving his shoulder experimentally. The pain made his brow tighten slightly.

"We need to leave the city for a few days," he said. "It's not safe here."

"Where?" I asked.

"Crescent Bay," he said. "I have a place there."

Crescent Bay.

In our world, that wasn't a vacation destination—it was a safe house disguised as a beach estate. Perfect for businessmen to appear relaxed when deals were calm, perfect for hiding problems when storms came.

Three hours later, we arrived at Crescent Bay.

The estate backed onto the ocean, the front yard manicured like corporate grounds. The walls were high, reinforced with the latest security systems, surveillance covered every angle, sea breeze carried the salt smell but couldn't dispel the vigilance here. Security personnel quickly took positions, checking every entry point like they were setting up a perimeter.

Inside, though, it was excessively luxurious: white marble, massive floor-to-ceiling windows, fireplace, wine cellar—as if specifically designed to make people forget the words "safe house."

When Victoria walked in, her familiarity was almost natural.

She placed her hand lightly on the stair railing, smiling: "This place hasn't changed at all."

"You still kept this house," she said softly, part nostalgia, part declaration. "Ten years ago we hid here from a corporate scandal. Remember? You hid me in the cellar while you went outside to face them... When you came back, your hands were covered in blood."

I followed behind, saying nothing.

I knew perfectly well from the beginning—this wasn't "our" place. This was "theirs."

That evening, we sat in the living room.

Victoria had changed clothes, draped in a soft shawl, holding a wine glass as she reclined in the armchair like the lady of the house.

"I always thought I'd never come back here," she sighed. "Marcus, do you remember that year we snuck here? You said once you became CEO, you'd bring me to live here."

I looked out at the ocean. Night swallowed the sound of waves, like it swallowed promise after promise with no one accountable.

Victoria had just poured herself a drink when Marcus grasped her hand: "You can't drink, you're still on medication."

He passed that glass to me instead.

I smelled it, something inside me bristling slightly.

Bourbon whiskey.

The liquor I hated most.

I only drank gin. Marcus used to remember—back when we stayed up late calculating investment portfolios together, planning strategies together in safe houses, he remembered these details. Now what he handed me was what Victoria loved.

I looked up at him.

He wasn't looking at me. His gaze remained on Victoria, as if checking whether she was still nervous, whether she needed more reassurance from him.

Something inside me broke.

Not loudly, but completely.

I set down the glass and stood.

"Where are you going?" he finally spoke.

"For a walk," I said.

"Don't wander off," he warned reflexively, like addressing someone irresponsible. "There are dangerous people in the area."

I nodded: "I won't go far."

I left the living room, walked through the corridor, pushed open the back door.

Sea wind hit my face—cold, carrying salt, clearing my head. Security personnel silhouettes in the distance stood like shadows guarding the perimeter.

I took out my phone and sent my father a message.

[I'm ready.]

[Come get me. Now.]

After hitting send, I looked back at the floor-to-ceiling windows. The warm lights inside showed Marcus's figure moving closer to Victoria. He reached out to take the wine glass from her fingers, the movement practiced, like this was what he was always supposed to do.

That tenderness—I hadn't seen it in so long.

I pocketed my phone and turned to walk along the beach.

Tonight, I would leave this place.