Chapter 2

When I heard Cameron's voice, my body was still pressed against the stranger's.

I turned around. Cameron stood there, his face dark as a storm cloud.

Damn it. Even furious, the man was magnetic. That was exactly how I'd fallen into his trap in the first place—too drunk on how beautiful he was.

Right now, those blue eyes were locked on Curly Hair's hand resting on my waist.

Cameron's presence was so overwhelming that the poor kid bolted immediately, though not without whispering in my ear on his way out: "Married and still out messing around?"

"Eleanor. What are you doing here?" Cameron's voice was low and controlled.

"Isn't it obvious?" I said. "I'm dancing."

His expression darkened further.

The manager emerged from behind the bar, practically bowing. "Mr. Cameron, what an honor to have you here personally. Shall I have them—"

Cameron didn't acknowledge the greeting. He only looked at me—his gaze sweeping over my bare shoulders, my wild curls, the row of silver studs climbing my ear.

I picked up my drink again and swirled it casually. "The music stopped. Should I pick the next song? Or maybe you'd like to buy everyone a round? I'm in a fantastic mood tonight."

"Enough." Cameron cut me off.

The manager bent even lower, frantically signaling the DJ to kill all the equipment—as if one more note might set off this man he couldn't afford to anger.

"Oh, come on. I was just—"

Just reclaiming the wildness that was rightfully mine.

"Disgraceful." Cameron stared at me, barely contained fury in every syllable. "You're coming with me."

No—why should I still take orders from you?

I planted myself in the center of the dance floor. "Mr. Cameron, as you're well aware, this is the twenty-first century. You don't have the right to force a woman to go anywhere."

"I can." Flat. Absolute.

His hand closed around my wrist, grip so tight that a red mark bloomed within seconds.

"Let go!" I glared at him.

The manager hovered nearby, ashen-faced. "Miss Fairfax... please, I'm begging you, don't put us in this position. This—this establishment belongs to Mr. Pembroke. Our hands are tied."

The fight drained out of me in an instant. So this was the power of money.

I could stand up to Cameron, but I wasn't going to make innocent people pay for it.

"Fine," I told Cameron. "Let's go."

A Maybach idled outside the door.

Cameron dispensed with any pretense of chivalry, all but shoving me into the back seat before sliding in after me.

The door slammed shut, sealing off the world—and with it, every shred of freedom. I was back inside Cameron's orbit.

"Enjoying yourself tonight?" His voice was tight with restrained anger.

I turned my face toward the window, deliberately light. "Sure was. Dancing, drinking, chatting with a cute stranger. What's not relaxing about that?"

"Eleanor, our wedding is in one week. I don't want to see you acting like... that anymore."

He sighed, took out a handkerchief, and wiped every trace of lipstick from my mouth. "You've had two full years of training. Why are you still—"

I closed my eyes.

Training? This was captivity.

He knew perfectly well I'd been caged for two straight years.

When I was eighteen, I became obsessed with Pride and Prejudice—truly, madly obsessed. I swore I'd never walk down the aisle unless I found my own Darcy.

I hated shallow flings, hated hollow promises. I wanted love that was sincere and fierce—the kind that makes you willing to bow your head, willing to change for the other person.

The first time I saw Cameron at a party, I thought fate had given me its answer.

He stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, gaze detached, keeping his distance from everyone.

It was love at first sight.

To become his wife, I'd willingly signed the prenuptial agreement. I'd willingly submitted to the regiment of private tutors he'd hired at great expense to refine me.

He looked at photos of me as a child—all teeth and claws and chaos—and said, without a shred of mercy: "Lucky you've changed. You used to look like a little wildcat."

I told him I liked who I used to be.

He shook his head. "That was before you knew better. Now is how it should be."

I had insomnia. At three in the morning I called him, desperate for comfort. He hung up on me. The next day, he brought in a doctor who diagnosed a hormonal imbalance, prescribed a mountain of pills, and—on Cameron's orders—had the chef overhaul my entire diet.

For two years, coffee and dessert became forbidden territory.

I thought that was extreme enough—until he sent people to redo my room.

The rock CDs were swapped for classical music. Fashion magazines replaced with etiquette manuals. Posters and figurines cleared out, replaced by potted plants.

I stood in the doorway and, for the first time, felt something deeply, fundamentally wrong.

That wasn't my room. It was a show home for "Mrs. Pembroke."

If I married Cameron, I would lose myself entirely.

This was not the life I wanted.

But right now, I couldn't let him know about my escape plan—or I wouldn't make it out of New York, let alone to Paris.

I knew exactly how far Cameron's power reached.

"So where are you taking me? To church to confess? For what I did tonight?"

Cameron turned his head to look at me. "You should confess. But not right now."

The car eased to a stop outside the Pembroke estate.

Cecilia was waiting at the entrance.

Every strand of her hair radiated refinement. I was certain Cameron would approve of the replacement bride I'd chosen for him.

Cameron opened my door and offhandedly instructed a servant nearby: "Get her changed."

"I don't need—"

"You do." Quiet, but brooking no argument.

His gaze fell on my ears again. "Hideous."

I stopped mid-step and turned to him. "Excuse me?"

"Your new piercings. I hope those are the last."

I almost laughed from sheer disbelief.