The taxi meter ticked away seconds like a countdown to detonation while I speed-dialed Josie, because that’s what you do when your life’s about to go nuclear—you secure the bunker first, ask questions later.

“Can I stay with you if shit goes sideways?” I blurted the second she picked up.

“Why not stay with your sugar daddy?” Josie’s timing for inappropriate jokes remained undefeated. “I’m sure Caleb’s got a California king that—”

“I’m not dragging him into whatever shitstorm’s brewing.” The words came out sharper than intended, but fuck it. Because that’s love, apparently—protecting someone from your family’s particular brand of psycho even when they’re offering you Tokyo and a future that doesn’t require antidepressants.

Josie’s tone shifted immediately, joke mode deactivating. “Mi casa es tu casa, babe. Always. You need extraction?”

“Not yet. But keep your phone on.”

“Roger that. God speed, you beautiful disaster.”

One safe harbor locked down. Now to face whatever fresh hell Gunther Wallace had marinated in his own disappointment.

Camilla waited in the foyer like a designer-clad anxiety attack, wringing her manicured hands in that way that meant shit had officially hit the Waterford crystal fan.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, already knowing the answer would suck harder than Anthony’s small talk.

“I don’t know. He won’t tell me.” Of course not. Gunther Wallace didn’t share intel with the help, even if he’d put a ring on it twenty-five years ago. “He just said to wait here. That you’d both need me.”

The way she said “both” made my intestines rearrange themselves into origami.

“Whatever happens next,” I heard myself ask, surprising us both, “will you still be on my side?”

“Always,” she whispered, but it sounded like a promise she might not be able to keep. Like when she’d promised to protect me from him, then slapped me for calling out their sham marriage.

The sad smile we shared was twenty-two years of mutual captivity acknowledging itself, two prisoners comparing scars before the warden arrived.

Walking into dad’s study felt like déjà vu had a baby with nausea and named it Inevitable Doom. Same mahogany throne where he ruled his empire. Same power pose designed to make visitors feel small. Same disappointment radiating from every overpriced surface.

“Remember our last real conversation in this room?” He didn’t look up from whatever document was sustaining his rage. “When you fought me about Anthony? Threw quite the tantrum about love and choice.”

My mouth went desert-dry. “I remember.”

“Then suddenly—miraculous change of heart. So accommodating. So eager to please.” His voice dripped calculated menace, each word a scalpel slicing closer to the truth. “Made me curious.”

The temperature dropped ten degrees. My brain started calculating exit strategies while my feet stayed frozen to his stupid Persian rug.

“So I checked something I should have reviewed earlier.” He finally looked up, and his smile could’ve frozen hell’s entire infrastructure. “Security cameras, Mikaela. In my private study. Installed after some valuable documents went missing last year.”

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