The first thing Lucas Moretti saw when he entered his penthouse at three in the morning was a woman in a champagne-colored nightgown sleeping on his leather couch.

The black bulletproof Mercedes glided through the iron gates of the Vance estate like a ghost. The sprawling stone mansion loomed against the twilight sky, looking less like a home and more like a mausoleum. Every light on the ground floor was blazing, casting long, sharp shadows across the manicured lawns.

“He’s home early,” I whispered from the passenger seat, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“Good,” Lucas muttered, parking the car in a shadowed grove of oak trees well out of sight of the security cameras. “That means he’s careless. Arrogant men who think they’ve won always lower their guard.”

Lucas killed the engine, and the silence inside the car became deafening. He turned to me, his dark eyes softening just a fraction in the dashboard light.

“Remember the rules, Lily. If things go sideways, you take the keys from my pocket, get back in the car, and drive straight to the airstrip. My pilot will be waiting.”

“And you?” I asked, my voice catching.

“I always come out,” Lucas said simply.

He popped the trunk, retrieved a heavy tactical case, and stepped out into the crisp night air. I followed him a second later, the silk blouse and borrowed trousers feeling inadequate armor against the chill of the estate.

We moved like shadows toward the side service entrance. Derek had always bragged about the state-of-the-art biometric security system guarding his home, calling it impenetrable. But Lucas pulled a small, modified decoding device from his tactical case, plugged it into the emergency override port, and within three seconds, the heavy steel door clicked open with a soft hiss.

“In,” Lucas ordered, holding the door for me.

We slipped inside, the familiar scent of cedar, expensive leather, and lemon polish washing over me. It was the smell of my prison for the last two years. Every footstep on the hardwood floor felt heavy, loaded with the ghosts of the trauma I had endured within these walls.

Lucas led the way, his handgun held ready, his movements entirely silent. We crept down the dark hallway toward Derek’s private study at the far end of the west wing.

Suddenly, a voice echoed from the living room ahead, stopping us dead in our tracks.

“I don't care how you find her!” Derek’s voice was sharp, laced with venom and rising panic. “Check the airports, check the bus terminals, check her damn friends! If Lily talks, everything we’ve built goes up in smoke!”

My breath hitched. I pressed my back against the wall, my hand flying to my mouth to stifle a gasp.

Lucas glanced back at me, his eyes narrowing into cold daggers. He motioned with a subtle flick of his chin toward the study door just a few feet to our left.

We slipped inside the dark study, closing the heavy oak door silently behind us.

The room was bathed in the pale moonlight filtering through the French doors. Without wasting a second, Lucas crossed the room to the mahogany desk. He didn't bother trying to crack the safe with codes; instead, he pulled a small, diamond-tipped thermal cutter from his kit, pressing it against the steel hinge of the wall safe.