Three weeks passed in a blur of forced routine. I became Clara’s ghost mother. I fed her, bathed her, and sang to her the songs I used to sing to my own boys. In a strange, twisted way, she was healing the broken pieces of my heart, even as my captivity chafed at my soul.
Dominic was a constant, looming presence. He was always watching, always checking. Our relationship was a bizarre dance of cold hostility and unspoken intimacy. We were two broken parents bound together by a single, fragile life.
But peace in Dominic Walker’s world is an illusion.
It happened on a Tuesday night. A violent storm was raging outside, lightning cracking across the ocean sky, thunder shaking the foundations of the mansion. Clara was asleep in the crib next to my bed. I was staring at the ceiling, listening to the rain, when the lights suddenly flickered.
And died.
The entire mansion was plunged into pitch-black darkness.
A second later, the emergency backup generators should have kicked in. They didn’t. The silence that followed was heavy and wrong.
Then, the high-pitched chirp of my suite’s electronic lock echoed through the dark. It clicked. Unlocked. But the backup power was down—the locks should have defaulted to a secure, deadbolt state.
My heart leaped into my throat.
Someone had overridden the security grid.
Before I could even scream, the heavy wooden door was thrown open. A silhouette stood in the frame, illuminated by a flash of lightning from the window. The person was wearing full tactical gear, a gas mask covering their face, and a silenced submachine gun raised in their hands.
“Target located,” a muffled voice hissed into a radio headset. “The wet nurse and the asset are in the room.”
Panic, cold and absolute, flooded my veins. My maternal instinct didn’t hesitate. I threw myself out of bed, lunging toward the crib. I scooped Clara into my arms, shielding her body with my own just as a deafening thwip-thwip-thwip tore through the room.
The drywall behind my bed exploded in a shower of plaster. They weren’t here to rescue me. They were here to eliminate us.
“Stop!” I screamed, tucking Clara’s head beneath my chin as she began to wail in terror.
The assassin raised the barrel, aiming directly at my head. In the pitch black, the red laser dot of his sight painted a lethal circle right between my eyes. My breath caught. I closed my eyes, waiting for the impact.
BANG.
The sound wasn’t a muffled hiss; it was a roaring thunderclap.
A spray of warm, metallic fluid splashed across my face and chest. I snapped my eyes open. The assassin collapsed backward into the hallway like a felled tree, a massive hole blown through the center of his chest.
Standing over the body, illuminated by another brilliant flash of lightning, was Dominic.
He was in his shirtsleeves, covered in blood, holding a massive silver revolver that was still smoking. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated rage.
“Emily! Get down!” he roared.
Before I could move, the sound of shattered glass echoed from the balcony. Two more windows on the far side of my suite exploded inward. Flashbang grenades bounced across the floor.
BOOM.
A blinding white light and a deafening roar shattered my senses. I fell to my knees, my ears ringing violently, my vision swimming in a sea of gray and white. I couldn’t see Dominic. I couldn’t hear Clara’s cries over the ringing in my ears.
Through the haze of my blurred vision, I saw two more dark figures descending from ropes onto the balcony. They stepped over the shattered glass, their weapons raised.
One of them pointed his gun directly at Dominic, who was trying to recover from the blast. The other assassin turned toward me, pulling a long, wicked-looking combat knife from his vest. He lunged across the room, his gloved hand reaching out to rip Clara from my arms.
I squeezed my eyes shut, holding the baby with every ounce of strength I had left, screaming into the darkness.
Then, a heavy hand grabbed my collar and yanked me violently backward into the shadows.
