Marian Pruitt received an unusual tip: someone had reported that her husband was holding his fiancée captive at a suburban estate.
She had already slipped past the perimeter of the gated compound, crouching low in the shadow of a manicured hedge.
She pressed her fingers hard against the bridge of her nose. She had to be out of her mind.
Years on the force had taught her that bogus tips and malicious reports were a dime a dozen. Yet this one, for reasons she couldn't explain, she'd believed.
Believed it enough to sneak in here alone.
Half a day of staking the place out, and she hadn't seen a single soul.
Marian let out a dry, self-mocking half-smile. She really was losing it.
She knew exactly what kind of man Herman James was.
The man who comparison-shopped a bag of frozen ravioli, who checked three stores before buying a bottle of vinegar.
The two of them crammed into a run-down rental barely three hundred square feet, scraping by on nothing. He didn't own a single piece of clothing worth more than fifteen dollars. Dead broke.
And this neighborhood, this stretch of luxury estates where the smallest property ran north of seven million.
A lifetime of their combined earnings wouldn't come close to touching it.
Let alone holding someone's fiancée prisoner.
Herman revolved around her. His phone contacts listed “Wife,” the delivery guy, and the building super. He never went to office get-togethers. All he wanted was to stay home with her.
A man who loved her like that. How could he possibly betray her?
Marian exhaled, shoulders loosening. She straightened up and was about to turn and leave when a woman's voice, high and petulant, drifted from the garden.
“Herman James! How long are you going to keep me locked up in here? I'm suffocating!”
Marian froze mid-step. She spun around.
A girl in a scarlet dress stood beneath a rose trellis, her delicate face flushed pink with fury.
Before the last syllable faded, a tall figure strolled over, unhurried.
The man wore a bespoke suit, every line cut to perfection. He carried himself with the easy authority of old money, nothing like the sloppy, penny-pinching husband she saw every day.
He crouched in front of the girl and slid cashmere slippers onto her bare feet.
“Why do you never wear shoes? You'll hurt yourself.”
His voice was drenched in tenderness, coaxing, like he was soothing a ruffled kitten.
The girl didn't accept the gesture. She kicked the slippers off, puffed her cheeks, and glared at him with reddened eyes.
“What's the point of shoes if I can't go anywhere?”
He reached up and tapped the tip of her nose, sighing.
“There's a show in Milan next weekend. Armani's fall-winter couture. You've been dying to see it. I reserved front row. After the show, I'll take you down Via Montenapoleone. Buy whatever you want.”
The girl's eyes lit up, then she forced her face away, pretending she was still angry.
“Don't lie to me. Last time you promised to take me to that exhibition in Tokyo, and what happened? Just because I glanced at another guy, you had the whole exhibit shut down!”
“If you keep locking me up, I swear I'll sneak out and find my fiancé……”
She didn't finish. Herman gripped her face, cutting the words short. His eyes went dangerous.
“You're mine now. Mention him again, and you won't be walking out of bed tonight.”
He swept her up and carried her, still struggling, into the depths of the villa.
In the shadow of the trees behind them, Marian's nails had driven so deep into her palms that blood seeped through.
Her whole body went cold. Her throat sealed shut like it had been filled with lead.
She couldn't believe it. This man lavishing another woman with that kind of devotion was the same man who had held her like she was precious, who had been nothing but gentle for an entire year.
She knew Herman's past.
He was never some ordinary nobody. He was the eldest son of Sterling Enterprises.
But years ago, his father had ripped out his mother's kidney to save a beloved mistress. His mother couldn't endure it. She died broken and bitter.
Herman, shattered by grief and rage, severed all ties with the James family, abandoned every cent he had, and walked away for good.
Marian stood there, stunned. Had Herman gone back to them after all?
Her mind went blank. Then, from deeper in the garden, a cluster of voices carried over, laughing and gossiping.
“Herman's absolutely crazy about Sandra Fox. Think about it. Back when he hit rock bottom, she turned her back and ran. And did he hold a grudge? Not even close. He couldn't stop thinking about her. Then the Fox family collapsed, and they married her off to some nobody. The second Herman heard, he lost it. Showed up at the wedding and took her right back.”
“That's the thing. To give Sandra the life she deserved again, Herman swallowed every bit of hatred over his mother's death. He went back to his father, made peace, even had to bow and scrape and call the woman who killed his mother 'Mom.'”
“Nobody comes before Sandra in his heart. That Marian Pruitt out there could pour her whole soul into him and it still wouldn't matter. In the end, she was just a maid he picked up while he was slumming it.”
The chatter barely died down before Herman walked out of the villa. There were lipstick-smeared marks on his neck, unmistakable. He'd clearly just come from someone's bed.
The group swarmed around him, all smiles and congratulations.
“Congrats, Herman. You finally got the girl. Everything you wanted.”
“But what about that Marian Pruitt? What are you going to do with her? If she finds out you spent years playing poor, that you even staged those attacks so she'd throw herself in front of a blade for you, all of it just to get payback for Sandra, she'd probably throw herself off a roof……”
Herman stood at the center of the group, a cigarette between his fingers, smoke curling around him. His voice was flat and cold.
“Then she'd deserve it.”
“She fabricated evidence to make a name for herself, reported the Fox family for illegal organ trafficking, and got them wiped out. My Sandra grew up sheltered. She was treated like royalty. Never suffered a day in her life. And because of that woman, she went through hell. What Marian owes Sandra, she couldn't repay in a lifetime.”
He paused, as though something had crossed his mind, and flicked the ash from his cigarette with a thin, contemptuous smile.
“Besides, her mother was nothing but a cheap dancer. A whore's daughter, playing cop? Fighting for justice? The thought alone is a joke.”
Through the dense hedge, tears streamed down Marian's face. Every drop of blood in her body rushed to her heart and slammed against it, wave after wave of blinding pain.
No wonder.
No wonder every hired killer who came after them charged straight at her and her alone.
Herman used to tell her they were assassins sent by his father's mistress, people trying to eliminate him for good.
So every single time, she threw herself between him and the blade without a second thought.
She ran her thumb slowly across her palm. The scar was thick and rigid, left from the time she'd caught a knife bare-handed to shield him.
The knee that had been hacked through, treated with the cheapest medication because she couldn't bear the expense of anything better, had left her with permanent damage. She would never run or jump the way a normal person could again.
Her hand drifted to her lower abdomen. There had been a child once. But the hired men had carved it out of her, blade by blade.
And Herman, the whole time, had been hiding in the back of the closet. Silent from start to finish. Watching it all with cold eyes……
Every last bit of it had been a lie. One elaborate, carefully constructed lie.
Marian bit down on her lip until the sharp, coppery taste of blood flooded her tongue.
Something invisible closed around her heart and squeezed, a pain so deep it nearly doubled her over.
She walked out of the estate. She took out her phone and made a call.
“Captain, I'm accepting the transfer order. I'll leave Harbor City immediately.”
