The early morning sun filtered through the gaps in the canvas tent, casting thin, golden streaks across the floor. Charlie huddled under the down quilt, her face as pale as paper, her body curled into a tight ball.
She pressed her hands firmly against her lower abdomen, letting out a soft, painful groan-feigning the throes of severe premenstrual syndrome. Her brow furrowed, and her lips trembled, making the act look so real it was almost convincing even to herself.
Claudius, who had been sitting on a folding chair by the bed, reading the Wall Street Journal, immediately dropped the newspaper. The pages fluttered to the ground as he strode over to her side, his usually composed face twisted with obvious anxiety.
He reached out and pressed the back of his hand to her forehead, his brows knitting tighter when he felt the cold, clammy skin. "Damn it," he muttered, his voice laced with irritation. "I told the staff to keep the tent warm. Those idiots let the night wind seep in."
Charlie weakly grabbed his wrist, squeezing it gently, and forced a few physiological tears to spill from the corners of her eyes. "Claudius," she whispered, her voice fragile and trembling, "I don't feel well. I want to go back to the apartment in Manhattan. Please."
Claudius didn't hesitate for a second. He pulled out his phone from his pocket, his fingers moving quickly across the screen to dial Jenilee's encrypted line-his assistant who was always on call, no matter the hour or location.
"Jenilee," his voice dropped to a cold, commanding tone, sharp and unyielding, a stark contrast to the tenderness he'd shown Charlie just moments before. "I need a Sikorsky S-76 helicopter on the camp helipad in twenty minutes. No delays. If it's late, you're fired." He hung up the call without waiting for a response.
When he turned back to Charlie, the coldness in his eyes melted instantly, replaced by that suffocating, overbearing tenderness that made her skin crawl. He picked up a warm wet towel from the nearby table, his movements surprisingly gentle as he dabbed the cold sweat from her forehead and cheeks.
Watching him play the role of the perfect lover so flawlessly, Charlie felt a wave of nausea surge in her stomach. She quickly closed her eyes, pretending to be too weak to keep them open, just to hide the disgust that threatened to show on her face.
Twenty minutes exactly, the distant hum of helicopter blades grew louder and louder, shattering the quiet of the Hamptons morning. The Sikorsky S-76 touched down smoothly on the small helipad near the camp, its rotors still spinning as it settled.
Claudius wrapped Charlie tightly in a soft cashmere blanket, lifting her up bridal-style in his strong arms. She was light in his grasp, but the weight of his touch made her feel trapped, like a bird caught in a golden cage.
As Charlie leaned against his broad shoulder, her peripheral vision caught sight of Kael and Burk standing under a tree in the distance. Their eyes were fixed on her and Claudius, their expressions strange and unreadable-cold, almost predatory. A shiver ran down her spine.
She immediately buried her face in the crook of Claudius's neck, pretending to flinch from the strong wind stirred up by the helicopter's rotors. In reality, she was just trying to avoid the gaze of those two monsters, the ones who had haunted her nightmares since she'd first crossed paths with them.
Claudius carried her onto the helicopter, carefully setting her down on the top-of-the-line leather seat. He leaned over and fastened the four-point safety belt around her himself, his fingers brushing against her waist lightly as he did so-a subtle touch that made her muscles tense.
The helicopter lifted off, and the Hamptons coastline grew smaller and smaller beneath them. Charlie felt the tightness in her chest ease slightly, if only for a moment-away from the camp, away from Kael and Burk, she could breathe a little easier.
Through the noise-canceling headphones, Claudius's deep voice came, soft and low. "Do you want some warm water, baby?"
Charlie shook her head, turning her gaze to the window. The scenery of Long Island rushed by below-lush green lawns, sprawling mansions, the glistening ocean. It was beautiful, but it felt like a distant dream, one she could never reach.
Claudius reached out, his long fingers brushing gently over the back of her pale hand. His gaze was deep and dark, so intense that she couldn't bear to meet it-she had no idea what he was thinking, and that uncertainty terrified her.
Suddenly, he spoke again, his tone casual, as if he was just making small talk. "When you were looking at my friends earlier at the camp... why were you shaking?"
Charlie's heart skipped a beat, panic surging through her veins. Her mind raced, searching for an excuse, a lie that would sound convincing. She turned to him, her eyes filled with feigned grievance. "Their cigars," she whispered, her voice trembling. "The smell was so strong... it made me feel sick to my stomach."
Claudius stared into her eyes for three long, tense seconds-long enough that Charlie thought he might see through her lie. His gaze was sharp, like a knife, as if he was dissecting every word she said, every expression on her face.
Finally, he let out a low, amused chuckle, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the tip of her fingers. "I'm sorry, baby," he said, his voice gentle again. "I'll tell them not to smoke around you ever again. I won't let anything make you uncomfortable."
Charlie forced a weak smile, her back already soaked with cold sweat. She nodded, leaning back against the seat, and closed her eyes again-pretending to rest, but in reality, her mind was racing with fear and relief.
Forty-five minutes later, the helicopter landed smoothly on the private helipad atop the Buchanan Estate penthouse in midtown Manhattan. The dazzling skyline of New York City stretched out before them-tall skyscrapers, twinkling lights, a city that never slept. But to Charlie, it was just another cage, a gilded prison that Claudius had built for her.
Claudius lifted her up again, carrying her through the bulletproof glass corridor that led directly to the master bedroom. The corridor was lined with expensive artwork, but Charlie didn't even glance at it-her mind was too focused on the growing unease in her abdomen.
He set her gently down on the huge custom waterbed, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. "I'll go get you some warm water," he said, turning to walk toward the bathroom.
The moment he turned away, Charlie felt a sharp, crushing pain in her lower abdomen-a real pain, not the feigned PMS she'd been pretending to have. It felt like something was falling, like her body was betraying her.
A warm, sticky liquid trickled down between her legs. Charlie froze, her eyes widening in terror. This wasn't her period. This wasn't the lie she'd been telling.
She realized, with a sinking feeling in her chest, that this might be a threatened miscarriage. And in that moment, all her pretense, all her fear, all her anger, collided into a single, overwhelming panic.
