Elena POV:
I dragged my torn dress across the wet asphalt and slid into the backseat of the Maybach.
The jagged shards of glass embedded in the fabric sliced into my calves. My muscles screamed as they tore against the movement, sending sharp, electric shocks up my spine.
I bit down hard on my lower lip. The metallic taste of blood flooded my mouth, but I didn't make a sound. Five years in the Parks family had trained me well. Screaming only invited more cruelty. I had learned to swallow my pain until it became a physical weight in my stomach.
Hamilton sat beside me. He picked up a cashmere blanket that smelled of soothing lavender and cedar. He reached out to drape it over me.
I flinched, my shoulders pulling back as my body instinctively pressed against the cold leather door.
Hamilton paused. His eyes softened, but he didn’t push. He simply let the blanket fall gently over my trembling shoulders. The heavy fabric trapped my body heat, but I still felt freezing.
I rolled the window down halfway and looked out at the winding mountain road.
In the distance, the flashing red and blue lights of the ambulances pierced the dark night. The strobing colors burned my retinas.
Paramedics were lifting a bloodied stretcher into the back of the ambulance. Jackson was on it. His chest was barely moving.
I watched him with dead eyes.
When the paramedic moved to slam the ambulance doors shut, Jackson’s hand slipped off the side of the stretcher and dangled in the air. That was the same hand that had pushed me away countless times. The hand that had held Candida while I stood in the shadows.
I pulled my gaze away and stared straight ahead.
Hamilton opened the small refrigerated compartment between the seats. He pulled out a syringe filled with clear liquid. The silver needle caught the dim cabin light, making the air in the car suddenly feel thin.
He unbuttoned the cuff of my torn sleeve and pushed it up. "Painkiller," he said, his voice low and elegant.
He slid the needle into my arm with practiced gentleness.
The cold liquid rushed into my veins. Within seconds, my ragged breathing began to slow. The sharp, stabbing pain in my legs dulled into a heavy throb.
But my hands were still balled into tight fists. My fingernails dug so hard into my palms that they broke the skin. A single drop of cold sweat rolled down my temple.
Hamilton snapped open the center console and pulled out a black velvet box.
The small combination lock clicked sharply in the quiet car. He pushed the open box across the leather armrest toward me.
My fingers trembled as I reached for it.
Inside sat a brand-new European Union passport. The gold crest gleamed under the reading light. I picked it up and opened the thick pages.
The photo was me, but the name printed next to it was *Aria*.
"Do you want one last look?" Hamilton asked softly. The low hum of the Maybach's engine almost masked his heavy sigh.
I looked at the passport, then at the distant ambulance lights. I shook my head once.
I looked down at my left hand. The diamond ring on my ring finger felt like a shackle. Jackson had shoved it onto my finger three years ago, a cold business transaction disguised as a marriage. Now, it just looked ridiculous.
I grabbed the diamond and pulled. It was stuck on my swollen knuckle. I yanked it hard.
The metal scraped a layer of skin off my joint. A bead of dark red blood welled up on my finger, but I didn't care.
I tossed the ring out the open window. It vanished into the tall, wet grass by the cliff edge.
Hamilton snapped his fingers.
The bodyguard in the front passenger seat immediately reached back and handed Hamilton a heavy black remote. A small red light blinked steadily on its surface.
Hamilton placed the remote directly into my palm.
The freezing metal sent a violent shiver down my arms. Hamilton wrapped his large, warm hand over mine, pressing my fingers around the device.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
Behind my eyelids, I saw the exact moment the truck had hit us. I saw Jackson unbuckle his seatbelt and throw his body over Candida to shield her, leaving me exposed to the crushing metal.
My eyes snapped open.
I pressed my thumb down on the red button. The resistance was heavy, requiring real force. I pushed until it gave way with a loud, mechanical click.
A muffled boom echoed from the cliffside behind us.
The shockwave hit a second later, violently rocking the heavy Maybach on its suspension. The night sky lit up in a blinding flash of orange and yellow.
Through the rearview mirror, I watched the sedan registered in my name turn into a massive fireball. Thick, black smoke billowed into the clouds. The flames were hot enough to melt the chassis. They would easily incinerate the blood-soaked clothes I had left in the driver's seat.
The orange glow washed over my pale face. Even through the bulletproof glass, I could feel the faint warmth of the blast.
The corners of my mouth twitched. A cold, relieved smile broke across my face.
Hamilton picked up a crystal glass of warm water and handed it to me. The water sloshed over the rim as my hands shook, but I brought it to my lips and drank the entire glass in one breath.
"Airport, sir?" the bodyguard asked from the front. His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror, wide with a new, distinct fear.
Hamilton nodded.
The Maybach pulled smoothly onto the dark highway. The raging fire grew smaller and smaller behind us until it was swallowed by the night. I pressed the new passport tightly against my chest, feeling my own heartbeat against the thick paper.
The television screen embedded in the seatback flickered on. An automated female AI voice began to read the local traffic report. *"Warning. Major explosion reported on Route 9..."*
Hamilton reached forward and hit the mute button.
I leaned my head back against the soft leather headrest and closed my eyes. Memories of the last five years clawed at the inside of my skull like trapped animals. I forced myself to breathe through my nose, pushing the images away until my mind was entirely blank.
Hamilton shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over my blanket. The fabric rustled quietly.
This time, I didn't pull away.
Thirty minutes later, the convoy rolled onto the tarmac of a private airfield. The deafening roar of jet engines vibrated in my chest. A sleek Gulfstream jet stood waiting, its stairs already lowered.
The bodyguard opened my door. The smell of jet fuel and cold night wind hit my face.
My legs wobbled as I stepped out, but Hamilton caught my elbow, supporting my weight.
The bright lights lining the boarding stairs made me squint. I didn't look back. I put my foot on the first metal step and climbed.
At the top of the stairs, a flight attendant in a sharp uniform bowed deeply.
"Welcome aboard, Mademoiselle Aria," she said in perfect French.
"Merci," I replied, my own French flawless and smooth.
I stepped into the cabin. The heavy door hissed and sealed shut behind me, completely cutting off the wind, the noise, and my entire past.
The plane immediately began to taxi down the runway.
I sat down on the white leather sofa. Hamilton sat across from me. He picked up two crystal flutes and poured the champagne. The bubbles rushed to the surface in a frantic fizz.
He held his glass out toward me. A slow, genuine smile touched his lips.
"Welcome to your new life, Aria."
