The first thing I noticed was the silence.
After three years of Vincent's laughter echoing through the halls of my prison, the sudden quiet felt wrong. Then came the gunfire—short, controlled bursts that spoke of professional killers rather than the chaotic spray of Vincent's men.
I huddled in the corner of the cellar where they'd locked me, my body tensing at every sound. The door burst open with a splintering crack, and light flooded in—too bright, too sudden.
"Eileen."
That voice. Kaiser's voice.
I looked up, blinking against the light. He stood in the doorway, immaculate in his tailored suit despite the blood spatter across his chest. Behind him lay the bodies of Vincent's guards, their throats slashed with surgical precision.
"Kaiser," I whispered, my voice cracking from disuse.
His eyes swept over me—not with relief or love, but with something that looked disturbingly like disgust. He took in the scars that crisscrossed my arms, the hollows beneath my cheekbones, the way I crouched like an animal.
"Get up," he said, not offering his hand. "We're leaving."
When I struggled to my feet, swaying from weakness, he quickly shrugged off his suit jacket and threw it over my shoulders. The gesture wasn't protective—it was hiding evidence.
"Cover yourself," he muttered. "The men don't need to see... this."
This. Not Eileen. Not his fiancée. This.
On the private jet back to New York, he sat across from me, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. "You'll resume your position as my wife," he said, studying me with cold calculation. "For appearances' sake."
"And what position is that?" My voice was stronger now, fueled by a growing anger.
"Figurehead. Trophy." He didn't even hesitate. "You'll attend functions, smile at my men, and maintain the illusion that nothing has changed."
"And where will you be?"
"In the east wing." His eyes met mine, unflinching. "You're not to enter my quarters. Your... condition... makes you unstable."
I felt something break inside me then—the last fragile thread of hope that this had all been some terrible mistake.
---
The crystal chandelier cast fractured light across the dining table, illuminating the faces of Kaiser's inner circle. I sat at his right hand, wearing a dress he'd selected—modest, high-necked, designed to hide as much of me as possible.
Across from me sat Octavia Dixon.
She was everything I wasn't—soft, delicate, with skin like porcelain and eyes that sparkled with practiced innocence. Her silk dress flowed around her like water, and her laugh tinkled like expensive glass.
"Eileen," she said, reaching across to touch my hand with false sympathy. "It must have been absolutely dreadful for you."
I withdrew my fingers from her grasp, feeling the scars on my palm tighten. "It was educational."
"Oh, you poor thing." Her voice dripped with honey-coated venom. "Those terrible men—what did they do to you? You're so... changed."
Kaiser's jaw tightened. "Octavia, perhaps we should discuss something else."
"No, it's okay," I said, picking up my steak knife. The weight felt wrong in my hand—too light, too clumsy. My fingers trembled slightly as I gripped it.
"Eileen." Kaiser's voice was sharp with warning. "Put that down."
"I'm just cutting my meat," I said, not looking up.
"You're scaring our guests," he hissed, reaching over to take the knife from my hand. "Control yourself."
Octavia's smile widened fractionally. "It's perfectly understandable, darling. Trauma affects everyone differently."
I felt the room's eyes on me—pitying, judging, wondering how the once-feared Eileen Romero had become so broken.
---
Sleep eluded me that night. The bed in my new quarters felt too soft, too exposed. I paced the halls instead, my footsteps silent on the marble floors.
A light spilled from beneath Kaiser's study door, voices drifting out in heated argument.
"—taking a huge risk bringing her back," James Sullivan was saying, his voice low but clear. "The men are talking."
"Let them talk," Kaiser replied. "Eileen serves her purpose."
"And what purpose is that?"
"Distraction." Kaiser's voice hardened. "As long as everyone's focused on her, no one's looking at what really matters."
"And what really matters is Octavia," James said, not a question but a statement.
"Yes." The word hung in the air between them. "Eileen was always meant to be the sacrifice. She's my strongest soldier—putting her in Chicago drew all eyes away from Octavia."
My blood turned to ice in my veins.
"But she's back now," James persisted. "What if she figures it out?"
"She won't." Kaiser's voice dropped lower, forcing me to press closer to the door. "The neurotoxin I've been administering will keep her weak. She can't fight back anymore—not against me, not against Octavia."
"And if she does?"
There was a pause, and when Kaiser spoke again, his voice was soft with something like regret.
"Then I'll have to finish what I started."
