Columbus dropped his arm to his side. He took a step forward.
His long legs closed the distance between them at a terrifyingly calm pace.
Charlene clamped her jaw shut. Her teeth ground together. She ordered her feet to stay planted. She refused to take a single step backward.
Columbus stopped exactly two feet in front of her.
He looked down. His eyes swept over the cheap canvas duffel bag in her hands. His upper lip twitched in pure disgust.
He turned his head slightly to the side.
"Take that garbage," Columbus ordered. His voice was flat and cold.
A burly assistant stepped out from behind him. The man reached out and grabbed the bag.
Charlene didn't let go immediately. The assistant yanked it hard, tearing the coarse canvas handles from her raw, blistered fingers.
Columbus didn't say another word. He turned his back on her and walked toward the automatic glass doors at the end of the hall.
Charlene stood frozen for a second. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. She forced her legs to move, following his broad back.
The automatic doors slid open.
The brutal, freezing Swiss wind slammed into her face. It stung her cheeks like tiny needles.
A massive black Maybach sat idling by the curb.
A driver in white gloves stood by the rear door. He pulled it open and bowed his head.
Columbus stopped. He turned slightly and jerked his chin toward the dark interior of the car.
Charlene kept her eyes on the ground. She ducked her head and slid into the backseat.
The leather seats were soft, but the air inside was suffocating.
Columbus climbed in right after her. He sat down, his thigh almost brushing against hers.
The heavy car door slammed shut. The sound was a dull, final thud.
Instantly, the enclosed space filled with his scent. It was an aggressive, custom cedarwood cologne.
The smell hit the back of Charlene's throat.
Her lungs seized.
The scent was a physical blow. It ripped her out of the present and dragged her violently back to the charity gala.
She felt the room spinning. She tasted the bitter champagne on her tongue. The drug kicking in.
She remembered the pitch-black hotel room. The heavy weight of a man's body pressing her down into the mattress. The rough, animalistic sound of his breathing against her neck.
Charlene squeezed her eyes shut. She locked her hands together in her lap. She dug her fingernails so deeply into the back of her hand that the skin broke. She needed the physical pain to stay grounded.
But the memories wouldn't stop.
The dark room faded into the blinding white lights of the delivery room.
She felt the agonizing tearing in her body. She saw the doctor standing over her, shaking his head. His mouth moving, forming the words: Stillborn.
But she had heard it. Deep in her eardrums, she remembered the faint, weak cry of a baby.
Then came the face of Joshuah Rowe, her biological father. Standing over her hospital bed, his face red with rage, screaming insults at her while she bled.
And then, Columbus. Standing next to Joshuah, holding a thick stack of psychiatric evaluation papers. Handing them to the doctor with a cold, detached expression.
A single tear broke free. It slid down her left cheek, hot and humiliating.
She panicked. She raised the back of her trembling hand and scrubbed the tear away, rubbing her skin raw.
Columbus turned his head.
His dark eyes sliced into her. They were completely dead.
"Dry your face," Columbus said. His voice was a low, menacing whisper that sent a fresh wave of terror through her veins. "Keep the Gay family's dignity intact, or I will leave you here."
The Maybach's engine hummed as the driver applied the brakes. The car rolled to a smooth stop right next to the private airstrip.
