The zipper of the suitcase screamed in the quiet room. It was cheap plastic, snagging on the frayed fabric of Alivia's old hoodie.
She shoved the last of her clothes inside. It didn't take much space. Eighteen years of life in the Clemons estate, and she could fit her entire existence into a carry-on.
"Leaving so soon?"
Alivia didn't turn. She knew that voice. It was the sound of sugar-coated poison.
Kacy leaned against the doorframe, looking like a page out of Vogue. Her Chanel tweed suit was immaculate, a stark contrast to the peeling wallpaper of Alivia's attic room.
"I heard he eats raw meat," Kacy said, examining her cuticles. "And that he likes to use knives in bed. Hope you have thick skin, sis."
Alivia kept her head down, her fingers white-knuckling the suitcase handle. "Get out, Kacy."
"Is that how you talk to your betters?" Kacy pushed off the wall. She walked over and kicked the suitcase.
It wasn't a hard kick, but the latch was broken. The lid popped open. Clothes spilled out onto the dusty floor.
A small, framed photograph slid across the wood. It was black and white-a beautiful woman laughing in a garden. Alivia's mother.
Kacy's heel came down on it.
Crack.
The sound of the glass breaking snapped something inside Alivia's chest.
"Oops," Kacy smiled.
Alivia moved. It wasn't a conscious decision. It was a reflex. She shoved Kacy. Hard.
Kacy stumbled back, her eyes widening in genuine shock. She hit the doorframe with a dull thud.
"You little bitch!" Brenda's voice screeched from the hallway.
The stepmother appeared like a wraith, hand raised to strike. Alivia flinched, bracing for the sting.
"Mrs. Clemons! They're here!" Alfred, the butler, shouted from the bottom of the stairs, his voice trembling. "Blackburn is here!"
Brenda's hand froze in mid-air. She lowered it slowly, her eyes narrowing into slits. "Saved by the bell. Fix your face. You look like a corpse."
Downstairs, the atmosphere had shifted. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of ozone and money.
Alivia descended the stairs, clutching her taped-up suitcase. She had shoved her oversized black glasses back onto her face, hiding behind the thick frames.
Through the front window, she saw them. Three black Cadillac Escalades, idling like beasts in the driveway.
The driver of the middle car opened the rear door.
A man stepped out. He was balding, slightly paunchy, wearing a suit that cost more than this house but fit him poorly. He had a sneer plastered on his face.
"That's him?" Kacy whispered from the landing, stifling a giggle. "Oh my god, he really is a troll. I don't get it, though. That's the guy who supposedly uses knives in bed? He looks like he'd struggle with a butter knife."
Alivia felt a wave of nausea. This was her husband?
Then, the front passenger door opened.
A mountain of a man unfolded himself from the vehicle. He was dressed in a black tactical suit, an earpiece coiled behind his ear, dark aviators covering his eyes. He stood a head taller than everyone else.
He didn't move like a driver. He moved like a weapon.
Clay rushed forward, shaking the balding man's hand. "Mr. Blackburn! An honor. Truly."
The balding man-Finn-didn't take off his leather gloves. He just grunted. "Let's get this over with. This place smells like desperation."
Alivia stood by the stairs, trying to make herself invisible.
She felt it before she saw it. A gaze. Heavy. Physical.
She looked past the "husband" to the bodyguard.
He was standing by the car, arms crossed over a chest that looked like it was carved from granite. Even through the sunglasses, she knew he was looking at her. Not at her father. Not at Kacy. At her.
They moved into the living room. The "husband" sprawled onto the antique sofa, putting his muddy shoes on the coffee table. The bodyguard stood silently in the corner, blending into the shadows.
"Tea, Alivia!" Clay barked, snapping his fingers.
Alivia hurried to the silver service tray. Her hands were shaking. The proximity to the "husband" made her skin crawl.
She picked up the teapot. As she turned, her foot caught on the edge of the rug.
The tray tipped. Boiling water and fine china plummeted toward the floor.
A hand shot out from the shadows.
It was a blur of motion. The bodyguard caught the tray inches from the ground with one hand, effortlessly stabilizing it.
His other hand gripped her forearm to steady her.
Zap.
The contact sent a jolt of electricity straight up her arm, seizing her heart. It wasn't static. It was recognition.
Alivia gasped, looking up.
She was inches from the bodyguard's face. Up close, he smelled of rain. And cedar. And ice.
The smell from the hotel room.
He didn't let go. His thumb pressed into the soft skin of her inner arm, right over her pulse point.
"Careful," he whispered.
The voice. It was the same deep, gravelly baritone that had threatened to kill her last night.
Alivia stared at her own reflection in his aviators, her mouth falling open.
