Jayme Barnes POV:
The internet was a cesspool.
JaymeBarnesWashedUp was trending worldwide.
Cassie's PR team was working overtime to destroy me. They painted me as the jealous, leeching ward who couldn't handle the Don finding his true love.
I didn't defend myself. Sometimes, silence is the loudest scream.
Salvation arrived in an email from a small production company in France. They wanted a documentary photographer for an indie film.
It wasn't glamorous. It didn't pay much. But it was four thousand miles away from Autry Villarreal.
I accepted it immediately.
I went back to the estate one last time. The rose garden was gone. Where blooms once thrived, there was only flat, gray gravel now.
I went to my room and asked Maria, the housekeeper, to bring boxes.
"Pack everything," I told her.
"Ms. Jayme?" she asked, tears welling in her eyes.
"Everything Autry bought. The clothes. The jewelry. The bags. Put it in storage. Or burn it. I don't care."
I stripped the room until it looked like a prison cell.
Then, I gathered what was actually mine: I took my camera. I took my passport. I took the teddy bear my dad gave me.
I walked downstairs.
Autry was in the hallway. He blocked my path, a solid wall of muscle and dominance.
"Where are you going with that bag?" he demanded.
"France," I said.
"No," he said, his voice low. "You're not leaving the country."
"I have a job."
"You don't need a job. I provide for you."
"You provide for a pet, Autry. I'm a woman."
"It's dangerous," he growled, stepping closer, invading my space. "You don't know the world outside this protection."
"The only person who has hurt me in the last month is you," I said.
He flinched as if struck.
"I am doing what I have to do to keep the family safe."
"I am not your family," I said. "Not anymore."
Cassie appeared at the top of the stairs, looking down at us.
"Let her go, Autry. She's just doing this for attention."
Autry looked at her, then back at me.
"If you walk out that door, Jayme, don't expect me to come looking for you."
"That's exactly what I'm counting on."
I walked past him. I felt his heat. I smelled his cologne-sandalwood and gunpowder.
It used to smell like safety. Now, it just smelled like a lie.
I got in the cab and didn't look back.
I flew to Provence.
For the first time in years, I breathed.
The film set was chaotic and beautiful. The director, Kenan Gregory, was kind. He looked at my photos and saw the art, not the scandal.
"You have an eye for pain," he told me.
"I have a lot of reference material," I replied.
We were shooting in a lavender field three weeks later. The air was sweet. The sun was warm.
Then, the wind picked up.
A rhythmic thumping sound filled the valley, drowning out the quiet.
Dust kicked up, ruining the shot. A sleek black helicopter banked over the hills. It had the Villarreal crest on the tail.
It landed right in the middle of the set, crushing a row of lavender beneath its landing skids.
The crew scattered. Kenan stood his ground, shielding his eyes against the rotor wash.
The door opened.
Autry stepped out.
He was wearing a suit in the middle of a field. He held a massive bouquet of red roses.
He looked like a dark god descending to claim a sacrifice.
He saw me. He started walking toward me, ignoring the shouting crew.
"Jayme," he barked. "Get in the chopper."
I stood still.
I raised my camera.
I took his picture.
"No," I said.
