Chapter 2 - The Fortress in the Woods
The estate was nestled deep within thirty acres of old-growth pine forest along the private shores of Lake Michigan, surrounded by ten-foot wrought-iron fences reinforced with infrared cameras and discreet patrols. It was not a sprawling, showy mansion like the Alderton palace; it was a modern architectural fortress of slate stone, tempered ballistic glass, and dark timber.
When the SUV pulled through the iron gates, the estate grounds were flooded with silent, warm security lights. Two armed guards dipped their heads in deference as Rhys stepped out into the biting wind, turning to offer me his hand.
I hesitated for half a second. My instincts, honed by months of Cresswell’s sudden, unpredictable violence, screamed at me to flinch away from any man's outstretched fingers.
Rhys didn’t move his hand closer. He simply left it there, steady as an iron beam, waiting for my consent.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I placed my gloved palm in his. His grip was warm, gentle, and firm—guiding me without pulling, supporting my weight without demanding submission.
Inside, the house was warm, smelling of burning birch wood from an enormous double-sided hearth. An older woman with sharp, kind hazel eyes and silver hair pulled into a neat twist stood waiting in the vaulted foyer. She carried a folded cashmere blanket and a medical kit.
“This is Elena,” Rhys said softly. “She has been with my family for thirty years. She was a combat surgeon before she retired. No hospital records. No leaks.”
“Come here, child,” Elena said gently, her voice laced with a soft Mediterranean accent. She wrapped the thick wool blanket around my shivering shoulders and guided me toward an adjoining medical suite that looked cleaner than a luxury private clinic.
Rhys remained outside the threshold, respecting the boundary. “I will be in the study, Elena. Tell me the extent of it when you're finished.”
For the next forty-five minutes, Elena worked in methodical, sympathetic silence. When she unbuttoned the back of the wedding dress, she let out a sharp, hissing intake of air.
Beneath the heavy ivory satin, my ribs were mottled with dark yellow and indigo contusions. Three finger-shaped bruises circled my right wrist, and across my left shoulder blade was the distinct edge of a belt buckle—a souvenir from two nights before the ceremony when I had dared to ask Cresswell why his name was tied to an offshore human trafficking investigation.
Elena carefully cleaned the sweat and foundation from my swollen cheekbone, applying an herbal salve that immediately cooled the fire in my skin.
“You have two cracked ribs on the lower left side,” Elena diagnosed, her hands impossibly light as she wrapped my torso in supportive medical tape. “A mild concussion. Tissue damage across your wrists and back. How did you stand at that altar for twenty minutes?”
“I knew that if I didn't walk down that aisle, he would kill my mother,” I replied simply, staring at my reflection in the chrome cabinet. The woman looking back at me looked like a ghost who had barely survived a massacre. “Cresswell told me that if there was any scandal, my family’s home would burn with everyone inside it.”
“He is a hollow coward,” Elena murmured, buttoning a soft, oversized gray cashmere sweater over my wrapped ribs before handing me comfortable fleece lounge pants. “And he picked the wrong man to challenge. Mr. Calder does not tolerate men who strike women.”
When I finally walked down the long corridor toward the study, the heavy oak doors were open. Rhys was standing by a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the snow-covered lake, a glass of amber scotch resting untouched on his desk. He was on the phone, his voice carrying the icy authority of an executioner.
“Freeze their maritime transit permits in Newark and Baltimore,” Rhys commanded into the receiver. “Pull our capital from the Alderton-Rowe merger by midnight. If their senator calls, inform him that I have the hotel surveillance footage from the 14th of November. He will know what it means.”
He hung up without waiting for an answer and turned toward me. His eyes swept over my fresh clothes and the bandage on my cheekbone. The tension in his broad shoulders eased by a fraction of an inch.
“Sit,” he offered, gesturing toward a plush leather armchair near the fire.
I sank into the chair, clutching the warm ceramic mug of tea Elena had pressed into my hands. “What happens now?”
“Now, the public war begins,” Rhys said, taking a seat opposite me. “In roughly two hours, the morning news cycle will air Cresswell’s press release. He will claim you suffered a nervous breakdown at the altar, that you were seduced and abducted by a known underworld figure, and that he is praying for your safe return.”
May you like
A bitter, humorless laugh escaped my throat. “He’s turning himself into the grieving victim.”
“He is,” Rhys agreed, his gray eyes glinting in the firelight. “Which is why we are going to let him dig his own grave before we pull the trigger.”
