Elena's POV
Seventy-two hours.
The number burns in my mind as the hospital releases me the next morning. Adrian arranged a private exit—no press, no witnesses, just Marcus pulling the car around while Adrian helps me into a wheelchair I don't think I need.
"I can walk," I protest.
"You were shot eighteen hours ago." His tone leaves no room for argument. "You'll sit."
My shoulder is bandaged and stitched and throbbing despite the painkillers. The bullet went clean through—lucky, the doctors said. An inch to the left would have hit my lung.
Lucky. Right.
We ride back to Adrian's penthouse in silence. I watch the city pass by the tinted windows, wondering if Damian is watching too. If he can see me from his jail cell somehow, counting down the hours until he's free.
Seventy hours now.
"Stop," Adrian says quietly.
I turn to him. "Stop what?"
"Calculating time. I can see you doing it." He's looking straight ahead, jaw tight. "We have a plan."
"What plan? The evidence is corrupted. The FBI can't hold him. In three days—"
"In three days, he walks into a trap." Adrian finally meets my eyes. "Trust me."
I want to. God, I want to trust someone. But trust is what got me into Damian's cage in the first place.
We arrive at the penthouse. Marcus helps me out of the car while Adrian scans the street, the building, the windows above. Always watching for threats.
Inside, everything looks the same as when I left. The safe room door is still open. Sophia's jacket—now evidence—is gone. The blood has been cleaned from the floor where the hired gun died.
Like none of it happened.
"Your room is ready," Adrian says. "Marcus stocked it with everything you might need. Clothes, toiletries, medications."
"My room?" The words feel strange. Like I live here. Like this is home instead of another beautiful cage.
"Separate bedroom, like we agreed." He keeps his distance, careful not to touch me. "You need rest. We'll talk strategy tomorrow."
He starts to walk away.
"Adrian." I stop him. "Thank you. For everything. For saving me, for—"
"Don't." His voice is sharp. "Don't thank me for doing the bare minimum. You wouldn't be in this situation if I'd stopped Damian years ago."
"That's not your fault."
"Isn't it?" He turns, and the guilt in his eyes is raw. "I knew what he was. I watched him become our father and did nothing. Every scar on your body is my failure."
"No—"
"Get some rest, Elena." He disappears into his office, door closing with a soft click.
Leaving me alone.
Marcus appears with a gentle smile. "Don't mind him. Adrian's default response to caring about someone is self-hatred and avoidance. Give him time."
"We don't have time. Sixty-nine hours."
"Then we make the most of what we have." He guides me to my bedroom. "This is you."
The room is beautiful—soft colors, comfortable bed, windows overlooking the city. Not a cage. Not a prison. Just... a room.
But it feels wrong. Too nice. Too safe. Like I don't deserve it.
"Try to sleep," Marcus says. "You're safe here. I promise."
He leaves.
I sit on the bed, testing its softness, and realize I'm exhausted. The painkillers are making me drowsy, pulling me under despite my racing thoughts.
I shouldn't sleep. Should stay alert. Damian could—
But my eyes close.
And the nightmare finds me immediately.
Damian's hands around my throat. Squeezing. I can't breathe. Can't scream. His face above me, smiling that terrible smile.
"You're mine, Elena. You'll always be mine."
The room is dark. His study. The place where he—
"Please," I try to say, but no sound comes out.
"Please what?" His grip tightens. "Please stop? Please continue? You need to be more specific."
I'm dying. The world is going black. This is how it ends.
Then his face changes. Becomes Adrian's face.
"You're just like him," Damian's voice says from Adrian's mouth. "Another monster. Another cage."
I wake up screaming.
The bedroom door crashes open within seconds. Adrian bursts in, gun drawn, scanning for threats. His eyes are wild, hair disheveled like he was already half-asleep.
"Where is he?" Adrian demands. "Where's the threat?"
"Not—" I can't catch my breath. "Not real. Just a nightmare."
He lowers the gun slowly, realization dawning. The danger response fades, replaced by awkward uncertainty. He doesn't know what to do with nightmares. With fear that isn't physical.
"You're okay," he says stiffly. "You're safe."
But I'm not okay. I'm shaking so hard the bed rattles. My shoulder screams with pain from how I jerked awake. Tears stream down my face.
Adrian stands frozen in the doorway, clearly battling with himself about what to do.
"Do you want me to stay?" he asks finally. The question sounds forced, uncomfortable. Like he's offering something he doesn't know how to give.
I should say no. Should be strong. Independent. Prove I don't need anyone.
But I'm so tired of being strong alone.
"Yes," I whisper.
He nods once, sharp and decisive. Then he grabs the chair from the corner, drags it to the far side of the room—as far from the bed as possible while still being present—and sits.
He opens his laptop. The screen glow lights his face in the darkness.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"Work. I'll be quieter than you think." He's already typing, focus shifting to whatever security feeds or encrypted files he monitors. "Try to sleep."
"Just... like that? You'll just sit there all night?"
"Unless you want me to leave." He doesn't look up from the screen.
"No. Don't leave."
"Then I'll stay."
It should feel awkward. This cold, dangerous man sitting across the room, working like I'm not even here. But somehow it helps. The soft keyboard clicks, his steady breathing, his solid presence.
He's real. He's here. He's not Damian.
I close my eyes.
This time when sleep comes, the nightmares stay away.
I wake to sunlight streaming through the windows and the smell of coffee.
Adrian's gone. The chair is back in its corner like he was never here.
But there's a mug on my nightstand. Coffee, still hot, made exactly how I like it—two sugars, splash of cream, cinnamon on top.
I never told him how I take my coffee.
I pick up the mug with shaking hands, and notice a Post-it note stuck to the bottom:
58 hours. We're ready. —A
Fifty-eight hours until Damian walks free.
I sip the coffee. It's perfect.
My phone buzzes. Text from Adrian: Breakfast in the kitchen when you're ready. We need to talk about the plan.
I get up slowly, shoulder protesting. Find clothes in the closet that fit perfectly—how does he know my size? Put on the softest sweater I've ever felt.
Walk to the kitchen.
Adrian and Marcus are there, laptops open, tablets spread across the counter. Maps, files, photos of CrossMed headquarters.
They look up when I enter.
"Sit," Adrian says. "Eat." He slides a plate toward me—eggs, toast, fruit. "Then we discuss how we're going to destroy your ex-fiancé."
I sit. Take a bite of eggs that are somehow seasoned exactly how I like them.
"How do you know?" I ask. "The coffee, the food, my clothes size. I never told you any of this."
Adrian and Marcus exchange a look.
"We've been watching Damian for two years," Marcus says carefully. "Which meant watching you too. Security footage from restaurants you visited, shopping trips, coffee shops. We know more about you than you think."
The thought should scare me. Should feel like another invasion of privacy.
Instead, it feels like someone cared enough to pay attention.
"Show me the plan," I say.
Adrian turns his laptop to face me. "The charity gala. Five days from now. Damian will be there—his lawyers are already pushing for his release in time to attend. It's perfect cover. Public place, witnesses, our mother hosting so he has to maintain appearances."
"And we do what? Confront him?"
"We give him exactly what he wants," Adrian says. "You."
My blood runs cold. "What?"
"Not really," Marcus adds quickly. "We make him think you're coming back to him. That you've realized Adrian was using you, that you're scared and sorry and willing to return. Damian's ego won't let him resist."
"And when he takes the bait?"
Adrian's smile is sharp and dangerous. "We have him confess. Everything. On camera, with witnesses. Detective Morrison will be there, ready to arrest him the moment he incriminates himself."
"He's too smart for that."
"He is," Adrian agrees. "But he's also obsessed. Obsession makes people stupid. He won't be able to resist gloating, explaining how he won, how he broke you. And we'll record every word."
It could work. Maybe.
Or it could get me killed.
"I'm in," I say anyway.
"Elena—" Adrian starts.
"I'm in," I repeat firmly. "This ends at the gala. One way or another."
They both nod.
My phone buzzes again. Unknown number.
Against my better judgment, I open the message.
It's a video.
I press play.
Damian appears on screen, sitting in his jail cell, smiling at the camera like he's filming a casual vlog.
"Hi, baby," he says cheerfully. "Miss me? I know you're with Adrian right now, probably planning something foolish. Let me save you the trouble."
He leans closer to the camera.
"I'm getting out in fifty-seven hours. My lawyers guarantee it. And when I do, here's what's going to happen: First, I'm going to visit your sister. Just to say hello. Then I'm going to visit Adrian's mother. Just to have a chat about her sons. Then I'm coming for Adrian himself."
His smile widens.
"And after I've destroyed everyone you care about, I'm coming for you. Not to hurt you—I'd never hurt you, baby. But to remind you of something important."
He holds up a piece of paper to the camera.
It's a marriage license.
With my name on it.
And Damian's.
Dated from four months ago.
"Surprise," he says. "We're already married. You signed it when I told you it was a catering contract for my company event. Remember? You trusted me so much back then."
The video freezes on my signature on the license.
Legal. Binding.
Real.
I'm married to Damian Cross.
Which means I can't testify against him.
Spousal privilege.
The trap was already sprung before I even ran.