Chapter 2

Tristan's buddies chimed in, mocking right along with him.

"Who do you think you are?" one of them scoffed.

"Tristan's got plenty of bodyguards already. Girls like you? He could find a hundred," another sneered.

Daisy timidly tugged at Tristan's sleeve.

She whispered, "Tristan, please don't talk to Juliet like that. She's only looking out for you."

Daisy turned to me, her eyes rimmed with red.

She said, "Juliet, I'm sorry. This is all my fault.

"If you want to blame someone, blame me. Please don't be mad at Tristan."

As she spoke, she quietly flashed me a smug, triumphant smile.

For a moment, a flicker of eerie red light flashed through her otherwise innocent eyes.

That was it. The last bit of warmth in my heart vanished completely.

I clenched the card in my hand and turned to leave.

Not a single word wasted.

Anyone watching would know I was done for good.

I heard Tristan roaring behind me, furious. "Juliet! Are you seriously just walking away like that?

"Can't even say a single soft word, huh!"

I didn't look back.

After walking out of the private room A8, I leaned against the cold wall and took a deep breath.

My chest hurt so bad, like something heavy was pressing down on it.

I pulled out a custom phone from my pocket and switched it on.

The screen lit up, and a secure chat window popped open.

Pinned right at the top was a contact with the codename "Collector."

For the past three years, Collector had been offering a sky-high bounty on the dark web for any information about Tristan's whereabouts.

The price was so outrageous, like the guy wanted Tristan dead or something.

I always figured it was just one of Tristan's business rivals out for blood.

But then, about two weeks ago, I intercepted a message between him and his men.

That was when I finally realized what he was really after.

He didn't want Tristan dead.

He wanted Tristan alive.

He wanted to make Tristan the most flawless "specimen" in his collection room.

Daisy was the bait Collector sent to get close to Tristan.

That sweet, innocent college girl was actually a twisted, masterful taxidermist.

I typed out a message and hit send.

[Transfer 1.5 million dollars and I'm standing down.]

[He's in private room A8. The coast is clear.]

My phone buzzed almost instantly.

The screen showed that 1.5 million dollars had just hit my account.

Collector replied with just three words. [Pleasure doing business.]

I put my phone away and headed for the elevator, expressionless.

I saw my reflection in the mirror.

My face was pale, and my hair and skin were still streaked with red wine.

But my eyes were so cold, it was chilling.

I went back to Tristan's and my villa.

Oh, correction, Tristan's villa, not ours.

There wasn't a single thing here that belonged to me.

All I had to my name was a single backpack.

Inside were a couple changes of clothes, some meds and bandages, and a sniper rifle broken down into parts.

I opened the closet.

It was packed with clothes Tristan had bought for me.

He always said he didn't want me looking like I was going to a funeral, always dressed in black.

So he bought me a bunch of dresses, all kinds of colors and styles.

But I never wore a single one.

How was I supposed to kill someone or block a knife wearing a dress?

One by one, I yanked the dresses off their hangers and tossed them onto the floor.

Then, from the very back of the closet, I dragged out a black suitcase.

Inside were the only things that truly belonged to me.

I peeled off the wine-soaked clothes and slipped into my black tactical gear.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror. The face looking back was both unfamiliar and strangely familiar.

My eyes were sharp, radiating a cold, stay-away vibe that warned strangers not to get close.

This was the real me.

Juliet Martin.

Not Tristan's obedient little pet.

I slung my backpack over one shoulder, grabbed the handle of my black suitcase, and headed out.

As I reached the doorway, I paused.

Something suddenly crossed my mind.

I turned around and headed back to the study on the second floor, then powered up Tristan's computer.

My fingers flew across the keyboard, entering a long, complicated password.

On the computer screen, a surveillance system interface popped up.

This was a custom security setup I built specifically for Tristan.

It covered every inch of the villa, plus all his usual hangouts.

360-degree coverage—no blind spots, nowhere to hide.

Infrared sensors, pressure detectors, facial recognition—the works.

Any intruder who tried to sneak in without permission got spotted instantly.

This system was so tight, not even a fly could slip through.

It was the result of eight years of my blood, sweat, and tears.

I stared at the blinking lights on the screen, my fingers flying across the keyboard as I worked.

Line after line of code disappeared, erased without hesitation.