Chapter 3

Three weeks into my captivity, I began to notice patterns. The guard rotation outside my door changed every eight hours. The east wing hallway remained unmonitored for approximately seven minutes during dinner service when the staff gathered in the kitchen. Most importantly, I discovered that Maria Garcia, the middle-aged housekeeper who brought my meals, had kind eyes that lingered on me with unmistakable sympathy.

Maria had worked for our family since before I was born. She'd bandaged my skinned knees as a child and smuggled me cookies when my father wasn't looking. Now, she was my only potential ally in a house that had become my prison.

One afternoon, when she came to collect my lunch tray, I deliberately knocked over my water glass. As she knelt to clean the spill, I whispered, "Maria, please. I need your help."

Her hands froze momentarily, then continued mopping up the water. Without looking up, she murmured, "It's dangerous, Miss Willow."

"I know," I breathed, my heart pounding so loudly I feared the guard outside might hear it. "But I think he killed my father. I can't stay here waiting to be next."

Maria's eyes darted to the door, then back to me. The weight of fear in them made my stomach clench. "Mr. Blackwood... he's been removing people. Anyone loyal to your father or you."

"I know," I repeated, swallowing hard. "That's why I need to get out now, while I still have someone who can help me."

She hesitated, then gave an almost imperceptible nod. "Tomorrow night. I'll bring your dinner myself."

The next twenty-four hours crawled by with excruciating slowness. I paced my room, rehearsing the plan in my mind. It was simple but risky: Maria would bring sleeping pills from the medicine cabinet, crushed and mixed into Kevin's evening wine. Once he was unconscious, she would create a distraction in the east wing while I slipped out through the service entrance. A car would be waiting—driven by her nephew, who had no connection to the household that might raise suspicion.

When Maria arrived with my dinner tray that evening, her hands trembled slightly. Beneath the cloth napkin lay three small white pills.

"These are strong," she whispered. "My doctor prescribed them when my husband died. One knocked me out for hours. Three should be enough to..."

She didn't finish the sentence, but I understood. Enough to ensure Kevin wouldn't wake up and follow me. Enough, perhaps, to kill him if his system reacted badly.

I hesitated, the weight of the decision pressing down on me. Was I capable of potentially killing a man? But then I remembered Marcus and the others who had disappeared, my father's sudden death, the cold calculation in Kevin's eyes when he looked at me.

"I'll do it," I said, tucking the pills into my palm. "When does he usually eat?"

"Eight o'clock. In the study. Always with a glass of red wine."

The plan was set. At seven-fifty, Maria would bring Kevin his dinner while I waited in my room. At eight-thirty, assuming the drugs had taken effect, she would create a distraction by "accidentally" setting off the alarm in the east wing. In the confusion, I would slip out through the service entrance where her nephew would be waiting.

At seven-forty-five, Maria came to collect my dinner tray. Our eyes met in silent communication. This was it—my one chance at freedom.

I sat on the edge of my bed, counting the minutes, my heart hammering against my ribs. The house was quiet except for the occasional footsteps in the hallway. Eight o'clock came and went. Then eight-fifteen. I strained to hear any commotion that might indicate something had gone wrong, but there was nothing.

At eight-twenty-five, my door opened unexpectedly. I jumped to my feet, expecting Maria with news—but it was Kevin who stood in the doorway, a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other.

"I thought we might have a drink together," he said casually, stepping into the room. "We're family, after all. It's time we had a proper conversation."

My blood ran cold. Had Maria betrayed me? Or had something gone wrong with the plan?

"Where's Maria?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Attending to some duties in the kitchen," Kevin replied, setting the glasses down on the small table by the window. "I told her I'd bring your evening tea myself."

He poured deep red wine into both glasses, then offered one to me. "A toast, perhaps? To new understandings?"

I took the glass reluctantly, my mind racing. If the pills hadn't been in his dinner, then this was my chance. I could propose a toast, distract him, and somehow slip the pills into his wine when he wasn't looking.

"To new understandings," I echoed, raising my glass slightly.

Kevin smiled—a cold, knowing smile that sent a shiver down my spine. "Drink up, Willow. It's a particularly good vintage."

Something in his tone made me hesitate. I brought the glass to my lips but didn't drink, watching him over the rim.

He took a long sip from his own glass, then set it down with deliberate care. "You know, your father always underestimated you. He thought keeping you away at school would preserve your innocence. I see now he was wrong. You have a survivor's instinct."

"I don't know what you mean," I said, still holding my untouched wine.

Kevin's smile widened. "The sleeping pills, Willow. Did you really think I wouldn't notice Maria acting strangely? That I wouldn't have my men watching every move she made?"

My hand began to tremble, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of my glass. "Where is she? What did you do to her?"

"Nothing. Yet." He leaned forward. "Drink your wine, Willow."

The implication hit me like a physical blow. "You switched the glasses," I whispered.

"No," Kevin replied, his voice almost gentle. "I switched the plates. Your little helper put the pills in my dinner, as instructed. But I had the meals exchanged before they ever left the kitchen. You've already consumed the medication, Willow. In the potatoes, I believe."

As if on cue, a wave of dizziness swept over me. I stumbled, the wine glass slipping from my fingers and shattering on the floor, spreading a crimson stain across the carpet like blood.