My words found their mark, piercing straight to the insecurity he'd harbored since childhood. Veins bulged on his neck. A red haze clouded his eyes.
He lunged, hand clamping around my throat. He threw me to the ground.
"Grace Sullivan, you've finally said it." He loomed over me like a shadow. "You've always looked down on me."
He straightened his cuffs, voice dropping to a terrifying calm. "Since you refuse to learn your place, you can go back and relearn it. I have plenty of time."
He pulled out his phone.
My heart slammed against my ribs. Cold sweat broke over my skin. I knew that tone. I knew where he was sending me.
I crawled forward, abandoning pride, and grabbed his pant leg. "Victor, no... please. I won't go back there. I can't go back to the asylum!"
He didn't even look at me.
Even as the bodyguards dragged me out and slammed the car door, his expression remained stone.
"Forgive me, Madam," the bodyguard muttered.
Just before he confiscated my phone, a text message flashed on the screen.
Alistair, I'm back.
For the next week, Victor took Georgia to Western Europe, but Grace's parting words circled his mind like vultures.
He felt irritable, constantly on edge. Yet whenever he thought of Grace, dark satisfaction mingled with his anger. She needed to be humbled.
When they were young, she was the heiress bestowing charity on him, the poor boy. Now the tables had turned. Time she tasted what it felt like to survive on someone else's mercy.
I'll bring her back once Georgia gives birth, he told himself. Those arrogant habits need breaking.
He maintained this delusion until the call came.
"Mr. Weston... it's Ms. Sullivan. She escaped. She's missing."
