Memory Games
“She didn’t,” Rowan muttered. “Or she never made it out.”
Callum’s voice crackled through. “Sir, you need to see this.”
Rowan tapped the tablet screen and pulled up the linked footage. A security cam near the front gate flickered to life. There was Remi’s car. Still parked.
Unmoved.
Unopened.
Jo leaned in. “She never left?”
Rowan’s face darkened. “No.”
Jo stared at the screen. “So she lied. She stayed behind.”
“No.” Rowan’s voice was low, steady. Dangerous. “She didn’t lie. She was taken.”
The footage showed a shadow near the side entrance around the same time Rowan and the kids had left. A figure slipping in and out too fast for the camera to focus.
“Enhance that,” Rowan said.
The next frame cleared—just slightly. But it was enough.
Asher.
Jo gasped. “No. No way. He wouldn’t—he couldn’t.”
Rowan’s hands clenched into fists. “He did.”
Callum’s voice came through again. “Sir. Confirming one of your security officers is deceased. Perimeter gate. Looks like a fast takedown—probably injection.”
Jo covered her mouth. “Oh my God.”
Rowan’s jaw flexed. He tapped a button on his comm. “Lock the estate down. No one in, no one out. Put the children under guard. And wake Anton. I want my fixer here in twenty.”
“Copy that.”
Jo turned to him. “You know where he’d take her, don’t you?”
Rowan didn’t even blink. “If Asher took her, there’s only one place he’d go.”
Jo swallowed. “And where’s that?”
Rowan’s eyes narrowed, sharp and unflinching.
“His mother’s estate. The one no one talks about. The one that’s not on any map.”
Jo’s voice cracked. “You think he’d really—”
“I don’t think,” Rowan cut in. “I know. When I was doing my research on the people around Remi and on him, I know he goes there daily. I even went as far Middle of nowhere. Complete privacy. And if he’s snapped—”
Jo’s legs went weak. “What if he hurts her?”
Rowan was already moving, pulling on a jacket, checking the magazine on his sidearm.
“Then I won’t be bringing him back alive.”
Remi's POV
Steam rose softly around me as I turned the faucet, watching the water pour into the porcelain basin like it was supposed to wash away everything—fear, confusion, helplessness.
But nothing could.
I wasn’t here to feel clean.
I was here to survive.
Asher stood just outside the doorway, one shoulder propped against the wall like he belonged there. He held a towel in one hand and a folded change of clothes in the other—something he said he “picked just for me.” The way his voice sounded then… like a boy trying to impress his high school crush, not a man who’d drugged and kidnapped her.
I stared at him, the buttons of my top halfway undone. The tension in my stomach twisted, sharp and constant.
“You’re staying?” I asked carefully.
He didn’t move. “Just until you’re settled.”
I kept my voice light. “Are you going to watch me shower, Asher?”
His eyes flicked to mine, and for a second, the illusion cracked.
“I don’t want you to feel alone.”
“I think I’ve earned five minutes of privacy.”
He hesitated. Then finally—finally—he stepped back. “Okay. Door stays unlocked, though.”
“Of course.” I forced a smile. “Safety first.”
I shut the door behind him and waited.
Waited until I heard him settle just outside, pacing softly. His silhouette lingered beneath the crack at the bottom of the door.
I turned back to the mirror and stared at myself. My eyes were red-rimmed, cheeks blotchy. I looked like someone I didn’t recognize. Still, I peeled off the rest of my clothes and stepped into the shower.
Warm water hit my skin, and I forced myself to stay calm. I needed him to believe I was breaking. That I was softening. That I was his. That he had me.
Because the more he believed that, the more careless he’d become.
And that’s when I’d escape.
I lathered shampoo slowly, making enough noise to be heard, then spoke through the steam.
“Do you remember that day in the university library?” I called, voice light, curious. “The one where you pulled the fire alarm just to get me to leave my desk?”
There was a beat. Then his laugh—soft, low. “You wouldn’t stop studying.”
“I had a final.”
“You hadn’t eaten in sixteen hours.”
“You brought me those terrible cafeteria noodles.”
“I thought they were romantic,” he said, amused.
I smiled, just loud enough for him to hear it. “You thought everything was romantic back then.”
“You were the only good thing in that place, Remi.”
I leaned my head against the wall, letting the water beat down my back. “You really loved me, didn’t you?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Then—“I never stopped.”
My throat tightened. I kept my tone steady. “Even after I married someone else?”
“You didn’t love him,” he said quickly, like he needed to believe it. “Not like you loved me.”
I didn’t respond.
“Do you remember that time we went to that cheap beach motel?” he continued. “You packed cereal and a bottle of wine.”
“You said I was the cheapest date you’d ever had.”
“I meant it in a good way.”
I smiled again. “I know.”
I turned off the water, slowly stepping out of the shower and grabbing the towel. I wrapped it around myself and opened the door.
He was waiting.
Of course he was.
He handed me the folded clothes—plain grey sweats and a soft black shirt, my size, comfortable. He was always good at knowing what I liked.
I took them with a nod. “Thank you.”
He smiled like I’d just kissed him. “I’ll wait in the hall.”
I closed the door again, changed quickly, and sat on the closed toilet for a second to breathe.
This was working.
He still believed in us. In whatever version of us he’d created in his head.
And I could use that.
Every word he gave me—every piece of nostalgia—was another thread I could pull.
All I needed was a little more time.
And the next crack in his fantasy would be the one I used to break it all apart.
The moment I heard his footsteps retreat down the hallway, I dried the back of my neck and let the towel fall into the laundry basket. I pulled on the soft black shirt and loose sweats he’d given me, tucking the tracker in my pants, then walked quietly back into the bedroom.
The air still smelled like candle wax and wilting roses.
I stood in the center of the room, letting my gaze drift over the shelves again. Carefully arranged books. A porcelain ballerina I recognized from my grandmother’s collection. A yellowing photo of a younger Asher with Carter, stuck in a corner of the mirror like an afterthought.
None of these things were mine.
But they had me in them. Somehow.
I turned slowly, eyes catching on the wardrobe in the corner. The top drawer was slightly ajar. Nothing dramatic, just enough to look like someone had been in a hurry.
Curiosity prickled beneath my skin.
I crossed the room and pulled it open fully.
Clothes. Folded neatly. Nothing strange.
But there—just beneath a stack of t-shirts—was a small key.
I froze. Looked over my shoulder, listening. No movement. No voice. The floor didn’t creak.
I took the key.
There was only one piece of furniture in the room that looked like it might have a lock—the writing desk beneath the window.
My heart thudde
d as I knelt in front of it.
The bottom right drawer had a small, old-fashioned keyhole. I fit the key in. It turned smoothly with a soft click.
The drawer creaked as I opened it.
Inside…
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