The guards retreat without a word, closing the door behind them.
Ellie pulls back just enough to look at me, her hands gripping my arms like she needs to be sure I’m real. “I’ve neverbeen so scared in my life,” she says, her voice breaking. “You didn’t come back last night. You never don’t come back.”
My throat tightens.
“I went outside to look for you,” she continues, words tumbling over each other. “The trash was everywhere—on the ground, torn open. Your phone was still inside. Your laptop was on. I knew something was wrong.”
She swipes angrily at her tears. “I went straight to the police. I filed a report. I walked the neighborhood. I didn’t sleep. I thought—” Her voice cracks completely. “I thought you were dead.”
My chest aches so badly I can barely breathe.
“And then,” she says, letting out a shaky laugh that sounds hysterical, “a few hours ago, two men knocked on my door and told me they’re here to take me to your wedding.”
I pull back, staring at her. “Oh, Ellie.”
She throws her hands up. “Yes! I asked them what the hell that meant, and they just—” Her jaw tightens. “They told me I could come with them willingly…or they’d take me anyway.”
The room feels like it tilts.
Ellie looks around, really looks this time—the locked windows, the elegant prison, the dress on the bed. Her eyes widen slowly with horror as understanding sinks in.
“Oh my God,” she whispers. “Raelyn…what did they do to you?”
I swallow hard, my arms tightening around her again.
“They took my life,” I say quietly. Then I lift my hand and point to the gown on the bed. “It’s really my wedding, Ellie.”
Her head snaps toward it, then back to me. “What?” Her voice spikes. “No. No, no, no. What is going on? We need to get out of here. We need to escape.”
I let out a shaky breath.
She already knows about my father’s disappearance. That makes it easier. Or maybe harder. Either way, I don’t have the strength to lie.
So I tell her everything.
The kidnapping.
The SUV.
The mansion.
Konstantin Rusnak.
The threats.
The truth about my father.
The way this marriage isn’t a choice—it’s a sentence.
By the time I finish, Ellie looks like she might be sick. Her hands are clenched into fists, her face pale, eyes burning with fury and fear all at once.
“This is a nightmare,” she whispers. “This has to be a nightmare. Ray, please—we can call the police. We can find a way. There has to be cameras, guards, something—”
I shake my head slowly.
“No,” I say, the word heavy and final. “There isn’t.”
She stares at me. “You can’t just accept this.”