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No one comes. No one goes.

I’ve been taken to exercise, running mostly, still handcuffed. I’m bathed by servants who never look me in the eye. Ananke has met with me multiple times, carefully curating our conversations with key questions. She’s assessing me, I’m sure.

Today is the first time she hasn’t visited.

Easily dismissed as a fluke until a steady string of guests begin to arrive. The sound of vehicles up the opulent estate’s driveway is nearly constant outside my window.

And not just any guests.

The crème de la crème of the wealthy and eccentric. High ranking officials from governments spanning several continents. Some less than reputable celebrities. And of course, the star players of the underworld.

They’re all here: Triad, Yakuza, a crew of hooligans who might be the Alberts out of the UK.

Morning wanes into afternoon and the train continues. Limos and SUVs deliver an alarming variety of potential clients. Or victims.

What could Ananke be planning to show all of these people? Is she really so bold as to think she can actually unite the global elite under one umbrella?

Scratch that. She absolutely is.

But is that really the endgame?

As night descends, the lights bathe the grounds in color and texture. Music vibrates through the walls. The affair drags on.

For two days.

She’s hosting no less than a hundred dignitaries and their entourages. It’s outrageous. It’s loud.

“Ugh. Shut up!” I growl, pacing after hours of rowdy voices and thumping music.

Diving onto my bed, I cram my pillow around my head.

I don’t notice the door opening.

Not until I hear a clunk as it closes and the shuffle of feet. Instantly, I’m rolling off the bed, into a crouch, my hand between the mattress and the bedframe. The long sliver of wood that I broke off of the bar in the closet sharpened nicely into a shiv.

In the dark of my chambers, I wait to catch a glimpse of my company. If it’s a guard, I can’t risk wasting my only weapon and having it confiscated.

Instead of being disarmed by one of Ananke’s goon squad, I’m taken completely off guard by the hoarse whisper from across the room.

“Circe?”

My heart leaps at the sound of his voice.

“Ero?!” Throwing caution to the wind, I spring from my hiding spot and rush into his waiting arms. Nothing has ever felt so right. So goddamned good.

Until I realize what his presence means.

“No, you’re not supposed to be here, you were supposed to get out!” I almost shove him away.

My hands disobey, clutching him tighter. “You dumbass!”

“You always know just what to say to make a guy feel welcome.”

Balling my fists, I debate socking him across the face. My lips win the toss up of what I need more. Ero grunts in masculine satisfaction as we kiss.

So many questions roll through my head.

I need to ask him how he got in, if he got caught. How he survived the bullet wound. Where he’s been and why he fucked up so badly trying to rescue me.