Page 272 of His To Erase

Maybe he’s actually the one in charge. Wouldn’t surprise me. He seems smart. Knows when to talk, when to move, when to shut the fuck up and listen.

That’s the kind of man I want beside me when shit goes sideways in there. With Calissi you never know.

“There’s two pressure sensors on the main gate. One under the west garden stones—probably old, but can’t be too sure. East perimeter’s got a blind spot if we cut the feed here.” He taps the screen. “Ten yards inside the fence.”

I nod. “We take the east. I want eyes on the master suite first.”

“We can’t use any aerial drones,” Cruz mutters. “It’ll trip perimeter detection.”

“Don’t need one,” I say. “I know the layout.”

They glance at me. I’ve studied every inch of that house in the last few hours. Memorized it. Every angle. Every line of sight. Every spot that might hold a camera—or her. If she’s behind one of those windows, I’ll find her. And if she’s not? Then someone’s going to bleed until I get an answer.

We load up in silence. This is the kind of quiet I trust.

Hang on, Dear. Just a little bit longer.

Ani

Getting ready was a blur. I spent most of it trying not to vomit, cry, or jump out a window. My brain short-circuited the second those two men showed up, all polite smiles and silent stares, saying they were here to “escort me to my room.”

I thought they were going to drag me in by the hair. Strip me down. Pick out a dress and a necklace and maybe even a tiara while they held me down and told me to smile for the fucking photos.

Is this my life right now? Really?

A forced wedding, in a goddamn mansion. In Puerto Rico. To a man who probably killed my grandfather and keeps acting like I’m some lost little heiress who just needs a firm hand and a fitted suit to get her shit together.

Jesus.

How did I end up here?

I pace the length of the bedroom again, arms tight around my middle, ignoring the sting behind my eyes and the taste of acid crawling up my throat.

I mean, it’s a beautiful room. Every detail screams wealth, and I hate it. The second I stepped inside, my heart stuttered with recognition.

I’ve been in this room before, lived here, slept here. How did I forget an entire life? An entire place?

And now it’s being used as a prison.

I don’t know what’s worse—that I used to live here, or that I didn’t even know it until my body remembered for me. Pretty sure it’s the same damn furniture, too. Ten-year-old me probably loved it. Too bad current me is now getting dressed in it—for a wedding I didn’t agree to, wearing a dress I didn’t pick, for a man I wouldn’t choose if the world was on fire.

I glance at the door. It’s still locked. I checked. Twice.

The two men who brought me here didn’t say a single word. Their posture was rigid, their guns clearly visible, and their energy screamed we’re not here to chat. They were professional, cold, and efficient—no smiles, no warmth, just business.

I even tried to lighten the mood, making a sarcastic comment about whether this kidnapping package came with hair and makeup.

Neither of them reacted. Not a smile. Not a twitch. Just blank, polite professionalism—the kind that somehow felt more violating than being shoved inside.

Assholes.

They left without a word, shutting the door behind them like I was just a problem they’d successfully delivered. And now I’m alone. With a dress laid out on the bed like it’s a gift instead of a fucking prison sentence, a pair of bone-colored heels that scream expensive hostage, and a full-length mirror that keeps showing me a version of myself I don’t recognize.

I haven’t even put the dress on yet. I’ve just been pacing back and forth across this bedroom that’s somehow mine.

I keep trying to stay calm. Trying to think clearly. I’ve been freaking out in what I thought was a mature, adult way—meaning I bit the wooden bedpost once and seriously considered yeeting myself out the third-story window onto the decorative fountain below.

The dress is nice. Which makes me want to burn it more. Frank had it tailored to fit me perfectly, I'm sure. It’s not even white—it’s more bone than bridal, very fitting for a chic hostage aesthetic. I wish I could throw up on it.