Page 12 of Marrying His Son’s Ex (Forbidden Kings #3)

KASI

Five days in this room, and I’m ready to claw my way through the walls.

The lawyer sits across from my bed again, papers spread between us like offerings to a goddess who couldn’t care less about his devotion. His voice drones on about benefits and privileges while I stare at the ceiling, counting the seconds until I can make him bleed.

“As Mrs. Moretti, you’d essentially be the queen of this estate,” he says, adjusting his glasses. “Unlimited spending allowances, your own personal staff, complete access to all family properties in?—”

I lean forward and spit directly in his face.

The glob of saliva hits his cheek and slides down toward his collar. He jerks backward so hard his chair nearly tips over, fumbling for his handkerchief like I’ve just thrown acid at him.

“Miss Vale, that’s completely?—”

“Go fuck yourself.” I settle back against my pillows, arms crossed. “And take your queen bullshit with you.”

The door opens before he can stammer out another word. Alaric fills the doorway, taking one look at his lawyer’s horrified expression and understanding everything.

He sighs, the sound carrying five days’ worth of exhaustion. “We’re done here, David.”

“Sir, perhaps if we tried a different approach?—”

“We’re done.” Alaric doesn’t even glance at me as he turns to leave. “Clean yourself up.”

The lock clicks behind them, leaving me alone. No walks. No fresh air. No human contact except for meal deliveries and legal bribes I’ll never accept.

But guards get careless when they think the fight’s gone out of you.

My lunch tray arrives at exactly noon, carried by a girl who can’t be older than nineteen. Her hands shake slightly as she sets down the silver service, and her eyes dart around like she’s afraid of making mistakes.

“Your meal, miss,” she says softly.

I wait until she reaches the door. “Excuse me, I need help with something.”

She turns, eyebrows raised. “Of course, miss. What do you need?”

“It’s embarrassing.” I let my voice drop, adding just enough shame to make it believable. “I’m having…female problems. I need supplies, and I think I need to clean up in the bathroom.”

Her cheeks flush pink. “Oh. Oh, of course. I could ask one of the female guards?—”

“Please, no.” I shake my head quickly. “I don’t want everyone knowing about this. Could you just…help me? Woman to woman?”

Understanding softens her features. “Of course. Let me just set my key card down and?—”

“Actually, could we go to the bathroom first? I’m really uncomfortable.”

She nods and turns away. I wait until her back is to me before grabbing the fork off my lunch tray and following her into the marble bathroom—polished, oversized, and thankfully empty.

As soon as we’re inside, I slam the door shut and twist the lock.

She jumps. “Miss?”

I raise the fork. “Take off your uniform.”

Her eyes go wide. “I—I’m sorry, what?”

“Now,” I say. “All of it.”

She backs up a step, hands half-lifted. “Miss, please. If someone finds out?—”

“If you don’t,” I say, my voice calm and cool, “I’ll start screaming that you attacked me. You really want to play the odds on who they’ll believe?”

Her face goes pale. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

She looks at the fork, then at my face. After a beat, her shoulders slump. Trembling fingers go to the buttons on her blouse. I keep the fork steady as she undresses.

When the uniform is off, I snatch it from her hands and start changing without turning away.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter as I zip up the skirt. It fits well enough—tight in the chest, snug in the hips, but it’ll pass. I tie my hair in a bun, and somehow, I look unrecognizable in the white and black outfit. “Where’s your key card?”

“My front pocket.”

I reach into the pocket and retrieve it. The shiny rectangular plastic is my ticket out of here.

“Thank you,” I tell her as I exit the bathroom. “Someone will get you out eventually.

I leave the bathroom and grab the lunch tray from my nightstand—the perfect excuse to be wandering the halls—and step into the corridor like I’ve done this a million times before.

The main house is busier than I expected. Staff moving between floors, their arms full of linens and flowers. Another event, probably. Rich people and their endless celebrations.

I keep my head down and walk with confidence, like just another servant carrying out orders. The service elevator is thirty feet away when a voice stops me cold.

“Excuse me.”

Every muscle in my body tenses, but I turn with what I hope looks like mild curiosity. An older woman approaches, her gray hair pulled into a severe bun and her eyes sharp enough to cut glass.

“I don’t recognize you,” she says, studying my face like she’s memorizing it. “Are you new?”

I nod.

“I didn’t see you during yesterday’s morning briefing,” she continues before I can answer. “Or today’s either.”

My heart hammers against my ribs, but I force a casual smile. “I didn’t see you either. Must have been the crowd.”

She seems to accept this, but her expression shifts to concern. “Are you feeling alright? You look pale.”

The opening I’ve been waiting for. “Actually, no.” I let my voice waver slightly. “I’m really not feeling well. I think I need to get home.”

“Oh, honey.” Her entire demeanor changes, maternal instincts kicking in. “Have you seen the house doctor?”

“The doctors here…” I trail off meaningfully, hoping she’ll fill in the blanks.

She nods knowingly. “Rich folks’ doctors don’t understand regular people’s problems. I understand completely.” She glances around, then leans closer. “Where do you live?”

“About thirty minutes from here. It’s not far, but I need a ride there.”

“The supply truck just finished its delivery,” she says, voice dropping to a whisper. “If you’re quiet about it, you might be able to slip out when they leave.”

My pulse jumps. “Really?”

“Come on.” She gestures for me to follow. “I’ll show you where they park. But you didn’t hear this from me.”

I can’t believe my luck. After five days of maximum security, I’m being led to freedom by a sympathetic housekeeper who thinks she’s helping a sick colleague.

She guides me through a maze of service corridors I’ve never seen before, past kitchens and storage rooms that smell like industrial cleaner and fresh bread. Finally, we reach a loading dock where a large delivery truck idles near an open bay door.

“Hide back there,” she whispers, pointing to the truck’s cargo area. “They’ll be leaving soon, and once you’re past the gates, you can slip out.”

“Thank you so much.” I grab her hand, squeezing it. “You’re saving my life.”

“Just feel better, honey.”

I climb into the back of the truck, wedging myself behind boxes of cleaning supplies and canned goods. The space is cramped and dark, but I don’t have the luxury of comfort.

The truck lurches into motion, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud. I actually did it. After everything—the restraints, the guards, the cameras—I’m free.

For twenty-three minutes, I allow myself to believe it.

The truck slows, then stops. I hear the driver’s door open and close, footsteps on gravel. Then the back doors swing wide.

But instead of sunlight and an empty road, I see the same woman who helped me escape. Only now she’s holding a knife, and her kind expression has been replaced by something cold and predatory.

“Hello, Kasimira,” she says, her voice completely different. Deadly. “Time to get out.”

I look toward the driver’s seat and see the driver slumped forward, blood trickling from his temple onto the steering wheel.

“You’re not?—”

“A housekeeper?” She laughs, the sound sharp as breaking glass. “God, no. I’m Anya Petrov, and you, little girl, just made my family very rich.”

Three men emerge from a black van parked twenty feet away. My stomach drops into my shoes as they approach, faces hidden behind dark sunglasses despite the overcast sky.

“Surprised?” Anya tilts her head, studying my expression like it amuses her. “You thought you were so clever, manipulating the poor, naive servant. Playing on my kindness.”

They grab my arms and drag me toward their van. I don’t even struggle—the shock of my own stupidity has paralyzed every defense I might have had.

“Don’t feel bad,” Anya says as they shove me into the back seat. “Everyone underestimates the help. It’s what makes us so effective.”

They’ve brought me to a warehouse that reeks of rust, motor oil, and dust.

They chain me to a metal chair in the center of the concrete floor, the restraints so tight my hands go numb within minutes.

Anya circles me like a shark that’s caught the scent of blood in the water.

“Dante Moretti was a very bad boy,” she says conversationally, lighting a cigarette. “He took something that belongs to the Petrov Syndicate. A lot of somethings, actually.”

“Fuck you. Fuck Dante.” I glare at her through the pain. “Alaric is going to kill you all when he finds me. Just you wait.”

The slap comes without warning, snapping my head to the side hard enough to make my ears ring. Stars burst behind my eyelids.

“Wrong answer.” Her voice remains pleasant, like we’re discussing weekend plans. “Let’s try again.”

“I don’t know anything about his business!” Tears blur my vision. “We weren’t even together when he died. I left him months before?—”

Another slap, this one hard enough to split my lip. I taste copper and salt.

“You dated him for two years. Lived with him for one.” She grabs my chin, forcing me to meet her eyes. “Shared his bed, ate at his table, signed his papers. You really expect us to believe you know nothing about where he hid our money?”

“I never signed anything! I didn’t know about any business!”

One of the men steps forward and backhands me across the mouth. My head snaps back, and something warm trickles down my chin.

“This is what happens when you trust people in our line of work,” Anya says, taking a long drag of her cigarette.

The betrayal cuts deeper than the physical pain. I thought I was being clever, manipulating some innocent maid into helping me escape. Instead, I was the mouse walking into the cat’s mouth.

“You should have stayed in your golden cage, little bird,” the man says, hitting me again. “At least the Morettis keep their pets alive.”

Hours blur together in a haze of questions I can’t answer and pain I can’t escape. My ribs ache with every breath, and my hands are completely dead from the restraints.

“Last chance,” Anya says, grinding her cigarette under her heel. “Where did Dante hide the accounts?”

“I don’t know.” My voice is barely a whisper. “I swear to God, I don’t know.”

She nods to one of her men, who picks up what looks like a car battery with cables attached.

That’s when I hear it.

Gunfire.

Anya’s head snaps toward the sound, and her cigarette falls from her lips. “What the fuck?—”

The warehouse doors explode inward in a shower of splinters and metal. Men with guns pour through the opening, muzzle flashes lighting up the darkness like deadly fireworks.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to make myself invisible as bullets tear through the air above my head. Someone screams. Glass shatters. Bodies hit the concrete with wet thuds.

When the shooting stops, the silence is so complete it feels like death.

“Clear!”

“Building secure!”

“Boss, over here!”

Footsteps approach through the smoke and debris. I open my eyes to see Alaric kneeling in front of me, his shirt splattered with blood. His green eyes burn with something I’ve never seen before—something that might be fear.

“I’ve got you,” he says, pulling out a knife to cut through my restraints. “You’re safe now.”

The ropes fall away, and my arms drop like dead weight. I can’t feel my hands, can’t feel anything except the overwhelming relief that I’m still breathing.

When he cuts the last of my bonds, I collapse forward into his chest.

“I’m sorry,” I sob against his shirt, my voice broken and raw. “I’m so fucking sorry.”