The way Damien’s hand curves around my waist, making sure I stay as close to him as possible, I can’t help wondering how I’ll ever manage to get away from him. The way he looked at me during the car ride, I could have sworn he was able to read my thoughts.

Hotel Sierra has a brightly lit lobby with marble floors, glinting chandeliers, and antique paintings on the walls. Before I even see the designer handbags and clothes, and the jewelry dripping from necklines and wrists, I already know this hotel is where the rich come to play. The air around us smells of money.

We’ve just made it to the center of the lobby when a small man stumbles from behind the reception desk and approaches us. “Good evening, Mr. Steel. I’m glad to see you, sir.”

“Evening, Jerome.” Damien tightens his hand around my waist. “Meet my wife.”

“Congratulations on your marriage. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Steel.” His hand is firm and sweaty as it shakes mine, and his beady eyes study my face in a way that makes me a little uncomfortable.

“Is our table ready?” Damien glances at his watch.

“Of course, sir.” The man clasps his hands together. “Everything is ready for you.”

“Thank you, Jerome.” Damien pauses. “How’s Elizabeth doing? Has she found a job yet?”

The man’s face falls and he drops his eyes. “I’m afraid not. Jobs are scarce in our small town.”

“Tell her to come and see me at the office on Monday at eight. I’ll see what I can do.”

With his free hand, Damien pulls out his phone and switches it on. Standing close, I watch him create a new calendar entry. He types in the name Elizabeth Torres.

“Thank you, sir. That’s very kind. Your help is much appreciated.” Jerome gives a small bow. “And thank you for the bicycle you bought my boy for his birthday.”

“That’s quite all right.” Damien drops his phone back into his pocket. “I hope he likes it.”

“Very much.” Jerome’s face breaks into a smile.

“Glad to hear that. I’ll talk to you later, Jerome. I’m treating my wife to a nice meal. She hasn’t been feeling well lately.”

I stiffen and clench my teeth so tight my jaw aches. So he’s been lying to everyone. I wouldn’t be surprised if he also told them about my fake skiing accident that led to my memory loss, which exacerbated my existing mental problems.

“Of course. Enjoy your evening Mr. and Mrs. Steel.”

As we walk away, I mull over the conversation Jerome and Damien just shared. Damien came across as some kind of a saint. The idea weighs heavy on my mind; it makes my situation far more complicated.

I’d hoped to be able to tear myself from him and solicit the help of a member of the staff. But it seems Damien has brought me to a place he frequents, a place where everybody knows and respects him.

Hearing him tell people I’m unwell leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. If he has painted me as a person with mental problems, it will be his word against mine.

Our short journey to the restaurant is punctuated by more guests and staff members greeting and conversing with Damien, who introduces me to each person, repeating the lie that I’ve been unwell.

One of the people we meet is Maria Sanchez, the hotel manager. She’s pretty, with a baby face framed by coal-black curls that stop at her chin. She kisses Damien on both cheeks and gazes into his eyes as though they’ve known each other a long time.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Steel. It’s been a while.” She glances at me with her dark eyes. “This must be your lovely new wife.”

Damien smiles and nods, running a gentle hand around my waist. Like he did with Jerome earlier, he takes a moment to inquire about the woman’s well-being and family, listening as though there’s no other place he’d rather be.

While he’s at ease in the moment, my nerves are getting the best of me. The fear that I might not be able to get away from him tonight is draining the energy from my body.

Maria pauses her conversation with Damien and narrows her dark eyes at me. “Are you okay, Mrs. Steel?”

“Yes, yes.” I quickly wipe the sheen of sweat from my forehead.

Damien turns to me, his brow furrowed. “You look a little pale, darling.” He glances back at Maria. “Maria, it was nice talking to you. I better take my wife to our table.”

As he leads me away, I feel Maria’s gaze on my back. Perfect. Now she’ll really believe I’m sick. Why can’t anyone see through Damien?

As we walk through the restaurant doors, he places a hand on the small of my back. “Is this too much for you?” he asks under his breath. “Would you rather we return home?”

My neck almost snaps as I turn to him. A bubble of panic rises in my chest. “No. No, that’s silly.” I attempt a chuckle. “We came all this way. I’ll be fine. I just need to sit down.”

A waiter with teeth as white as his shirt comes over to receive us. He greets Damien with all the respect he’s due, and shows us to a table for two in the back.

My gaze roams the interior of the dining room, taking in the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook a well-tended garden. Inside there’s a sparkling fountain, a white grand piano, the bar, and a long salad buffet. I also spot the sign indicating the restrooms.

Damien waves at someone, a gray-haired woman wearing a diamond chandelier necklace.

I sink into my chair. “You must be a regular here.”

“Something like that.” He shakes out a cloth napkin with the hotel logo in the center. “It’s expected of the owner.” He grins, waves over the waiter, and orders a bottle of wine.

He doesn’t notice me gaping at him. “So you’re in the hotel business when you’re not… lecturing?” Fake lecturing, I’m tempted to add, but I don’t have a death wish.

“That’s right.” He watches the waiter fill our glasses with white wine.

No wonder the hotel staff were on the verge of licking his shoes.

“Would you like to order?” The waiter clasps his hands in front of him and looks at each of us in turn. “The usual, Mr. Steel?”

“Give us a moment, please, Mateo.”

The waiter gives a curt nod and retreats.

Damien rubs the side of his face. “You’re asking a lot of questions lately.”

“I only asked one. I’m interested in you, that’s all.” I pick up the menu and flip through it, pretending to look over the options. “How do you find time to do so much while running a business?” By “so much,” I mean his extracurricular activities of kidnapping and killing people.

“Having a great staff makes all the difference.”

I barely hear his response as an idea pops into my mind. I turn to the last page of the menu and peruse the bottom of the page. There it is: the hotel address. San Maureo, Mexico.

I look up at Damien, trying my best to keep the terror from showing on my face. Although it’s good to know my location, running around another country without any form of identification could pose a problem.

“You’re awfully quiet.” Damien lays a hand on mine. “Everything all right?”

“Yes.” Under the table, I clench my other hand into a fist. “I think I’m ready to eat. But I can’t decide on anything.”

“I’ll order for both of us. How about some seafood?”

“Sounds good.”

Through the rush in my ears, I hear Damien order our meals. I catch a few names—shrimp cocktail, lobster frittata with sevruga caviar—then everything fades into gibberish.

Mexico or not, it’s time for me to start thinking about getting away. When I look over Damien’s shoulder, I spot Adrian talking to the hotel manager. He glances up, and our eyes meet. My stomach clenches. I’m guessing he’s been instructed to watch my every move.

I take a sip of wine, and then a huge gulp, before realizing my mistake. No alcohol; my head has to remain clear at all times. I reach for my glass of water and raise it to my lips, eyes still on Adrian.

“Ivy?” Damien’s voice breaks through my thoughts.

“Huh?” I shake my head and return my attention to him. I have to be careful, remain present so he doesn’t get suspicious. “Did you say something?”

“I asked if you wanted a salad. You can get it from the buffet.” He folds his arms across his chest. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Of course I am. It’s nice to be out.” I force a smile. Why does he keep asking if I’m fine? What does he care? “Sure, I’ll have a salad.” I start to stand, then sit again. “Should I get it myself or will you?”

I’m holding on to the hope that he’ll let me step away from him for a few minutes, but I don’t expect he’ll risk it. There are so many people around. I could find a way to sneak a request for help into someone’s ear.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He gives a choked laugh and washes it down with wine. “Of course you can get it yourself.”

“Oh. I just thought you might prefer to do it.”

“You’re a free person, Ivy.” His eyes shoot daggers at me. “I’m not as cruel as you make me out to be. I’m your husband, for goodness sake. Just don’t talk to anyone.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t.” I almost laugh with relief. I hadn’t expected it to be this easy. It can only mean one thing: He’s testing me. After all, he’s the one who proposed I get a salad in the first place. “Okay, then. I’ll be right back.” My chair almost falls to the ground as I stand.

As I walk away from the table, Damien and Adrian both keep their eyes fixed on me. I try my best not to look back at them or reveal how nervous I am.

Adrenaline is burning the walls of my stomach, but I can’t risk it all and run, not with them watching me so closely. I’m pretty sure Damien is waiting for me to do something stupid. I need a little more time to think of the perfect exit strategy.

For now, he has nothing to worry about. If this is a test, I’ll pass with flying colors. Unless, of course, his intention is for me to fail. Then he’d have a reason to never let me out of my prison again.

Dinner is delicious, but quiet. I’ve run out of things to say to him, and coming up with pretend conversation proves complicated. All I can think about is my escape.

“The food is good.” I stick my fork into a piece of crab meat, imagining the metal teeth sinking into Damien’s skin instead.

“I knew you’d like it.” He dabs his mouth with his napkin. “You were right. This is nice, being out together as a couple. Maybe we should do this more often.”

“Maybe.” I reach for my glass of water and take a mouthful, but it goes down the wrong way. I cough and place a hand on my chest.

“You okay?” He places a hand on mine, the gesture of a loving husband—or somebody pretending to be one.

“Fine.” I slip my hand away from his and reach for a napkin, which I swipe over my lips. Lipstick clings to it like smeared blood. “I should go to the restroom. My lipstick needs fixing.”

“Don’t be long.” He shovels food into his mouth. Not a hint of suspicion in his eyes. “And be careful.”

I want to tell him to go to hell, but I give him a small smile instead. I get to my feet and walk away from the table on shaky legs.