“He does not get to forbid me from going to work. I promised my dad I would be there this morning. You heard me. If you think for a second that my dad’s not going to call the cops if I don’t show up, you’re nuts.”

V grunts, his fingers flying across his phone as he’s returned to his mute state. My phone buzzes with a text, which is a really inconvenient and unsatisfying way to argue.

V: Boss said you stay here.

“Then he’s going to have to tell me to my face. Otherwise, I’ll walk out that damn courtyard gate and hail a cab. You really think he’s going to like that?”

V’s eyebrows swoop together as he texts me again.

V: He’s busy. On a call. You have to wait.

“At what point during the whole time you’ve known me have I made you think I’m cool with waiting? I will scream down this house, if that’s what it takes. We don’t need my dad calling the cops. You know that even better than I do.”

V grunts again, and I shove my finger into his solid chest.

“Take me to him now, or we’re going to have a serious problem that goes far beyond me being pissed as hell.”

Another growl.

“Now.” I jab harder, finding this whole giving-orders thing comes quite naturally to me.

V turns with a glare, jerking his head toward the door. I know enough about his body language to interpret it as follow me.

“See? Isn’t it easier when you just do what I say?”

We head into the exterior hallway, and I follow behind him until we sneak into the rabbit warren of secret passageways through the painting entrance.

“Is there a map I’m going to get one of these days? Because I’d like to know how to get around myself.”

V doesn’t bother to answer, which is fine with me, because all I care about is getting to Lachlan as quickly as possible. Preferably before my dad has the entire police department combing the city for me and a black Maybach.

When the bookcase slides aside, V allows me to enter first but doesn’t follow. Lachlan is seated at his desk and on his cell phone, arguing with someone. He stands as soon as he sees me.

His gaze clearly asks, What are you doing?

I respond quietly, practically mouthing the words. “I need to go to work before my dad calls the cops.”

He holds up a finger and heads for the open doorway where V still stands. I pace, not feeling remotely patient as he continues speaking to whomever is on the other end of the call.

I block it out. I’ve already determined there are plenty of things I don’t need to know about my husband’s business.

When I reach the edge of his desk, I spin on my heel, preparing to pace in the opposite direction, but something on the monitor catches my eye.

I shriek as I step toward it, banging my hip on the corner of the desk. The shooting pain barely registers because the monitor shows a blond woman shackled to the hospital bed I recognize from the days after the car accident.

A blond woman. The woman who shot me and locked me in a mausoleum with a pile of dead bodies. Including my best friend’s almost dead body.

“What the fuck?” I shout. “What the fucking fuck?”

Lachlan turns toward me. His expression goes blank as he lowers the phone and ends the call without a word. “Keira—”

He steps in my direction, but I hold out a hand at him as I point at the camera feed.

“You need to explain this right now. Right. Now. Because this doesn’t make any sense.”

“Keira—” He repeats my name, but it barely penetrates the buzzing in my ears.

“You said you took care of this. And when you said you took care of it, I believed you! You know why? Because every time you say that, it means you fucking took care of it!”

“Will you calm—”

“Don’t you dare tell me to calm down! Is my husband down there too? How many people do you have locked up in the basement?”

His expression, already hard, turns stony. “He’s at the bottom of the fucking bayou, not in the goddamned basement.”

I fling my hand wildly at the screen. “Then what the hell is she doing down there? She tried to kill me! She’s the reason my best friend is in a coma! And what about the other women in that tomb? Why is she still alive?”

Lachlan’s granite features dissolve into pure anguish. “Because I couldn’t fucking kill her, okay? I couldn’t fucking pull the trigger.”

I grip the edge of the desk, my lungs heaving as I try to understand what the hell is going on here. Clearly, I’m missing something massive.

“Tell me why, Lachlan. You have to tell me why.” I speak each word carefully, like my sanity depends on it, because it actually might.

My husband—who I’m beginning to question if I know at all—scrubs both hands over his face. “It’s complicated.”

“Then I suggest you uncomplicate it right now. I’m starting to wonder if I have a clue who you really are, and I really don’t like wondering that.”

With his fingers pressed to his temples, Lachlan’s eyes close for a beat before fixing on me. “My past is ugly.”

“And I married you knowing exactly what and who you are—at least, I thought I did.” I point at the woman on the monitor. “She shot me. She told me she was your destiny. She said you were supposed to love her. I think I deserve an explanation.”

Lachlan’s face turns into that unreadable mask I’ve seen too many times. “Then you better sit down, because this isn’t a short story. It’s the story of my fucking life.”

I drop into his desk chair, my injuries protesting at the sudden movement, and I look at the image of the unconscious woman strapped to a hospital bed and then back at my husband.

“You can start whenever you’re ready. Preferably now.”