“I’m not waiting for the ambulance!” Julian shouted, suddenly standing up and effortlessly scooping my paralyzed body into his arms. He looked frantic, decisive, heroic. “I’m taking her to the car! My driver is out front! We’ll meet the ambulance at the hospital! Out of the way, please!”
He was lying.
He wasn’t taking me to the hospital. He was going to put me in the back of his soundproofed, tinted SUV. He was going to take me back to the massive, isolated estate, let me sleep off the heavy sedatives in our locked bedroom, and then he was going to brutally, methodically punish me for causing a scene and ruining his perfect night.
I was trapped, my consciousness rapidly fading into blackness, held tightly in the arms of my executioner.
Julian took three hurried, long strides toward the grand double doors leading to the lobby. The crowd parted for him, offering sympathetic, horrified murmurs.
But before Julian could cross the threshold of the ballroom, a tall, impeccably dressed man stepped deliberately out of the crowd.
The man moved with calm, terrifying authority, stepping directly into Julian’s path, physically blocking the exit.
“Call the police, too,” the man commanded.
His voice didn’t shout, but it carried a deep, resonant, absolute authority that echoed clearly through the silenced ballroom, stopping Julian dead in his tracks.
“She’s not sick,” the man stated, his eyes locking onto Julian with glacial intensity. “And you are not leaving this room.”
