She had never tasted soup quite like this anywhere else—not even in the finest restaurants abroad.


    Yet the bowl in front of her now was almost identical to the one Felicity used to


    make.


    A sudden chill crawled up her spine.


    M''s back stiffened, and she slowly turned her head. Through the thin veil


    covering her face, she peered at the blurred outline of the man sitting across the table. Her fingers trembled uncontrobly.


    Why?


    How could this man have made the same soup she''d once tasted at the Montgomery estate?


    She had always assumed-


    That he''d kidnapped her because he''d learned about her connection to Jade through Giselle, or that he held some grudge against her great-aunt, seeking revenge or ransom.


    But now-


    She realized she''d been terribly, dangerously wrong.


    Had she overlooked the Montgomerys entirely? Was she taken because of them?


    Her spoon slipped from her grasp and fell into the bowl with a soft ssh. As she tried to stand, a servant behind her shoved her forcefully back into her seat, the grip on her shoulders painfully tight.


    "Who are you?" she demanded, voice shaking. "Why are you holding me? Is this to threaten the Montgomery family-or to extort them?"


    If this truly had something to do with the Montgomerys, everything changed. Her situation could be even more dire.


    Lysander would nevere for her.


    ...


    The garden outside was silent and still.


    The man lifted a delicate porcin coffee cup, took a slow, thoughtful sip, then finally spoke. It was the first time M had heard his voice.


    "Did you like it?”


    The words were in English-wless, unented American English.


    His voice was refined, almost musical.


    But M was in no mood to notice, nor to wonder how a foreigner could speak so perfectly. She was too unsettled. "What?"


    "The taste," he said quietly, "Was it like hers?"


    M''s face went white. A wave of dread swept through her. "What are you saying? What do you mean?"


    Some awful realization was rising in her chest.


    But the man fell silent. The cold muzzle of a gun pressed against the back of her head. M clenched her lips, forced herself to answer, her voice barely above a whisper.


    "It''s... very simr."


    "Simr—or not quite the same?" he murmured.


    He turned as if to leave. Panic surged in M. Ignoring the gun at her head, she struggled to her feet.


    "Wait! What do you want from me? If you''re trying to threaten the Montgomery family, you-"


    She wanted to say they had the wrong person, but her fingers identally snagged the edge of her veil, nearly pulling it from her face. A searing pain shot through her palm.


    Bang!


    A scream tore from her throat before she could finish. She copsed to the floor, clutching her left hand as blood poured from the bullet wound in her palm. Writhing in agony, tears soaked the white veil that now shrouded her face.


    "My hand! Oh God, my hand!"


    The man paused mid-step, then turned back to her. With his ck cane, he hooked the veil and draped it more securely over her face, his tone casual, almost dismissive.


    "Don''t let me see your face."


    ...


    In a bed draped with deep red curtains, My motionless, her eyes hollow. The truth had finally sunk in-and left her more hopeless than ever.


    It was because of the Montgomery family.


    Always, always the Montgomery family.


    She didn''t even know what to feel anymore.


    Curled up on her side, her bandaged left hand throbbing and numb, she held it


    close to her chest. Tears kepting, soaking the fine linen sheets.


    What was she supposed to do now?


    Could she ever go home?


    Had she been taken because of her marriage to Lysander-did they think she could be used to threaten him? Or the Montgomerys?


    But they were wrong.


    All of it was wrong.


    Her marriage to Lysander was nothing but a hollow pretense, a shell she''d been desperate to shed. The only one Lysander truly cared for was Giselle. He would never risk anything for M.


    Neither Lysander nor the Montgomerys would lift a finger to save her.


    Any threat against her was empty.


    But could she tell her captor this? Tell him he''d grabbed the wrong person, that only Giselle would be of use? If she had no value, would he simply kill her?


    He was brutal enough for it.


    She had barely brushed her veil and he''d shot her hand through. What would he do if she was truly useless?


    She didn''t dare risk it.


    But even if she kept silent, if he tried to threaten the Montgomerys, and Lysander ignored it, she''d be killed soon enough anyway.


    What could she do?


    As the anesthetic wore off, pain pulsed through her hand in waves. Curling tighter,


    she buried her head under the covers, whispering brokenly,


    "It hurts... it hurts..."


    "


    ...Aunt Felicity, I miss you so much."


    She wanted to go home.


    To be with her great-aunt again.


    But she couldn''t. She didn''t even know how her great-aunt was doing—at least, she thought with a faint, bitter relief, this had nothing to do with her. The man was targeting M, and the Montgomerys.


    Her great-aunt was safe.


    For a long time, shey hidden beneath the nkets, her sobs growing quieter until they faded away. When she finally lifted her head, her face was nk, but her eyes were sharp and resolute once more.


    She had to survive.


    No matter what it took, she would find a way out of this hell-and get back to her great-aunt.


    If rescue would nevere,


    She''d save herself.


    She would never give up.