Chapter 2

Eliana's POV

The words knocked the air out of my lungs. I actually stumbled backward, my hand reaching for the doorframe.

"What?" Martin's voice cracked. "That's impossible. She's been gone for three years—"

"She said she was held captive," Dennis cut him off, speaking fast. "Somewhere overseas. She just escaped. She's hiding in a safe house but she needs us. She needs us to come get her."

"Oh my God." Lawrence's hand went to his mouth. "Vivian. She's really..."

"She was crying on the phone," Dennis continued, his own voice thick. "She said she was tortured, that she barely got away. We have to go. We have to go right now."

I watched Martin's face transform. The man who'd just been kissing me with such tenderness was gone. In his place was someone lit up with desperate hope and aching guilt and a love so fierce it had survived three years of absence.

"Where is she?" Martin was already moving, pushing past Dennis into the hallway. "Give me the phone. I need to talk to her."

Philip Mitchell came running up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He nearly crashed into me but swerved at the last second without even glancing my way. "Dennis called me. Is it true? Is Vivian really alive?"

"Get the jet ready," Lawrence said, his voice sharp. "We leave in two hours."

"Already on it." Philip had his phone to his ear. "I'm calling the pilot now."

They clustered together in the hallway with their heads bent as they made plans and barked orders and arranged logistics.

And I stood there in the doorway wrapped in a sheet that still smelled like Martin's cologne, watching the two men who'd just been touching me like I mattered forget I existed.

Three years. She's been gone three years and one phone call erases six months.

"That's her?" I said, my voice small. "Vivian? Your ex?"

None of them answered. I don't think they even heard me.

Martin was still on the phone, pacing the hallway. "Don't worry about anything. We'll handle everything. You're safe now. We're going to bring you home."

Home.

This was her home. This bedroom I was standing in had been hers first. Those clothes in the closet that they'd finally stopped making me wear were hers. That garden I'd started to think of as mine, she'd planted it. Everything here, every single thing, had been hers before it was mine.

And now she was coming back to reclaim it all.

They scattered, each man with a mission, energized in a way I'd never seen before. This was what they looked like when they cared about someone. This was what real love looked like on their faces.

And I'd mistaken their scraps for the genuine thing.

I walked back into the bedroom where I'd just been lying in Martin's arms and closed the door quietly behind me. The bed was a disaster with sheets tangled and pillows scattered on the floor. The imprint of our bodies was still visible in the mattress.

I sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled my knees up to my chest. The sheet slipped down but I didn't bother adjusting it. What did it matter?

Outside the door I could hear their voices, excited and frantic and full of the kind of desperate love I'd foolishly thought might someday be for me.

I was always just the replacement.

And now the original was coming home.

Three days later, they brought her home.

I stood on the second-floor balcony gripping the railing so hard. Four black cars rolled through the front gates. The engines purred to a stop and all four of them stepped out at once. Martin, Lawrence, Dennis, Philip. They moved with this energy I'd never seen before, urgent and almost frantic.

Martin opened the rear door of the lead car and reached inside with both hands, careful and gentle in a way that made my stomach twist.

A girl emerged.

She wore a white dress that was clearly brand new, the fabric catching the breeze and making her look ethereal. Her face was pale, and her eyes darted around with this frightened animal quality. She looked small and vulnerable and so completely broken that I almost felt sorry for her.

Vivian Bailey.

My chest tightened and I couldn't breathe.

Martin kept one hand on her lower back, guiding her toward the entrance while Lawrence hovered on her other side with his expression softer than I'd ever seen it. Dennis carried her bags and Philip walked ahead already on his phone arranging something. They were treating her the way you'd handle something priceless and fragile, something that might shatter if you weren't careful enough.

Vivian's head tilted up and her eyes found mine through the balcony railing.

For just a second her lips curved into something. Then she looked away and leaned into Martin as if she couldn't stand on her own.

"Vivian, you're safe now." Martin's voice was so gentle. "No one's going to hurt you here."

"Thank you." Her voice trembled, soft and fragile in exactly the right way. "I thought I'd never see any of you again."

Lawrence brushed a strand of hair from her face. "We've prepared the master bedroom for you. It has the best light, the best view. You'll be comfortable there."

The master bedroom.

My bedroom. The room where Martin had kissed my forehead three nights ago and told me I made him feel relaxed for the first time in years. The room where Lawrence had asked me to stay and promised he'd protect me.

I turned and walked back inside before they could see me standing there watching them worship her.

Dennis found me twenty minutes later.

"Pack your things." He said it flatly without even looking at me. "You're moving to the west wing. Vivian needs this room."

I stared at him.

"You heard me. The staff is already clearing it out."

I pushed past him into the bedroom and three maids were stripping the bed, pulling books off the shelves, tossing my clothes into cardboard boxes with zero care.

I turned to him feeling desperate and pathetic. "Can I talk to Martin? Just for a minute. I need to explain—"

"They're with Vivian." His tone was ice and finality. "They don't have time for you right now."

The door closed behind him.

The truth hit me with brutal clarity. I was never meant to stay here. I was just keeping the space warm until the real thing came back.

They let me eat dinner with them that night, although "let me" is generous. I sat at the far corner of the table in a chair that used to be for guests while Vivian sat at the head of the table in the spot that had been mine just yesterday.

She looked beautiful and fragile and tragic in exactly the way men want to save.

The four of them surrounded her, leaning in and hanging on every word that came out of her mouth.

I pushed my food around my plate and tried to make myself invisible, tried to take up as little space as possible.

I stood up to get water from the side table and my chair scraped against the floor.

"Ah!"

Vivian's scream cut through the room and made everyone jump.

I spun around. She was clutching her arm with tears streaming down her face and there was a thin red line across her pale skin just below her elbow.

"She scratched me!" Vivian gasped and shrank back in her chair. "When she walked past—"

"What?" I dropped the glass and it shattered on the floor, water and broken glass spreading everywhere. "I didn't touch you!"

Martin shot to his feet. "Eliana! What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I didn't do anything!" My voice cracked. "I swear I didn't—"

"You're jealous." Philip said it coldly while standing between me and Vivian as if I was some kind of threat. "Jealous that she's back and you're not special anymore."

"No! I didn't touch her!" I looked at Lawrence. "You have to believe me. I walked past her, that's all. I didn't—"

But Lawrence wasn't looking at me. He was kneeling beside Vivian and examining her arm with the kind of tenderness he used to save for me, his fingers gentle as he turned her wrist to see the scratch better.

"It's okay." He murmured to her in that soft voice. "You're okay. She won't hurt you again."

Dennis grabbed my arm and his fingers dug into my skin hard enough to bruise. "Come on. You're done here."

"Wait, please—" I twisted and tried to break free but he was too strong. "I didn't do it! Why won't you listen to me?"