Chapter 6

And behind him was the bodyguard my dad had sent—black suits, earpieces, cold eyes. His presence turned the room into a different world immediately.

For the first time, Vincent lost his temper at Sienna.

Sienna stared at him for a few seconds, like she realized he still had to do the "final love prank" and keep up appearances with me.

With the bodyguard there, she could only swallow her rage, throw out a cold laugh, and storm off.

I didn't wait for Vincent to explain a single word.

The bodyguard rolled in a wheelchair to take me away.

Vincent sensed something was wrong. He pressed a hand down on the wheelchair handle, anxiety surging in his eyes.

"Claire, what are you doing?"

I lowered my gaze. My voice was calm, like I was reading a document that didn't matter:

"Going to Italy for treatment. My dad is worried. He wants me to go to Paris."

Vincent refused immediately, saying he didn't feel safe letting me go.

I almost laughed.

Who caused my leg injury?

Wasn't the culprit standing right in front of me?

But I only said lightly, "My dad wants to see me as soon as possible."

He went silent for a few seconds like he was weighing something, and in the end, he nodded.

Then, like he couldn't wait, he booked my flight for the next day right in front of me.

"I'll come find you," he said fast. "Tell me the flight number. I'll pick you up at the airport."

I paused, then handed him the lie I'd prepared:

"DL5882."

He stared at me and repeated it like he was carving it into bone:

"DL5882."

He still wanted to take me there himself.

But in the next second, his phone rang sharply.

Marco's name flashed on the screen.

"Vin! Hurry! Sienna fell down the stairs!"

Vincent didn't explain a word —not who she was, not goodbye, not the injuries covering my body.

He turned and ran out like a puppet yanked by a string.

I watched his back and smiled, bitter and cold.

To the bodyguard, I said, "Let's go."

JFK Airport.

The security man lowered his voice to me.

"Miss, the flight path has been arranged. Your father said... he'll create the most perfect crash scene."

I looked up. The gate screen flashed:

AF1621—PARIS (CDG)

I nodded, wheeling myself toward the gate.

12:24.

Vincent said that was the day we first met.

Real or fake, I chose this moment—to make him remember forever.

Remember that I died in his prank game.

Make him regret it for life, with nothing left but hate.

One second before boarding, I sent Vincent my final text:

[Vincent Jones, your 100th prank —I'm playing along with my life.]

My phone exploded instantly.

Calls. Messages. One after another, flooding in crazily.

He still didn't know about the crash.

All he knew was: I'd found his game.

Doubt? Rage? Panic?

Or that uneasy, helpless fear?

It didn't matter anymore.

I took one last look at my phone.

My "special follow" lit up —Sienna's alternate account:

[Vincent said he'll play the prank compilation on our wedding day. Some clown crying her makeup off would make the perfect opening clip.]

The photo showed Vincent's safe in the penthouse —inside were ninety-nine voice recorders stacked in perfect rows.

I watched Vincent's incoming call and smiled as I pulled out the SIM card.

Then I tossed the phone into my bag like I was tossing away something rotten from the past.

My dad said: making a private plane disappear from radar is as easy as wiping fingerprints off a wedding photo.

He told me to relax.

And I would disappear from Vincent Jones's life—completely.