Chapter 1 - The Call She Swore She Would Never Make
Champagne flutes clinked, laughter echoed, and somewhere in the opulent ballroom of the Oakridge Country Club, a bride threw her bouquet.
Outside, in the freezing rain, shivering in a torn bridesmaid dress with a swelling jaw, Nebula dialed a number she swore she had deleted three years ago.
The man on the other end wasn't a savior. He was a monster who owned half the city. But tonight, the monster was the only one who wouldn't ask why she was bruised.
Music pulsed through the floorboards of the country club, a steady rhythmic thrum vibrating up through the soles of Nebula's silver heels. To anyone else in the grand ballroom, it was a night of celebration. Her younger sister, Chloe, was glowing in white satin, spinning on the dance floor with her new husband. The open bar flowed with top-shelf liquor. The air smelled of roasted beef, expensive perfume, and the heavy sweetness of white lilies.
To Nebula, the room was a cage shrinking by the minute.
She sat at the head table, her posture rigid, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Beside her sat Richard, her husband. To the rest of the room, Richard was a charming architect with a winning smile and a generous laugh. He had paid for the ice sculpture. He had charmed their parents. He was currently nodding along to a story told by a drunk uncle across the table, his white teeth flashing in the warm amber lighting.
Under the tablecloth, his fingers were dug into the soft meat of Nebula's thigh. He wasn't massaging her leg. His grip was a vice — his nails pressing through the thin silk of her dusty-rose bridesmaid dress. It was a warning. A physical tether reminding her exactly where she belonged and what would happen if she stepped out of line.
"You're quiet tonight, darling," Richard murmured, leaning in close. His breath was warm against her ear, smelling heavily of scotch and spearmint. "People are going to think you're not happy for your sister."
"I'm happy," Nebula said. Her voice was flat, hollowed out. She forced the corners of her mouth upward. "Just tired."
"Tired."
He rolled the word around in his mouth like a bad piece of meat. The pressure on her thigh increased until a sharp, involuntary gasp escaped her lips. The uncle across the table didn't notice. No one ever noticed.
"You don't get to be tired, Nebula," Richard said, "not when I spent three thousand dollars on that dress you're wearing. Smile."
She smiled. It felt like her face would crack.
"I need to use the restroom," she whispered, keeping her eyes fixed on the centerpiece.
Richard's eyes flicked toward the exit, calculating. He slowly released his grip, smoothing the silk over her leg in a mocking gesture of affection.
"Five minutes. Don't speak to anyone on the way. You've had enough wine."
Nebula hadn't taken a single sip of her wine.
She stood, legs trembling, and navigated the maze of round tables. People waved at her. She offered them empty nods. As she pushed through the heavy mahogany doors into the lobby, the suffocating bass of the wedding band muffled into a dull thud. The hallway was empty — lined with vintage mirrors and floral wallpaper. She didn't go to the restroom. She needed air. She needed to breathe without smelling his cologne.
Nebula walked down the corridor, past the coat check, and pushed open a side door that led to a secluded smoking patio. The cold November air hit her like a physical blow, snapping the stagnant fog in her brain. It had started to rain — a miserable, freezing drizzle that slicked the cobblestones. She stepped under the small canvas awning, wrapping her bare arms around herself, and closed her eyes.
Just two more hours.
"I thought I said five minutes."
Nebula's eyes snapped open. Richard stood in the doorway, the light from the hallway backlighting him and casting his face in shadow. The charm was gone. The smile had evaporated. He looked at her not like a wife, but like a dog that had chewed the furniture.
"I just needed some air."
Her voice betrayed her. It shook. She hated that it shook.
He stepped out onto the patio, letting the heavy door click shut behind him. The click sounded deafeningly loud.
"Air — or were you looking for that bartender you were making eyes at during the toast?"
"Richard, please. He asked if I wanted water."
"You made me look like a fool."
He hissed, crossing the small space between them in two long strides. Nebula backed up a step, hitting the brick wall of the clubhouse.
"I didn't do anything."
"Don't lie to me."
His hand shot out. It wasn't a slap. It was a closed fist — a short, brutal punch aimed precisely at the side of her jaw.
The impact snapped her head to the side. Her temple cracked against the brick. White light exploded behind her eyelids, followed by a rushing, ringing sound that drowned out the rain. She collapsed onto the wet cobblestones, her knees scraping against the rough ground. The metallic taste of copper flooded her mouth.
She stayed on her hands and knees, staring at the puddles reflecting the dim patio lights. Her jaw throbbed with a sickening, heavy heat.
Richard adjusted his cuffs, looking down at her. His chest heaved once, then settled. The rage vanished, replaced by cold annoyance.
"Look what you made me do. You've ruined the dress."
Nebula didn't move. She couldn't.
"I'm going back inside. You have ten minutes to clean yourself up in the restroom. If you aren't back at the table by the time they cut the cake, we are going home. And we both know what happens when we go home angry, don't we?"
He didn't wait for an answer. The door opened, releasing a brief swell of music, and clicked shut again.
Nebula remained on the wet ground. The freezing rain blew sideways under the awning, soaking her hair, gluing the ruined silk to her skin. She touched her jaw. A small, involuntary whimper scraped its way up her throat. It was swelling fast.
She looked at the heavy door. Beyond it was the wedding, her family, and Richard. Beyond it was the drive home — the isolated house in the suburbs, the basement stairs.
If I get in that car tonight, she thought, the realization settling into her bones with a terrifying clarity, he is going to kill me.
Her hands shook violently as she reached into the hidden pocket of her dress and pulled out her phone. The screen was cracked from a previous accident, but it turned on.
She stared at the keypad.
She didn't call the police. The police had come twice before. Richard had played the concerned husband, told them she had a drinking problem, and they had left. The police required proof, patience, and a system. Nebula didn't have time for a system. She had ten minutes.
Her numb fingers punched in a number — ten digits. She hadn't dialed it in three years, but her muscle memory knew it better than her own social security number. It was the number she had sworn to forget the day she walked away from a life she decided was too dark, too dangerous — to marry a safe, respectable architect.
She pressed send and pressed the phone to her ear.
It rang once.
Twice.
Please pick up. Please pick up.
The third ring never came.
“Who?”
One word.
Low.
Controlled.
Familiar.
Nebula closed her eyes.
“Matteo.”
Silence.
She swallowed.
He hadn't said her name.
She didn't know if she had the right to say his.
“It's me.”
The line went silent again.
She heard nothing but the faint hum of the phone.
Then his voice changed.
Not louder.
Worse.
“Where are you?”
She glanced toward the country club.
“Oakridge.”
“Why?”
She couldn't say it.
The word lodged in her throat.
Help.
Help me.
Please.
Three years ago, she had left Matteo Moretti without a goodbye.
She had told him she wanted a normal life.
She had told him she couldn't spend every night wondering whether a gunshot would wake her.
She had told him he was not the kind of man a woman should love.
And he had let her go.
No threats.
No chasing her.
No demands.
That had frightened her more than anger would have.
Now she whispered:
“Come get me.”
Nothing.
Then a sharp sound.
A chair moving.
Keys.
A door opening.
Matteo was already moving.
“You stay where you are.”
“I'm scared.”
The words escaped before she could stop them.
Three years.
She had not told him that once.
“I'm coming.”
The line ended.
Nebula stared at the phone.
She was still holding it when the patio door opened again.
Richard appeared.
His smile was back.
“Feeling better?”
Nebula stood.
“I'm going home.”
He laughed.
“You don't make that decision.”
Rain blew into the patio.
Then headlights appeared beyond the security gate.
Not one vehicle.
Six.
Black SUVs entered the grounds without slowing.
Richard's smile disappeared.
He looked toward the gate.
“What the hell?”
Nebula knew.
Before she could answer, the first SUV stopped.
The rear door opened.
Matteo Moretti stepped out.
Black coat.
Black suit.
No umbrella.
Rain slid over his dark hair.
He looked exactly as she remembered.
Except colder.
Older.
More dangerous.
Men moved around him like shadows.
Every security guard at the country club froze.
Richard took one step backward.
Matteo's eyes found Nebula.
He stopped.
His gaze moved to her swelling jaw.
The torn dress.
The blood on her lip.
Something terrifying settled into his expression.
He crossed the courtyard.
Richard stepped between them.
“This is private property.”
Matteo stopped six feet away.
“No.”
One word.
Richard swallowed.
“This woman is my wife.”
Matteo's eyes never left Nebula.
“Not tonight.”
Richard looked at him.
“You don't get to—”
Matteo's men moved forward.
Richard stopped talking.
Matteo took off his coat.
He placed it around Nebula's shoulders.
His hands were gentle.
So gentle she nearly cried.
“You called me.”
She nodded.
“I did.”
“You said three words.”
She looked at him.
“Come get me.”
His eyes hardened.
“So I came.”
Richard laughed nervously.
“This is ridiculous. She's drunk.”
Matteo finally looked at him.
“She hasn't been drinking.”
Richard's face changed.
Matteo noticed.
Of course he did.
He stepped closer.
“What did you do to her?”
Richard said nothing.
Nebula whispered:
“He hit me.”
The courtyard became silent.
Matteo looked at Richard.
No shouting.
No dramatic threat.
Just one sentence.
“You should pray she never tells me anything else.”
Richard tried to speak.
Matteo lifted one hand.
“Take him.”
Two men seized Richard.
He struggled.
Nebula flinched.
Matteo immediately turned back toward her.
“Look at me.”
She did.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?”
“My head.”
His jaw tightened.
“Doctor.”
A woman from his team approached.
Matteo never took his eyes off Nebula.
“You're going to the hospital.”
“I can't.”
“You can.”
“People are inside.”
“Let them watch.”
“My sister's wedding.”
“You think I care about a wedding?”
She almost smiled.
“No.”
He stared at her.
“Three years, Nebula.”
Her heart squeezed.
“I know.”
“Don't disappear again.”
She couldn't answer.
He placed one hand against the side of her head, careful not to touch the swelling.
“I came when you called.”
His voice dropped.
“I'll come every time.”
Nebula closed her eyes.
And for the first time in three years, she allowed herself to believe she might survive the night.
She just didn't know what surviving him would cost.
Because as Matteo's men took Richard away, one of them leaned toward his boss and whispered:
“Sir.”
Matteo looked over.
“The message came through.”
“What message?”
“The one from three years ago.”
Matteo went still.
Nebula opened her eyes.
“What message?”
His expression changed.
He looked at her as if the past had just walked back into the rain with them.
“Nothing.”
May you like
But he was lying.
And Nebula knew it.
