My husband forced me to endure fifty strikes of a leather riding crop while his new favorite sat close by, casually sipping her wine and keeping tally.

“Evie, get behind me!” my father yelled, drawing a custom Glock 19 from his shoulder holster.

The security feed on the wall monitor showed absolute chaos on the ground level. Dozens of heavily armed mercenaries in unmarked black tactical gear were storming the Vanguard mansion. My father’s private army was holding them off, but the Syndicate soldiers were moving with terrifying, military precision.

“They aren't here to rescue us,” Julian panicked, struggling against his chains. “They’re here to silence us! Evelyn, unlock the chains!”

I ignored him, drawing my own compact sidearm from my waistband.

The bunker door blew open with a deafening roar. Two Syndicate soldiers breached the room, assault rifles raised. My father fired twice, precision shots that dropped the first man instantly. I fired at the second, hitting him in the shoulder, giving my father the window to finish him off.

But a third soldier tossed a flashbang into the room.

The blinding light and agonizing sound dropped me to my knees. Through the ringing in my ears, I heard my father grunt in pain. When my vision cleared, Chloe was holding Julian by his hair, a combat knife pressed to his throat. She had used the chaos to pick the locks on her handcuffs.

“Goodbye, Julian,” she whispered, and slit his throat without a second of hesitation.

Before she could turn the knife on us, my father, bleeding heavily from a gunshot wound to his side, raised his weapon and put a bullet directly between Chloe’s eyes. She crumpled to the floor next to Julian’s bleeding corpse.

“Papa!” I screamed, rushing to his side.