My engagement photo splashed across page one of every local news site. Caleb in a charcoal tux, me in a silk sheath dress—his hand splayed across my stomach like he owned every breath. My smile didn’t reach my eyes. It never had.
**SOCIALITE DISAPPEARS WEEKS BEFORE $1M SOCIETY WEDDING.**
**FAMILY, FIANCÉ OFFER REWARD, PLEAD FOR SAFE RETURN.**
**GROOM CLAIMS FOUL PLAY: ‘SHE’D NEVER RUN WITHOUT A REASON.’**
My pulse spiked. Caleb’s quote twisted my stomach. He knew damn well why I ran. And he knew exactly how to spin the narrative: rich golden boy abandoned by his ungrateful bride. All he had to do was aim a trembling chin at the cameras and hint at kidnapping.
Victim. Martyr. Liar.
My burner pinged low-battery. I tossed it aside and pressed the heels of my palms to my eyes. If law enforcement traced me here—and how long until that happened?—they’d kick in the gates, label Rogue’s club human traffickers, throw cuffs on every patch.
All because I crashed into their world carrying a suitcase full of secrets.
Door hinges creaked. I jerked upright. Rogue filled the doorway—grease on his forearm, hair damp from the shop sink. Concern flickered in his gray eyes.
“Headache?” he asked.
“Something like that,” I whispered.
He shut the door, crossed the room in three strides, and perched on the edge of the bed. “Talk to me, angel.”
I swallowed. The words clawed at my throat. “You ever look at someone and realize you’re the reason trouble might land at their feet?”
His brows knit. “Where’s this coming from?”
I inhaled past the tightness. “I haven’t told you everything.”
He waited—patient, immovable. I found courage in that stillness.
“I Googled myself tonight,” I said. “My parents—Caleb—they’ve got the media spinning a story. Claiming I was kidnapped. Offering a reward. They’re pushing cops to treat it like foul play.”
Rogue’s jaw flexed. “Figured something like that might surface.”
I blinked. “You… knew?”
“Diesel did some digging.” He lifted a shoulder. “I wanted facts. Didn’t want to judge until you were ready to talk.”
A hot surge of shame flooded me. “I should’ve told you.”
“Should’ve, yeah. But you’re telling me now. Keep going.”
I stared at the threadbare quilt, fingers knotting the fabric. “Caleb isn’t the saint they paint him to be. He drinks. A lot. And when he’s drunk he—” My lips trembled. “He’d bruise me where no one could see. Ribs. Thighs. Arms.”
Rogue’s hands fisted on his knees. Fury rolled off him like heatwaves.
“My parents ignored it,” I continued. “They wanted the wedding of the century. Politicians, CEOs, the governor’s daughter as flower girl. Sponsors for charities. My mom booked the cathedral a year out. My dad ponied up for imported orchids and caviar I can’t pronounce.”
“Million-dollar puppet show,” Rogue muttered.
“Exactly.” I swallowed a sob. “I tried to break it off once. Caleb cried, promised rehab. My parents begged me not to embarrass them. Said love is compromise.”
“Bullshit.”
“Yeah.” My throat burned. “Two months ago Caleb was drunk, cornered me in the wine cellar. Said if I ever embarrassed him he’d make sure no one believed me—that he’d ruin me with one phone call. I saw something in his eyes that night that told me he meant it.”
Rogue’s knuckles blanched. “What did he do?”