The taxi meter ticked away seconds like a countdown to detonation while I speed-dialed Josie, because that’s what you do when your life’s about to go nuclear—you secure the bunker first, ask questions later.

“Can I stay with you if shit goes sideways?” I blurted the second she picked up.

“Why not stay with your sugar daddy?” Josie’s timing for inappropriate jokes remained undefeated. “I’m sure Caleb’s got a California king that—”

“I’m not dragging him into whatever shitstorm’s brewing.” The words came out sharper than intended, but fuck it. Because that’s love, apparently—protecting someone from your family’s particular brand of psycho even when they’re offering you Tokyo and a future that doesn’t require antidepressants.

Josie’s tone shifted immediately, joke mode deactivating. “Mi casa es tu casa, babe. Always. You need extraction?”

“Not yet. But keep your phone on.”

“Roger that. God speed, you beautiful disaster.”

One safe harbor locked down. Now to face whatever fresh hell Gunther Wallace had marinated in his own disappointment.

Camilla waited in the foyer like a designer-clad anxiety attack, wringing her manicured hands in that way that meant shit had officially hit the Waterford crystal fan.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, already knowing the answer would suck harder than Anthony’s small talk.

“I don’t know. He won’t tell me.” Of course not. Gunther Wallace didn’t share intel with the help, even if he’d put a ring on it twenty-five years ago. “He just said to wait here. That you’d both need me.”

The way she said “both” made my intestines rearrange themselves into origami.

“Whatever happens next,” I heard myself ask, surprising us both, “will you still be on my side?”

“Always,” she whispered, but it sounded like a promise she might not be able to keep. Like when she’d promised to protect me from him, then slapped me for calling out their sham marriage.

The sad smile we shared was twenty-two years of mutual captivity acknowledging itself, two prisoners comparing scars before the warden arrived.

Walking into dad’s study felt like déjà vu had a baby with nausea and named it Inevitable Doom. Same mahogany throne where he ruled his empire. Same power pose designed to make visitors feel small. Same disappointment radiating from every overpriced surface.

“Remember our last real conversation in this room?” He didn’t look up from whatever document was sustaining his rage. “When you fought me about Anthony? Threw quite the tantrum about love and choice.”

My mouth went desert-dry. “I remember.”

“Then suddenly—miraculous change of heart. So accommodating. So eager to please.” His voice dripped calculated menace, each word a scalpel slicing closer to the truth. “Made me curious.”

The temperature dropped ten degrees. My brain started calculating exit strategies while my feet stayed frozen to his stupid Persian rug.

“So I checked something I should have reviewed earlier.” He finally looked up, and his smile could’ve frozen hell’s entire infrastructure. “Security cameras, Mikaela. In my private study. Installed after some valuable documents went missing last year.”

Oh fuck. Oh no. Oh every deity I don’t believe in, please no.

“Imagine my surprise at what I found.”

The silence stretched like taffy in a torture chamber. Camilla’s confusion was shifting into something worse—dawning comprehension mixed with maternal horror.

“Would you like to tell your mother what happened in this room?” The question hung between us like a noose made of my own stupid choices. “Or should I play the footage?”

The laugh that escaped me wasn’t humor—it was pure what-the-fuck-universe hysteria. Because of course. OF COURSE this was how I got caught.

Not the virgin auction that netted me nearly half a mil. Not the hotel night with Caleb that rewired my entire nervous system. Not the countless lies, stolen afternoons, or the fact that I was literally planning to flee to Japan with my father’s best friend.

Nope. It was the spite-fuck with my arranged fiancé that brought down my house of cards. The one time I’d used sex as a weapon in the very room where all my problems started.

An hour ago—ONE FUCKING HOUR—I’d been watching Anthony cradle a golden retriever named Milo, all soft smiles and newfound independence. We’d been co-conspirators in rebellion.

Now I stood in this wood-paneled torture chamber, about to explain to my mother why security footage existed of me defiling dad’s sacred workspace with Harvard Boy’s anatomically correct participation trophy.

The $455K in my account suddenly felt like Monopoly money. Tokyo with Caleb felt like something I’d dreamed after too much sake.

Every carefully constructed lie, every strategic move, every small rebellion—demolished by a security camera and my own tendency to fuck people out of spite.

I’d literally fucked myself over by fucking Anthony Harris. If this was a movie, critics would pan it for being too on-the-nose with the metaphors.

“Mikaela.” Camilla’s voice cracked like fine china hitting concrete. “What is he talking about?”

Gunther watched me like a snake that had cornered something small and warm-blooded, waiting to see if I’d lie or confess. Like it mattered. Like the truth wasn’t already preserved in digital clarity, probably in 4K because God forbid Gunther Wallace have subpar surveillance equipment.

The footage wouldn’t show context. Wouldn’t explain the rage, the rebellion, the desperate need to destroy something in the room where my life had been destroyed.

It would just show Gunther Wallace’s virgin daughter getting thoroughly unvirgined on the same desk where he’d signed away her future.

“Well?” He leaned back, fingers steepled like a villain who’d already won. “I’m waiting.”

Camilla looked between us, her face a masterclass in processing horrible information in real-time. The recognition in her eyes said she knew exactly what kind of security footage could cause this level of theatrical disappointment.

I straightened my spine, meeting his gaze with twenty-two years of suppressed rage finally breaking surface.

If I was going down, might as well make it spectacular. Might as well burn every bridge while dancing on the ashes.

“You want me to tell her?” My voice came out steadier than expected, sharp enough to cut. “Fine. Let’s talk about what happened in this room. All of it.”

The smile that spread across my face felt like revolution. Time to own it. Time to detonate. Time to find out what happened when Gunther Wallace’s perfect daughter finally stopped pretending to give a fuck about his opinion.