The sun had long begun its descent behind the hills when Mira stepped out of the car, the engine idling quietly behind her like a co-conspirator. The Hart estate rose ahead of her like something carved from ancient wealth and modern ruthlessness—its high walls, endless marble columns, and stained-glass windows telling the world it was built not for comfort, but for spectacle. Mira adjusted her hood as she made her way toward the servant's gate, her pulse drumming with the weight of what they were about to do.
She didn't come for pleasantries.
She came to steal her best friend from a prison that looked like paradise.
Inside, the hallways of the Hart estate echoed with the soft steps of servants who had long been trained to move silently. The ceilings stretched high with paintings of old European nobles. On the walls—portraits of the Harts in various stages of wealth: gala photos, handshakes with presidents, ribbon-cuttings. Power. Money. Control.
And somewhere inside, Izzie.
Mira moved with purpose through the side door, dressed as casually as the staff. She had planned this for two days. She knew the shift schedule. She knew that Bianca Hart would be out at her favorite designer boutique in town—some ultra-exclusive atelier that opened only for five clients a week. And she knew that William Hart had a late meeting at the Northstone headquarters. That meant the king and queen of the manor were gone.
It was the perfect time to act.
Mira found Izzie pacing her bedroom floor, still wearing the satin slip she hadn't changed out of since morning. Her eyes were red-rimmed. Her lips pale. The girl who once laughed until she cried on café patios in Milan now looked like a ghost wrapped in silk.
"Mira?" Izzie's voice cracked with disbelief. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm getting you out," Mira said, closing the door behind her. "You have fifteen minutes to change. The car is running."
For a moment, Izzie just stared. Then, tears welled up. "You shouldn't have come."
"I'm not leaving without you," Mira said gently, stepping forward and pulling out a hoodie and black jeans from her bag. "You wear this, we walk out through the service corridor. No one stops us if we look like we belong."
They worked fast. Mira helped Izzie tie her hair up under the hoodie, then smudged dark foundation across her cheeks to obscure her features. Her hands trembled, but her eyes blazed with determination.
"I can't believe this is happening," Izzie whispered as she zipped the hoodie. "I was really going to marry him."
"You still might," Mira said. "But not tonight."
They slipped through the hallway like shadows, passing oil paintings, marble busts, and vases worth more than some nations' GDP. Mira kept her head down. Izzie followed behind her, silent, shaking. The house was so quiet it hummed.
They reached the east wing's side exit—just twenty feet from the door.
And then it happened.
"Izzie."
Izzie froze. Mira turned first, already knowing whose voice it was.
William Hart stood behind them, flanked by two security guards in black suits. His expression was unreadable. His hand tucked into his jacket pocket, his wedding band gleaming in the golden hallway light.
"You're not going anywhere."
Izzie took a step forward, her voice high and trembling. "Please, Dad—"
"I told you what your duty is," he said coldly. "Go back to your room."
"Mr. Hart," Mira said, stepping between them. "This isn't just some business arrangement. Theo—he's not who you think he is."
William didn't look at her. "I don't take life advice from glorified interns."
Mira ignored the jab. "Theo Dore emotionally abused his ex-girlfriend for three years. He cheated on her, isolated her, ruined her career, and left her in a psychiatric clinic in Dubai. That's what you're handing your daughter over to."
"That's unsubstantiated," William snapped.
"No, it's buried," Mira said, her voice cracking with rage. "Because the Dore name is too powerful to touch."
"Enough," William said, motioning to the guards. "Escort her out."
"Sir—" one guard hesitated, clearly unnerved.
"I said, now."
Two guards moved forward. Mira turned to Izzie one last time. "Don't let them kill who you are."
"I won't," Izzie whispered, but her voice was already drowned in the sound of her being dragged away.
As Mira was pushed down the hall and out of the door, William turned to the remaining guards.
"Lock her in her room," he ordered. "Do not open that door. Not for anyone. Not until I return."
Izzie's bedroom door slammed behind her. The key clicked. And then it was just silence.
She screamed. She screamed until her voice cracked, until she collapsed on the floor in front of the door, banging on the wood with her fists. She screamed for freedom, for help, for someone to care enough to answer her. No one came.
No one ever came.
Downstairs, her mother stood in the drawing room, surrounded by bolts of lace, crystal-studded veils, and white silk fabrics flown in from Paris that morning. Three wedding designers from Italy and one from Singapore stood around her with sketches.
Bianca Hart swirled a crystal coupe of champagne as she dismissed one dress design with a flick of her manicured fingers.
"I said understated elegance, not Vegas showgirl," she murmured to the woman in heels.
The designers exchanged nervous glances. Bianca leaned in. "She'll be wearing Theo's grandmother's tiara. The gown has to match the legacy."
"Of course, madam."
The wedding would be private—exclusivity meant power. Just one hundred guests. Royals. CEOs. No cameras. No press. And certainly no room for second thoughts.
An hour later, a black McLaren pulled up to the estate. Theo Dore stepped out, dressed in all black, with sunglasses even as dusk rolled in. He didn't call ahead. He never did.
He passed the front gates like he owned the place. One of the guards at the main hall stood straight. "Sir, Mr. Hart is not in at the moment—"
"I'm not here for him."
Theo ascended the staircase, each step a declaration of power. He walked to the east wing. The two guards standing at Izzie's door straightened, hands twitching near their belts.
"I want to see her."
"We have orders," one guard said. "From Mr. Hart—"
Theo's lips curled. "Is that so?"
Without warning, he lunged. His hand closed around the throat of the taller guard, pinning him to the wall with terrifying ease.
"Do I look like I wait for permission?" he growled, fingers tightening.
The second guard stepped forward, trembling. "P-please, sir—"
Theo slammed the taller one harder against the wall. "You open the door now, or I'll do more than dent your skull."
The second guard fumbled for the key. "Just—don't kill him—"
Theo released his grip, and the man fell to his knees, coughing. Theo grabbed the key, shoved it into the lock, and opened the door with one fluid motion.
He stepped inside and shut it behind him.
Izzie stood in the center of the room, her hoodie half-zipped, her hair wild from pacing and crying. Her body went still the second she saw him.
"Theo," she said, voice raw.
His smile was cold. "Evening, sweetheart."
He crossed the room in slow, measured steps, eyes never leaving her. She backed away instinctively, until her legs hit the edge of her bed.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"I heard you tried to run," he said, looking amused. "That's cute."
Her fists clenched. "You're not supposed to be here."
"No one tells me where I can be," he said, taking another step toward her. "Especially not my fiancée."
"I'm not yours," she spat.
Theo's eyes flickered. The smile dropped from his face.
"I suggest you remember what's at stake," he said softly. "You have a lot to lose. Friends. Family. Freedom. I have no problem taking any of it away."
She stood her ground. "You can't scare me."
"You'll learn," he said.
And then, without another word, he walked toward the door.
Before he opened it, he glanced back at her, expression unreadable.
"By the way," he said. "You looked adorable in that hoodie. Shame you didn't get further."
He shut the door quietly behind him.
Left alone, Izzie collapsed onto the bed, trembling, her back against the headboard. Her fingers dug into the sheets.
And then—just as she thought the house had gone silent again—her phone, hidden under her pillow, buzzed with a single message.
From an unknown number.
"You're not alone. When it's time, I'll come for you."
She stared at the screen, breath caught in her throat.
Someone was watching.
Someone was waiting.
And this war…
was only beginning