Chapter 6
Z
The villa in the mountains of Colombia was a fortress of marble and glass, hidden deep within a cloud forest overlooking the valley of Medellín. For three months, it had been our prison.
The air here was thin and cool, constantly carrying the scent of damp earth and wild orchids. On paper, we were safe. Luke’s offshore accounts provided an endless stream of resources: private security guards patrolling the perimeter fences, top-tier pediatricians visiting weekly to monitor Brucie’s development, and organic groceries delivered by silent local staff. But inside the villa, the atmosphere was suffocating.
We lived like ghosts occupying the same haunted house.
Grandpa spent his days on the stone patio, whittling wooden toys for Brucie out of local mahogany, his silence a heavy wall between himself and the rest of the world. Luke occupied the west wing, spending late nights in his dimly lit study, monitoring the international news and typing code into his laptop to reset the forty-eight-hour dead-man's switch that kept his uncle at bay.
And I stayed in the nursery, trapped in a relentless loop of feeding, diaper changes, and staring into my daughter's mismatched eyes.
Brucie was growing fast. At three months old, her dark curls were growing thicker, and her distinct chin cleft was becoming more pronounced every day. But whenever she smiled at me, my heart broke into a thousand pieces. I saw Luke in every line of her face. I saw my mother’s tragic past. I saw the unspeakable reality of our bloodline.
One rainy evening, while Grandpa was asleep and Brucie was resting peacefully in her crib, I walked down the long, dim hallway toward the west wing. A thin strip of light shone from under Luke's study door.
I hesitated, my hand hovering over the cold brass handle. Since the night we fled South Carolina, Luke and I had barely spoken more than ten words to each other a day. We passed each other in the hallways like strangers avoiding eye contact on a crowded street, terrifyingly aware of the invisible line that now stood between us.
I pushed the door open.
Luke was sitting at a glass desk, an empty glass of scotch resting beside his laptop. He looked exhausted. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his hair was unkempt. When he looked up and saw me, he immediately stood up, stepping back from the desk as if his proximity alone was a violation.
"Clover," he said softly, his voice raspy from disuse. "Is something wrong with Brucie? Is she sick?"
"She's fine," I said, stepping into the room and closing the door behind me. "She's sleeping."
Luke nodded awkwardly, keeping his distance near the window. "Good. That's... that's good."
The silence between us was agonizing, heavy with two years of shared passion that had been violently rewritten into shame. I looked at him—at his broad shoulders, his sharp jaw, those eyes that had once made me feel like the luckiest woman in the world. The love hadn't magically vanished when I learned the truth; it had mutated into a painful, throbbed ache that felt like a chronic illness.
"How much longer can we do this, Luke?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Luke turned to look out at the rain hitting the glass. "As long as it takes. My uncle's lawyers filed a formal complaint with Interpol last week. They're trying to freeze my international trusts. If I step outside this estate, there are eyes watching."
"That's not what I mean," I said, taking a step closer to him. "I mean us. Look at us. We're living in a golden cage, pretending we don't exist to each other. You look at me like I'm a crime scene."
Luke closed his eyes, his breath hitching. "Because every time I look at you, Clover, I remember what I did to you. I remember holding you, loving you... and realizing I am the reason your life is ruined."
"You didn't know!" I cried out, the emotions I had buried for three months surging to the surface. "You didn't know who I was! Neither of us knew! Why are you punishing yourself like you planned this sickening trick?"
"Because I should have investigated my father's life sooner!" Luke yelled, turning around, his eyes red with suppressed agony. "If I had searched for David's heir two years ago instead of running away from my family's corporate drama, I would have known your name before I ever stepped foot into that coffee shop! I wouldn't have touched you! I wouldn't have made you fall in love with me!"
He slammed his fist onto the glass desk, rattling the scotch glass.
"I love you, Clover," Luke sobbed, dropping his head into his hands. "That is the absolute worst part of this hell. I didn't stop loving you when I found out you were my sister. Every single second I spend in this house, all I want to do is cross this room, pull you into my arms, and pretend that the world outside doesn't exist. But I can't. Because it's wrong. It's a sickness."
Tears streamed down my face. Hearing him admit it—hearing the raw, tortured truth of his feelings—felt like a knife twisting in my stomach. I stepped toward him, reaching out my hand to touch his arm.
"Luke..."
Before my fingers could brush his sleeve, a loud, sharp crack echoed from the courtyard outside.
It wasn't lightning. It was the distinct, deafening sound of a gunshot.
Instantly, the villa's emergency red lights began to flash, casting an eerie, blood-red glow across the study. The security alarms blared through the speakers embedded in the ceiling.
Luke snapped back into motion, shoving me behind his back as he pulled a hand gun from the desk drawer. "Stay behind me!"
The study door burst open. Grandpa stood in the doorway, holding his tire iron, his face pale with terror.
"Clover! Luke!" Grandpa shouted over the blaring sirens. "The gate guards are down! Someone cut the power to the perimeter fences!"
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Through the glass windows of the study, three black tactical SUVs crashed through the iron gates of the estate, their high beams cutting through the mountain fog. Men in dark tactical gear stepped out, armed with automatic rifles.
And stepping out of the middle vehicle, wearing a bulletproof vest over his sharp suit, was Richard Sterling.
