Updated Oct 22, 2025 • ~11 min read
The guilty verdict should have meant safety.
It should have meant Marcus was locked away, powerless, no longer a threat.
But Paige learned that night that even from a jail cell, monsters could still reach out.
They were celebrating at Vincent’s penthouse—low-key, just the two of them, exhausted from weeks of stress finally lifting. Vincent ordered her favorite Thai food. They opened expensive champagne that had been sitting in his wine fridge since before any of this started.
“To justice,” Vincent said, raising his glass.
“To surviving,” Paige corrected, clinking hers against his.
They ate. They laughed. They made love with a desperate joy—the kind that comes from knowing you’ve walked through fire and somehow emerged intact.
Afterward, lying tangled in sheets, Vincent traced the compass necklace at her throat.
“Two weeks until sentencing. Then it’s really over.”
“Then Montana?”
“Then Montana. I already put in an offer on that cabin I showed you. Lake view, completely isolated, nothing but trees and water and silence.”
“Sounds like heaven.”
“It will be.” He kissed her softly. “No more trials. No more Hartley drama. Just us figuring out who we are when we’re not in survival mode.”
Paige wanted to believe it would be that simple. That they could just leave and start over and never look back.
But something nagged at her. A feeling she couldn’t shake.
“Vincent? Do you think Marcus will appeal?”
“Of course he’ll appeal. People like Marcus always do. But with the evidence we have, with Olivia’s testimony, the appeals won’t go anywhere.” Vincent pulled her closer. “He’s done, Paige. He can’t hurt you anymore.”
She wanted to believe that.
She really did.
The next morning, Paige had an appointment with Dr. Martinez—first session since the verdict. She’d been avoiding therapy during the trial, too stressed to process everything. But now, with Marcus convicted, it felt important to start healing properly.
“I’ll drive you,” Vincent offered over breakfast.
“You don’t have to. James can take me.”
“I want to. I need to stop at my lawyer’s office anyway—signing the final paperwork to dissolve the Hartley Industries board. Might as well make a day of it.”
So they left together at ten, Vincent driving his Mercedes, James following in the security car like he had for weeks. Paige felt almost normal—like a regular person going to a regular appointment instead of a survivor navigating the aftermath of her abuser’s conviction.
Dr. Martinez’s office was in Santa Monica, about a thirty-minute drive. They took PCH, the ocean sparkling in the morning sun. Paige watched the waves and thought about Montana. About starting over. About healing.
She didn’t notice the car following them.
Didn’t notice it staying exactly three cars back, matching their speed, never getting closer but never falling behind.
James noticed.
He called Vincent. “Sir, we might have a tail. Black Escalade. Been with us since we left the penthouse.”
Vincent checked his mirrors. “I see it. You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“That Marcus might have friends on the outside? Yeah.”
“What do we do?” Paige asked, fear spiking.
“Stay calm. Could be nothing. Could be press following us.” But Vincent’s hands tightened on the wheel. “James, you still have that contact at LAPD?”
“Calling now.”
They continued driving, hyperaware of the Escalade. It stayed back, professional, clearly experienced in surveillance.
“It’s probably just press,” Vincent said, more to himself than to Paige. “Looking for a story. Marcus got convicted—we’re hot news right now.”
But Paige remembered Detective Barnes’s warning. Marcus had resources. Connections. Money that could buy loyalty even from behind bars.
“Maybe we should go back,” she said.
“And let them follow us home? No. We go to Dr. Martinez’s office. Public place. Security cameras. If they’re following us, at least we’ll be somewhere safe when we—”
The Escalade suddenly accelerated.
“Vincent—” James’s voice came through the phone, urgent.
The Escalade pulled alongside them. Paige looked over and saw the windows were tinted, completely black. Couldn’t see who was inside.
Then the Escalade swerved.
Right into them.
Metal screamed. Vincent jerked the wheel, trying to avoid collision, but the Mercedes slammed into the guard rail. Paige screamed. The world tilted as they spun, tires shrieking, other cars honking and swerving around them.
Vincent fought for control. Got the car straightened. “Hold on—”
The Escalade rammed them again, harder this time, forcing them toward the edge of PCH. Toward the drop-off to the beach below.
“They’re trying to kill us!” Paige grabbed the door handle, useless, nothing she could do.
Vincent floored it, the Mercedes’s engine roaring. Behind them, James was calling for police, siren wailing. But the Escalade kept coming, relentless.
A third impact. The Mercedes’s rear window shattered. They fishtailed, Vincent barely keeping them on the road.
“Get down!” Vincent shouted.
Paige ducked as low as she could, heart hammering. Through the windshield she could see traffic ahead, a red light, cars stopped.
They were going too fast. They’d never stop in time.
Vincent jerked the wheel right, taking them onto a side street, narrower, less traffic. The Escalade followed. James followed. A high-speed chase through Santa Monica residential streets.
“Police are three minutes out,” James reported through the speaker.
Three minutes. They just needed three minutes.
The Escalade pulled alongside again. This time, the passenger window rolled down.
Paige saw a man. Ski mask. And a gun.
“VINCENT—”
He swerved left, down an alley. The Mercedes barely fit, mirrors scraping brick walls on both sides. The Escalade was too big, couldn’t follow. They burst out the other side onto a main road.
James’s voice: “Lost them in the alley but they’ll find another route. Keep moving. Police are one minute out.”
Vincent drove like a maniac—weaving through traffic, running lights, anything to put distance between them and the Escalade.
Then Paige saw it. The Escalade, coming from a side street, cutting them off.
“Vincent—”
“I see it.” He jerked the wheel, taking them up onto a curb, across a parking lot, back onto the street on the other side. The Mercedes wasn’t built for this. Something was grinding, smoke coming from under the hood.
Sirens. Finally. Police cars appeared ahead, lights flashing.
The Escalade immediately backed off, disappearing down a side street.
Vincent pulled over, hands shaking on the wheel. Paige was sobbing, couldn’t stop, adrenaline and terror overwhelming her.
Police surrounded them. James’s car stopped behind. Three officers approached, weapons drawn until they verified who was in the car.
“Mr. Hartley? Ms. Carter?” One officer—a woman, maybe thirty—holstered her weapon. “Are you injured?”
“No. Shaken but not hurt.” Vincent turned to Paige. “Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?”
She shook her head, couldn’t speak.
An ambulance arrived. Paramedics checked them over—minor cuts from broken glass, bruises from the seatbelt, nothing serious. Physically, anyway.
Detective Barnes arrived twenty minutes later, furious.
“Someone tried to kill you. In broad daylight. On PCH.” She looked at the damaged Mercedes, at the skid marks, at the shattered window. “This was professional. Whoever was in that Escalade knew what they were doing.”
“Marcus,” Paige whispered. “He sent them.”
“Maybe. Or someone connected to him. Someone who wants to make sure you can’t testify at sentencing.” Barnes pulled out her notepad. “Tell me everything. Start from when you first noticed the tail.”
They went through it all. The surveillance. The multiple impacts. The gun. The chase.
Barnes wrote it down, her expression darkening with each detail. “We found the Escalade. Abandoned two miles from here. Stolen plates. No prints—they wore gloves. But traffic cameras might have caught something. We’ll find them.”
“Will you?” Paige’s voice was hollow. “Or will they try again? Will Marcus keep sending people until we’re dead?”
“That’s not going to happen. We’re putting armed guards on you twenty-four seven. Real police, not private security.” Barnes looked at Vincent. “I’m sorry, but James isn’t enough. We need official protection.”
“Whatever it takes,” Vincent said immediately.
They were driven to a safe house—LAPD provided, secure location, rotating guards. The penthouse was compromised. Someone had known where they’d be, when they’d be leaving. Either they’d been watched or someone had leaked information.
In the safe house—a nondescript apartment in the Valley—Paige sat on an uncomfortable couch and stared at nothing.
“I thought it was over,” she said. “The verdict was supposed to mean we were safe.”
“It will be. Once Marcus is sentenced and transferred to a permanent facility, once he’s cut off from his resources—” Vincent sat beside her. “We’ll be safe then.”
“Will we? Or will he just keep sending people? Will we spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders?”
Vincent didn’t have an answer.
That night, Paige couldn’t sleep. Every car sound made her jump. Every shadow looked like a threat. She kept seeing the gun, the ski mask, the moment before Vincent swerved and probably saved their lives.
At three a.m., she gave up and went to the kitchen. Made tea she didn’t drink. Stood at the window watching patrol cars circle the block.
Her phone buzzed. Unknown number.
She almost didn’t answer. But something made her.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Carter.” A man’s voice, unfamiliar, cold. “You should have stayed quiet when you had the chance.”
Paige’s blood went ice. “Who is this?”
“A friend of Marcus’s. Just calling to let you know—today was a warning. Next time, we won’t miss.” The voice paused. “Drop the sentencing testimony. Tell the judge Marcus deserves leniency. And maybe we let you live.”
“I’m recording this. The police will—”
“Record whatever you want. Doesn’t matter. We can get to you anytime. Anywhere. That safe house you’re in? We know where it is. Those cops outside? We’ve counted them. Six officers, three cars, rotating shifts every eight hours. You think that’s enough to stop us?”
Paige’s hands shook. “What do you want?”
“I told you. Drop the sentencing testimony. Tell the judge that Marcus deserves mercy. That he’s rehabilitating. That he deserves a reduced sentence.” The voice turned mocking. “Play the victim who’s moved on. The survivor who wants peace, not revenge. You’re good at that, right? Playing roles?”
“I won’t lie for him.”
“Then you’ll die for your truth. Your choice. You have until sentencing. Two weeks. Use them wisely.”
The line went dead.
Paige stood frozen, phone in her trembling hand. Then she turned to find Vincent in the doorway.
“How much did you hear?”
“Enough.” His face was stone. “We’re telling Detective Barnes immediately.”
But when Barnes arrived thirty minutes later, she had bad news.
“The call came from a burner phone. Already destroyed, probably. And Ms. Carter, I hate to say this, but… without concrete threats, without knowing who called, there’s not much we can do beyond what we’re already doing.”
“They threatened to kill her!”
“I know. And we’ll investigate. But Marcus’s lawyers will argue their client is in custody, he can’t possibly be responsible for threats made by unknown third parties.” Barnes looked exhausted. “I’m sorry. I really am. But until we can connect these threats directly to Marcus—”
“He’s going to get away with it,” Paige said flatly. “Again. He’s locked up and convicted and he’s still going to get away with terrorizing me.”
“No. He’s not.” Vincent’s voice was steel. “Because we’re not doing what they want. We’re not dropping the sentencing testimony. We’re not giving him any leniency. We’re making sure he gets the maximum sentence possible.”
“Even if it gets us killed?”
“It won’t. I won’t let it.” Vincent pulled her close. “But we don’t negotiate with terrorists. We don’t let Marcus win. Not now. Not after everything we’ve fought for.”
Paige wanted to argue. Wanted to say survival mattered more than revenge. That living was more important than making sure Marcus got a few extra years in prison.
But she’d already stayed quiet once. Already let Marcus buy her silence. Already let fear dictate her choices.
She couldn’t do it again.
“Okay,” she whispered. “We don’t back down. We testify. We make sure he gets what he deserves.”
“And we survive,” Vincent added. “Together. Like we always do.”
But as the sun rose on another day of living in fear, another day of police protection and safe houses and looking over shoulders, Paige wondered:
How long could they keep surviving?
How many attempts would there be?
How long until Marcus’s people succeeded?
And was justice really worth dying for?
She didn’t know the answer.
But in two weeks, at sentencing, she’d have to decide.
Stand up and speak her truth, knowing it might get her killed.
Or stay silent and let Marcus win one final time.
The choice, as always, was impossible.
But it was hers to make.
And whatever she decided, she’d have to live with the consequences.
Or die for them.
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