Chapter 3
Rosalind
I backed away from him, my heart pounding. "I'm not going anywhere with you."
"I'm afraid that wasn't a request," he replied, nodding to his men.
I looked desperately at my parents, some foolish part of me still hoping they would protect their daughter. Instead, my mother stepped forward with a bright, artificial smile.
"Oh, how wonderful! Calloway sent a car service! Rosalind, honey, don't keep him waiting."
"A car service?" I stared at her in disbelief. "Mom, these are armed thugs!"
"Don't be so dramatic," my father chided. "They're just making sure you get to the hospital safely. Very thoughtful of Calloway, really."
The lead man's smile grew wider. "Your parents get the situation perfectly, Ms. Blackwell. Shall we go?"
I looked around desperately—at my parents who were practically pushing me toward these men, at the armed strangers blocking every exit. My gaze swept over Beckett, who was leaning against the doorframe, watching the scene unfold with detached interest.
"When I suggested coming here, I didn't expect it to get this messy," he said, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly.
But he didn't move. Not a single muscle. Just stood there, hands in his pockets, as if this was mildly entertaining theater.
Of course. We were just a contract, nothing more. Why would he risk himself for a stranger he'd married on paper?
Fine. I'd been fighting my own battles since I was old enough to understand that the only person I could count on was myself. At least this sham marriage had given me a few hours of freedom. That was something.
I took a deep breath and straightened my shoulders. If no one was going to save me, then I'd face this alone. Like always. I straightened my shoulders, lifting my chin despite the tears threatening to fall. "Let's get this over with."
The lead man gestured toward the door with mock politeness. "After you, Ms. Blackwell."
I took one step. Then another. Each one felt like walking toward my own execution. As I reached the threshold, the man's hand closed around my upper arm, grip firm enough to bruise.
"Oh, hang on."
Beckett's voice—pleasant, almost apologetic—made everyone pause. He pushed off from the wall with easy grace, that same lazy smile still in place.
"Sorry to interrupt," he continued, his tone conversational and friendly, "but I just remembered something. She's actually my wife now. Legally speaking." He tilted his head with mock confusion. "Doesn't that mean you need my permission to take her somewhere?"
The lead man turned, irritation flashing across his face. "This doesn't concern you, whoever you are."
"Oh, but it does," Beckett replied, his smile never wavering. "Marriage certificates are surprisingly binding documents. Who knew?" His eyes found mine briefly, and despite his casual demeanor, something protective flickered there. "So where exactly are you taking my wife? Just curious."
"Listen, buddy," one of the other men stepped forward aggressively. "Boss wants the girl. You can either step aside, or—"
"Or what?" Beckett asked with genuine curiosity, reaching into his jacket. "That sounds threatening. Should I be worried?" He pulled out a business card with the same easy smile. "Oh, this reminds me. I should probably mention my recent work in Kyrenna. The Benedetti family can be so... particular about their business associates being treated with respect."
Benedetti family? The name struck me hard. Even sheltered in Boston's elite circles, I knew that name—the most powerful crime family in the underground. The kind of people who made problems disappear permanently.
Beckett reached into his jacket slowly, pulling out a business card. But it wasn't his name on it—it was simply a card with an anchor crossed with a trident embossed in gold, and below it, a single line: "Mediterranean Trading Routes - Corsica Division."
The lead man took the card dismissively, but as his eyes focused on the emblem, his expression shifted. "This is..."
"Just got back from Kyrenna last week," Beckett said casually. "Had some interesting cargo for the Benedetti family. Maybe you know them? They mentioned they had connections in Boston."
The color drained from the man's face. He quickly whispered something to one of his companions, who pulled out a phone and made a hurried call.
"The Corsica route..." the lead man muttered, staring at the card. "You work the Corsica route?"
Beckett shrugged. "Among others. The Mediterranean's full of opportunities for people who know where to look. And who to work with."
The man with the phone ended his call, his face pale. He whispered urgently in the leader's ear.
"We need to go," the leader said abruptly, handing the card back to Beckett with hands that trembled slightly. "There's been a change of plans."
"But the boss's orders—" one of the other men started.
"Are overruled," the leader cut him off sharply. "We're leaving. Now."
Within moments, they were gone, the SUVs speeding away as quickly as they'd arrived.
I stared at Beckett in shock. "What just happened? I thought you weren't gonna get involved in this kind of thing."
He tucked the card back into his jacket, that enigmatic smile playing at his lips. "I'm not. Unless the person involved happens to be my wife." His expression shifted to one of genuine puzzlement. "As for what happened, I honestly have no idea. I mentioned some business contacts from my shipping routes, and they just left. The Benedettis are olive oil merchants, for crying out loud. Well, mostly olive oil." He frowned. "I didn't think their reputation reached this far from the Mediterranean."
My mother's shrill laughter cut through the room. "Olive oil merchants? Oh, this is rich! Rosalind, you've really outdone yourself! Finding some import-export nobody who can bluff his way past hired muscle with a fancy business card!"
"Pathetic," my father added, shaking his head. "Those idiots fell for the oldest trick in the book. A fake business card and some name-dropping."
Something inside me snapped. "Are you even my parents?" I shouted, my voice breaking. "This man just saved me from being kidnapped—saved YOUR daughter—and this is what you focus on? Making fun of him?"
My mother's expression hardened, all pretense of concern evaporating. "Listen carefully, Rosalind. None of this matters. You can still fix this mess."
"Fix it?" I stared at her in disbelief.
"Yes," she said, her voice turning sickeningly sweet again. "Divorce this person. Go to the hospital. Give Hannah your bone marrow like a loving cousin should. Marry Calloway like we planned. Do this, and we'll forget this whole embarrassing episode ever happened."
"You can't be serious—"
"We'll even welcome you back with open arms," Father added, as if offering me a gift. "All forgiven. This little rebellion of yours? Water under the bridge."
I opened my mouth to respond, but no words came. My throat constricted painfully as the full weight of their betrayal crashed over me. They weren't even pretending anymore.
"Rosalind?" Mother pressed. "It's a generous offer. We're willing to overlook your shameful behavior—"
"That's enough." Beckett's voice cut through her words like ice. He moved to my side, his hand gentle on my elbow. "Mr. and Mrs. Blackwell, thanks for your 'hospitality.' We'll be going now."
As we stepped outside, I heard Mother's final words: "She'll be back. When she realizes what she's thrown away, she'll come crawling back."
The door closed behind us, but I barely registered it. My legs felt weak, and I stumbled. Beckett caught me, steadying me against his side.
"I'm sorry," I sobbed, humiliated by my breakdown. "I'm so sorry, I just—I knew they were disappointed in me, but I never thought..."
"Don't apologize," he said, helping me into the car. "Never apologize for having a heart."
As he started the engine, I pressed my face into my hands, trying to muffle my sobs.
"Where are we going?" I managed to ask between hiccupping breaths.
"Somewhere safe," he said simply. "Somewhere you can fall apart without an audience."