I always thought I was the smart one.

The quiet one. The observant one. The one who learned from Joey’s mistakes and Tadhg’s temper.

Turns out I was just the idiot who thought recording sex was “living a little.”

Now I’m on my knees in a mansion that looks like it swallowed Versailles and spat out intimidation.

Hands up. Guns pressed to my skull.

And I’m thinking, Mammy Kavanagh is going to kill me before these lads do.

I didn’t even see them coming.

One second I’m heading home, keys in hand, texting a girl I actually liked — a normal girl — and the next I’m dragged into a van like I’m some political liability. Sack over my head. Zip ties on my wrists.

All because of a tape.

A years-old tape.

Her.

God, her.

The daughter of a family I knew was dangerous — but I’d been young and cocky and convinced I could walk away from anything. I had walked away. I’d cut ties, changed numbers, scrubbed socials.

Apparently not enough.

The bulky old man in front of me — her father — looks like he eats threats for breakfast.

“You touch my daughter,” he says calmly, which is worse than shouting, “you bind yourself to her.”

Bind.

As if we’d signed a contract in blood.

“It was years ago,” I say, my voice cracking despite my best effort. “We were kids.”

“You filmed it.”

Right.

That.

Because at nineteen I thought pressing record made me daring instead of stupid.

He steps closer. Gun cocks louder near my ear.

“In our family,” he continues, “intimacy is covenant. You have already taken what is sacred. You will correct this.”

“By killing me?” I manage.

“By marrying her. Exclusively. Or I end your bloodline.”

My stomach drops through the marble floor.

They know about my family.

They know about the Lynch name. About where I live. About who I love.

And suddenly this isn’t about me being humiliated online. It’s about my siblings. About innocent people paying for my arrogance.

I feel like I might actually throw up.

That’s when I see her.

Standing in the corner.

Silent. Pale. Watching.

She looks different. Harder. Trapped in silk and diamonds that feel like chains.

Our eyes lock.

And for a second I forget the guns.

I crawl — actually crawl — toward her.

“Please,” I whisper. Pride is a luxury I can’t afford. “Help me. Tell him it was nothing. Tell him you don’t want this.”

Her jaw tightens. There’s pity there.

But there’s fear too.

“They won’t listen,” she murmurs. “They think it dishonors us.”

“Us?” I almost laugh hysterically. “You think I’m ready to die for a one-night mistake?”

Her fingers twitch at her sides.

Then, barely audible:

“Take me hostage.”

I blink.

“What?”

“Act. Make it real.” Her eyes flick to the guards. “They won’t shoot you if you have me.”

It takes half a second for instinct to kick in.

I surge up.

Grab her.

Arm around her throat — not tight enough to hurt, just convincing.

The nearest thing in reach is a porcelain vase worth more than my car. I press the jagged edge near her neck.

“Back up!” I shout, forcing steel into my voice. “I swear I’ll—”

Guns shift. Chaos erupts.

Her father’s eyes go cold.

My heart is pounding so hard I think it might rupture. If they call my bluff, I’m dead. If she flinches, I’m dead.

But she doesn’t.

She leans into the act.

“Papa,” she gasps, selling it perfectly.

They hesitate.

That’s enough.

I drag her backward, step by step, toward the massive double doors. My arms shake but I don’t loosen my hold.

Outside. Down the marble steps. Through the gates.

Somehow no one fires.

The second we’re clear of the estate wall, I shove her gently aside. I take her hand instead.

“Come on,” I say finally.

She shakes her head.

Footsteps echo in the distance.

Shouts.

Decision made.

She resists when I grab her wrist.

“Ollie—”

“No time.”

When she tries to pull back, I do the only thing left.

I scoop her up.

She yelps, fists hitting my chest.

“Put me down!”

“Not happening,” I pant, running toward the tree line like a lunatic. “You’re not going back in there.”