Artemis glanced at his gold wristwatch—eight o'clock. The moon glowed through dark clouds, and light streamed through the windows of the Cape Cod mansion. Someone was home.
He knocked on the mahogany door.
Isabella answered the door. "Artemis!"
"Isabella, do you know where Maxwell has been? He hasn't answered the messages I've been leaving on his phone."
Isabella bit her lip. "I'm afraid he was taken to the labour camp."
"What?" Artemis pressed his palms against his temples. "How can that be?"
"Blame Lolita. I can't believe you're still working for that cold-hearted bitch."
"I know she's in the wrong, but there's nothing I can do to stop her. I can't stand up against her; if I do, I get the axe."
"If Ethan were in power, my husband would still be with me. Ethan was kind-hearted and Lolita is the exact opposite of him. This war with us and Technate is unnecessary. Maxwell was the only one with the courage to stand up against her. While the rest of you allow her to walk all over you."
Artemis sucked in a deep breath and looked at his black derby shoes. "I don't know what to do. I can't change her. She's an alcoholic, but I don't know if it's because of the alcohol that she can't think rationally."
"I've no sympathy for her. I hate her, and I wish someone would assassinate her."
"Isabella! You can't possibly mean that! We've already lost Ethan because he was murdered!"
"Maxwell is in the detention centre because of her! I can't forgive her for putting him there! The only way he would get out is if she were to die! I'm losing my house because I can't afford to keep it without Maxwell. I've to go and finish packing. This is the last day I've to spend in this house. You'll have to leave."
She shut the door. He slipped into his black sports car, the leather seat cool against his back. The engine growled to life, a restless heartbeat in the silent night. As he eased onto the empty street, every tail-light blur reminded him of the choice ahead: scrape by under Lolita's iron rule or risk everything for a sliver of freedom. The road stretched before him, dark and uncertain—yet somehow less suffocating than the life he was leaving behind.