Elena woke up to the sound of static.
She blinked, disoriented, the scratchy motel blanket rough against her cheek. The room was dim, the curtains drawn tight against the midday sun. The only light came from the small television set in the corner, the volume turned down to a whisper.
Silas was sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to her. He was staring at the screen, his posture radiating a dangerous stillness.
"Silas?" she croaked, her throat dry.
He didn't look away from the TV. "Watch."
Elena sat up, wrapping the sheet around herself, and looked at the screen. Her blood ran cold.
It was a breaking news broadcast. The headline scrolled in urgent red across the bottom: "WIFE OF BILLIONAIRE MARCUS VANCE ABDUCTED FROM ROYAL OPERA HOUSE."
On the screen, Marcus stood at a podium, surrounded by police commissioners. He didn't look like the monster who buried bodies in concrete. He looked devastated. His eyes were red-rimmed, his voice breaking perfectly as he spoke into the microphones.
"My wife, Elena, is a fragile, beautiful soul," Marcus said, wiping a tear. "She has been taken by a dangerous, unstable individual. A man with a history of violence. We believe he is armed and extremely dangerous."
A photo flashed on the screen. It was Silas. A mugshot from years ago—younger, wilder, with a split lip and eyes full of hate.
"This man is Silas Vance," the news anchor announced. "Estranged brother of the victim. Authorities warn: Do not approach. Shoot to kill orders have been authorized."
Elena gasped. "He... he twisted it. He made you the villain."
Silas turned off the TV, plunging the room into silence. He stood up and walked to the window, peering through the crack.
"He's smart," Silas said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "He knows he can't kill me quietly now. So he's turned the entire population of the United Kingdom into his private security force. Every shopkeeper, every truck driver, every cop is looking for a man with a scar and a woman in a silk dress."
He turned to face her. "We're not just running from hitmen anymore, Elena. We're running from everyone."
"What do we do?" Elena asked, panic rising in her chest.
"We disappear," Silas said. He walked over to the duffel bag and pulled out a pair of scissors and a box of cheap hair dye. "Starting with you."
Elena stared at the scissors. Her hair was her vanity. It was long, chestnut brown, reaching her waist. Marcus had always loved it long. He said it made her look... compliant.
She looked at Silas, then at the scissors. She swung her legs out of bed and walked over to the shaky wooden chair in front of the vanity mirror. She sat down.
"Do it," she said.
Silas hesitated. "Elena, you don't have to—"
"He loved this hair," she interrupted, her voice hard. "Cut it off."
Silas moved behind her. He met her eyes in the dirty mirror. The look they shared wasn't about survival anymore; it was an acknowledgment of the change happening inside her.
He gathered her hair in one hand. The metal scissors felt cold against her neck.
Snip.
The first lock fell to the floor.
Silas worked in silence. He wasn't a stylist, but his hands were steady. He cut away the heavy, luxurious waves that marked her as a trophy wife. He cut it short, into a choppy, textured bob that framed her jawline.
The sensation of his fingers brushing her neck, the sound of the blades, the falling hair—it was intimate in a way that made her breath hitch. It felt like a ritual. He wasn't just cutting her hair; he was stripping away Marcus's ownership of her.
When the cutting was done, he mixed the dye. Jet black.
"Close your eyes," he murmured.
He applied the dye with his gloved hands, massaging it into her scalp. The rhythm was hypnotic. Elena leaned back into his touch, her eyes closed. For a moment, she forgot the police, the bounty, the danger. There was just the smell of chemicals and the warmth of his body standing behind her.
"There," he whispered.
Thirty minutes later, Elena washed it out in the tiny sink. When she stood up and looked in the mirror, she gasped.
The woman staring back wasn't Elena Vance, the socialite. She was sharper, harder. The black hair made her green eyes pop, giving her a fierce, almost predatory look.
Silas stood behind her, watching her reflection. He looked mesmerized.
"You look..." he started, his voice trailing off.
"Like a criminal?" she asked, a small, sad smile touching her lips.
"Like trouble," he corrected. He reached out, almost touching a wet strand of hair, but pulled his hand back at the last second. "Now it's my turn."
Silas shaved his beard, revealing a jawline that was sharp enough to cut glass. He put on a baseball cap and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses he'd produced from the bag. He looked younger, less like a hitman and more like a blue-collar worker.
"The Mustang has to go," Silas said, checking his watch. "It's too loud. Too distinct."
"We're stealing a car?"
"We're trading up."
They left the room, heads down. The motel clerk was asleep behind the counter. They slipped out the back.
Silas led her not to the Mustang, but down the road a mile to a used car lot. He didn't break in. He walked straight up to a beat-up, beige sedan—a Ford Mondeo, the most boring car in existence.
"Wait here," he told her.
He walked into the small office. Elena watched through the window as he spoke to the dealer. He didn't use a gun. He used charm. He smiled—a fake, dazzling smile she had never seen before—and pointed to the car. He handed over a stack of cash.
Five minutes later, he drove the beige sedan out of the lot. He popped the passenger door open for her.
"Get in."
As they merged onto the highway, blending perfectly into the sea of traffic, Elena looked at him.
"You smiled," she said.
"It's part of the disguise," Silas grunted, his eyes scanning the mirrors.
"It was nice," she whispered.
Silas gripped the steering wheel tighter. "Don't get used to it. We have a four-hour drive to the coast. Marcus has a safe house there that isn't on the books. He won't look for us in his own property."
"And then?"
"Then," Silas said, his voice dropping to a growl, "We stop running. And we start hunting."
Elena looked out the window. The reflection showed a stranger with black hair and dark eyes. She wasn't afraid anymore. She was ready.