Tainted Innocence

Chapter 3

Vincent's POV

I don’t even know I’ve tossed it until it breaks. The red wine pours down the white wall like blood.

The servants stop at the entrance, unsure whether to clean or run.

My father doesn’t even flinch. He sits by the fire with a folded newspaper on his knee, looking at me like I’m a storm he’s seen before.

“She made us look bad,” I say. My voice sounds strange, too calm over the sound of my heartbeat.

He corrects me, each word clipped. “She humiliated you. The family will survive. But you can’t.”

He means the tabloids, the shareholders, the whispers already circling the Carter name. I can almost read the headlines forming in tomorrow’s paper, Carter Heir Abandoned at the Altar.

“I gave her everything,” I say quietly.

“She’ll come crawling back when the world turns against her.”

Father folds the newspaper and stands, tall and immaculate in his dark suit. “She won’t crawl anywhere if she disappears quietly. We’ll take care of the story. You will preserve your dignity.”

Respect. The word tastes like dirt.

I walked to the window and drew the curtain aside. Reporters flash outside our gates, their cameras cutting through the night like lightning. Somewhere beyond that light, Lila is breathing air that doesn’t belong to me.

“Find her,” I say to no one in particular. Then louder, “Find her.”

My father’s voice is low behind me. “Be careful, Vincent. We don’t chase scandals, we erase them.”

He leaves me alone with my thoughts.

My hands tremble even as I try to stay composed. My jaw is wet with sweat. I pick up my phone, scroll past the unanswered calls, and tap a number from an old card, the investigator who’s helped us bury our problems before.

“Evan Price,” he answers.

“It’s Vincent Carter,” I say. “I have a runaway.”

“What’s the job?”

“Bring her back,” I tell him. “Alive and quiet.” I pause. “And Evan… make her wish she had never run.”

Lila’s POV

The person selling tickets doesn’t even look at me. Hood up, head down, cash on the counter, just another traveler trying to get away from the rain.

I climb onto the bus and take a seat by the window, gripping my mother’s locket until it digs into my palm. The bus hisses, pulling away from the curb. Outside, St. Louis becomes streaks of silver and yellow light.

For the first time in years, no one is telling me where to stand, what to wear, or how to smile. Losing control feels like breathing.

I catch my reflection in the glass and it startles me. No makeup. No jewelry except the locket. My eyes are wide and hollow with exhaustion. Freedom doesn’t look the way the magazines promised, it’s smaller, hungrier, and half-scared.

I pull out Bernard’s old envelope. Inside is a fake ID, Lila Quinn. He sent it months ago, saying every princess should have a way to escape.

“Thank you, Bernard,” I whispered into the dim air.

“Phoenix next stop!” the driver calls, a man with shoulders like mountains.

Phoenix. The word feels strange, dry, and full of promise.

A woman beside me knits and hums softly, the rhythm steadying my pulse. I rest my head against the window and watch the road unfold beneath the moonlight.

My phone vibrates again. Vincent’s name glows like a wound. I turn it off and shove it deep in my bag.

When the city lights fade behind us, I exhale a breath that feels like it came from another life. I don’t know what’s waiting in the desert, but I know it’s not him.

A teenager laughs somewhere up front, a thin, bright sound that cuts through the night like a thread of hope. I close my eyes and clutch the locket again. “Just keep going,” I whisper.

The bus stops for gas in the desert. Dawn stretches pale across the land.

The air smells of dust, burnt coffee, and the fatigue of travelers. I pull my hood lower and step outside to stretch. The fluorescent lights hum above me.

Inside, I pour myself coffee that tastes like metal and study a rack of route maps. Phoenix still looks like a promise written in a language I don’t understand.

A man in a tan jacket sits near the window with a newspaper spread in front of him. At first glance, he looks too normal. Clean sneakers. Fresh shave. He hasn’t been on this road long.

My skin prickles. I look away and pretend to study the maps.

Then I see it, the headline on his paper, Runaway Bride Lila Carter Still Missing.

My picture beams beneath it, all lace and pearls.

My breath catches. I fold the map quickly, pay for my coffee, and slip toward the exit as quietly as I can.

The cold air outside feels like water on my face. Panic flutters in my chest. I need to vanish again before it gives me away.

Behind me, the man folds his newspaper carefully. I hear the scrape of his chair, the soft click of a phone opening.

I stop by the trash bin, pull out my phone, and drop it inside. The thud sounds final, like an ending. No more messages. No more evidence. Nothing but quiet.

A bus horn blares, the next route boarding. I blend in with the small group of passengers, hood up, heart racing.

Through the glass, I see him outside now, phone pressed to his ear, eyes scanning the crowd.

Then his gaze locks on mine for a heartbeat. He smiles, slow, confident. From his coat, he pulls a photograph. Even from here, I recognize my own face staring back at him.

The doors close. The bus jerks forward. My coffee spills across my hand, hot and sharp, but I don’t move.

I press my palm to the window and watch the station shrink behind me.

The hunt has already begun.