Scout’s POV
"Do not ever come looking for me again," I whispered to the empty air.
The black limousine rounded a sharp bend and vanished. The roar of the high-end engine bled into the silence of the trees until it was gone. I stood alone in the centre of the asphalt, my lungs burning with the dry, dusty air. The road was a scar across the landscape, cutting through miles of nothing.
I was not going back. My heart hammered against my ribs, fueled by a rage so hot it rivalled the sun overhead. Nixon thought he had won. He truly believed I was some fragile thing he could break with a pen and a contract. He expected me to collapse, to beg for a seat in that air-conditioned car, and to play the part of his little puppet bride.
He was wrong. He did not know the first thing about me.
I looke
