Book 1: The Summer of Sandra

​The emerald necklace felt cold against her throat, a perfect fit for the leash she hadn't known she was wearing. ​Candace stood before the twelve-foot-tall antique mirror in her dressing room at the Da Silva Estate. Outside, the high walls and meticulously manicured gardens suggested an Italian paradise; inside, the air was thick with the scent of fear and fine perfume. ​She was dressed in the delicate, white silk slip that her father had deemed "appropriate" for the evening. The meeting—the transaction—was set for midnight. Her father, the boss, had simply laid out the terms: Silas is a crucial partner. You are a tool to secure the deal. Do whatever is asked of you. ​She ran a finger over the inscription on the emerald pendant: CD. Not for Candace Da Silva, but for Controlled Daughter. ​A silent vibration against the silk of her thigh startled her. The burner phone, tucked into the thigh-high slit of her garment bag, flashed with a single, coded text: "The path is clear. Now." ​It was Isadora. Her aunt, the family defector, had spent three months orchestrating this escape, relying on old favors and buried loyalties. ​Candace moved with a chilling efficiency. The gown and the emerald necklace—the jewelry of her prison—were cast onto the velvet fainting couch. From a hidden compartment, she pulled a small, worn leather valise. Inside, there was cash from her mother's independent trust, a prepaid phone, a fake passport bearing the name Sandra V. Hayes, and the only things she chose to take: a simple, linen jumpsuit and a pair of worn canvas sneakers. ​She paused only for one necessary act of severance. She walked back to her marble vanity, snatched the velvet box containing the unique Da Silva crest necklace—the one her mother and father had gifted her—and the recent photograph of her smiling stiffly between her two parents. She opened the window and dropped them onto the stone patio far below, the soft velvet absorbing the impact. She didn't want the objects of their gilded lie in her new life. ​She slipped into the sneakers, the sound muffled by the thick carpet, and silently made her way toward the rarely-used service stairwell. Every shadow, every perfectly placed antique statue, felt like one of Dante’s ever-present security guards. ​At the basement door, she held her breath, listening to the hum of the ventilation. Isadora had assured her the rear gate security feed would be looped for exactly ninety seconds. ​Now. ​Candace slipped through the service door and bolted across the poorly lit garage, her heart hammering against her ribs. She was running toward a beat-up black sedan idling quietly just outside the chain-link service gate—a sedan that looked utterly out of place against the backdrop of the Da Silva fleet of armored black cars. ​She yanked the handle and tumbled into the back seat. The driver, an anonymous man with weary eyes, didn't look back. ​"Take me to the private terminal," Candace whispered, forcing the panic from her voice. ​The sedan pulled away from the Estate, disappearing instantly into the early morning darkness. Candace pressed her head back against the worn seat leather, closing her eyes. She wasn't free, not yet. She was just a rich girl in sneakers with a new name, hurtling toward a foreign continent, hoping the vastness of the South African bush would be wide enough to hide the daughter of a king.