Six hours after I became Mrs. Axton Callaway

The black town car was supposed to take us straight to Teterboro Airport.

Axton sat in the leather passenger seat beside me, his laptop open, typing furiously on an encrypted portal. Every few minutes, he would glance up, stroke my knee, and murmur something sweet about the Mediterranean sun.

Every touch felt like a branding iron.

My phone vibrated in my clutch. A notification flashed: *Unknown Sender.*

I waited until Axton took a phone call—something about an emergency board proxy vote for Mercer Shipping—before I tilted the screen away from his peripheral vision.

The text was brief:

*The car won’t take you to Italy. The flight manifest is filed for Zurich. Check the luggage tags.*

My breath caught in my throat. Zurich? The Callaway family’s private holding entities were registered under Swiss shell companies.

I looked at the driver’s rearview mirror. The driver wasn’t Arthur, our usual chauffeur. It was a man with a thick neck, a buzz cut, and dead, flat eyes who hadn't spoken a word since loading our bags.

I glanced out the window. We had passed the turnoff for Route 80 toward Teterboro ten minutes ago. We were heading north on the Palisades Parkway.

Toward Axton’s secluded family estate in upstate New York—Blackwood Crest.

“Axton?” I said, keeping my tone light, mildly curious. “Aren’t we heading the wrong way for the private terminal?”

Axton didn’t look up from his screen. “Small change of plans, sweetheart. Weather over the Atlantic is severe. Storm systems out of Nova Scotia. We’re going to spend the first three days at Blackwood Crest until the airspace clears.”

“You didn’t mention a storm.”

“It just developed.” He finally shut the laptop, turning to face me. The mask of the doting newlywed was slipping, revealing the cold, calculating architect beneath. “Besides, it will give us time to finalize the Mercer asset consolidation without distractions. Your father’s personal attorney retired this morning, Callie. Callaway Maritime has assumed direct administrative oversight of all family trusts.”

He said it so smoothly. As if announcing a change in dinner reservations.

“You retired Martin Vance?” My voice rose. Martin had been my father’s best friend and attorney for forty years.

“Martin was eighty years old and making accounting errors,” Axton said, his eyes drilling into mine. “It was time. I signed the transition documents under your emergency power of attorney two hours ago.”

“I didn't authorize that.”

“You did. Page forty-seven of the prenuptial agreement you signed last month. Full fiduciary delegation upon marriage.” He reached out, his thumb running along my jawline, stopping at my pulse. “Don't look at me like that, Callie. I am protecting your family from its own incompetence. You should be thanking me.”

The car swerved abruptly.

A loud, violent metallic crunch shattered the air.

The town car spun hard to the right, tires shrieking against asphalt as a heavy black SUV clipped our rear quarter panel, forcing our driver off the road and onto the gravel shoulder of an abandoned scenic overlook.

“What the hell?” Axton barked, bracing himself against the front seat.

The town car slammed to a halt against a wooden guardrail, kicking up dust and leaves. Before the driver could pull his sidearm, the driver’s side window of our town car exploded inward in a shower of tempered glass.

A gloved hand reached through, unlocked the door, and hauled our driver out onto the pavement.

Axton reached into his coat for a weapon, but the rear passenger door flew open.

A tall man with pale blond hair and piercing ice-blue eyes stood outside, holding a silenced tactical pistol aimed dead center at Axton’s forehead.

It was the stranger from the church corridor.

“Step out of the car, Callaway,” the blond man said, his voice flat, razor-sharp, and completely devoid of fear. “Or I put two holes in your kneecaps and let your bride watch you bleed out on the parkway.”

“Julian Vance,” Axton hissed, his teeth bared in pure venom. “You’re violating a federal restraining order.”

*Vance.* Martin Vance’s son. The corporate fraud investigator who had vanished from Wall Street two years ago after being framed for embezzlement.

“The restraining order became void the second you filed fraudulent conservatorship papers against George Mercer,” Julian replied calmly. He flicked his eyes toward me. “Callie. Get out of the car. Now.”

Axton grabbed my wrist with bruising force. “She’s my wife! She goes nowhere with you!”

I didn’t hesitate.

I drove the four-inch metal stiletto heel of my bridal pump directly into Axton’s foot, leaning all my weight into the strike.

Axton roared in agony, his grip shattering as he clutched his foot.

I scrambled out of the ruined town car, stumbling onto the gravel. Julian caught me by the arm, steadying me, his pale eyes searching my face for half a second.

“Can you run?” he asked.

“I can drive,” I snapped, my adrenaline surging like pure fire. “Get me out of here.”

Julian fired two quick rounds into the front tires of the town car, disabling it entirely. Behind us, Axton was crawling out of the backseat, his face contorted in an ugly, monstrous rage.

“Callie!” Axton screamed, his voice cracking against the quiet woods. “If you leave with him, you lose everything! I will burn your father’s name into the ground! I will send your sister to prison by nightfall!”

Julian shoved me into the passenger seat of the black SUV, slammed the door, jumped behind the wheel, and floored the accelerator.