My Rival Paid to Have Me Dead

The hospital discharge papers trembled in my hands. "Against medical advice" was stamped across them in bold red letters, a warning I chose to ignore. The nurse's concerned eyes followed me as I gathered my belongings—what little I had left after the shooting.

"Miss Powell, you shouldn't be leaving yet," she protested, glancing at my bandaged shoulder. "Your wound could reopen."

I met her gaze in the mirror as I pinned my hair back. "I've stayed too long already."

The truth was, I had nowhere else to go. Not in New York. Not with Victoria Armstrong's ultimatum still ringing in my ears. *A political liability.* That's what I'd become to the man who was supposed to marry me tomorrow.

I slipped into a taxi, giving the driver an address in the Upper East Side rather than my family's penthouse. "The Powell Building, please."

"Big place," he commented, eyeing me in the rearview mirror.

"Yes," I replied simply. "Too big."

At the bank, I withdrew exactly what I needed—enough to disappear, but not so much as to trigger suspicion. The manager recognized me, his eyes widening at the sight of my bandage.

"Miss Powell, are you certain about this withdrawal? Perhaps we should call your father—"

"No," I cut him off. "This is my personal trust fund. I'm well within my rights."

He hesitated, then nodded. "Of course. Would you like to use our private room?"

"That won't be necessary." I took the envelope of cash and signed the paperwork. "Thank you."

Within hours, I had a new passport under my mother's maiden name and a chartered flight to Marseille. The pilot raised an eyebrow at my appearance—pale, wounded, alone—but asked no questions when I doubled his fee.

"Destination?" he asked.

I handed him a slip of paper. "Provence. Near Aix-en-Provence."

* * *

The vineyard had belonged to my mother's family for generations. Centuries-old stone walls crumbled gently around the property, and the grapevines stretched toward the mountains in neat, endless rows. I'd visited once as a child, when the world still made sense.

Now it was my sanctuary. My prison.

"Mademoiselle Powell?" The elderly caretaker, Madame Beaumont, squinted at me through rheumy eyes. "We were not expecting you."

"I know," I replied, stepping into the dusty foyer of the manor house. "I need solitude."

She nodded slowly, understanding in her weathered face. "The east wing is prepared. The rest..." She gestured vaguely at the shadowed corridors. "It has been some time since we've had guests."

That suited me perfectly.

Days blurred into weeks. I rose with the sun, walked the vineyard rows at dawn, and spent afternoons reading in the library. My shoulder healed slowly, leaving a scar I knew would never fade—much like the wound in my heart.

I spoke to no one except Madame Beaumont, who brought meals and left them outside my door. The silence became a companion, broken only by the distant sounds of farm machinery and the occasional call of birds.

Three months into my exile, a storm rolled in from the Mediterranean. I stood at the library window, watching lightning split the sky as rain lashed against the glass.

"Mademoiselle should stay inside tonight," Madame Beaumont advised, placing a cup of tea beside me. "These summer storms can be violent."

I nodded absently, my eyes on the rain-swept vineyard.

Later that night, unable to sleep, I wrapped myself in a blanket and sat by the window. The storm had intensified, wind howling through the vines like ghosts in pain.

A flash of lightning illuminated something moving among the rows—something large and dark. My heart stuttered.

Another flash. The shape was closer now, staggering between the vines.

I should have called Madame Beaumont. I should have locked the doors and pretended I'd seen nothing. Instead, I found myself grabbing a raincoat and slipping out into the storm.

The rain soaked through my clothes instantly as I made my way down the stone steps and into the vineyard. Thunder crashed overhead as I approached the shape.

It wasn't human.

A massive wolf lay among the vines, its silver-gray fur matted with blood. Its side rose and fell with labored breaths, and its amber eyes found mine through the rain.

"Mon Dieu," I whispered, freezing in place.

The wolf didn't move. It simply watched me, those intelligent eyes assessing whether I was threat or salvation.

Lightning flashed again, illuminating the deep claw marks across its flank—wounds that looked eerily like they'd been inflicted by another wolf, not a human.

Fear warred with something else inside me—a strange recognition. Here was another broken creature, wounded and alone in the storm.

I took a step toward it, then another. Its ears flattened, but it didn't growl or snap.

"You're hurt," I said softly, kneeling in the mud beside it. "Just like me."

The wolf's eyes never left mine as I reached out a trembling hand.