Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 18000 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 90(@200wpm)___ 72(@250wpm)___ 60(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 18000 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 90(@200wpm)___ 72(@250wpm)___ 60(@300wpm)
In my nineteen years of existence, God's the only one who's been faithful to His promises and no one else.
To believe that it's the Prince of Killers of all people who would break the cycle is insane.
Right?
It's late in the afternoon when we board a chopper that looks more like it's designed for war than luxury. Instead of fancy leather seats, I find myself strapped against the wall and surrounded by heavily armed security while the pilot starts talking in my ear about dos and don'ts for every worst-case scenario that is.
An optimist, our pilot definitely isn't, but I think that's a good thing, with how vengeful my father has already revealed himself to be.
One day at a time, Eden.
My newfound freedom likely won't last, but I'm still determined to enjoy it every chance I get.
Starting now.
I was only four when we came to live on the island. I've never been off it since, and I was never allowed to use the Internet, read books or watch TV. The only thing they allowed me to own were clothes and shoes, and yet now...
"Your phone, mademoiselle."
All I can do is stare at the pretty lavender-colored phone one of the guys has just placed in my hand.
"What can I use it for?"
He stares at me as if not understanding the question, but I'm not sure how to make myself any clearer.
"You can use it for anything and everything you need, mademoiselle."
I nearly jump in shock.
It's the voice of Mr. Stranger-In-Charge speaking in my ear.
Even though I saw him stay behind as we took off, I know I can't be mistaken about it, and I guess it's the magic of technology at work that I'm still able to hear his voice.
"The phone is already linked to the master's bank account. You may use it to purchase or pay for whatever you wish. His secretary has also set up your own email and social media accounts on your behalf. If you need anything else, Gastone is on Speed Dial 3."
"And Gastone is..."
"The master's secretary."
"Got it."
"Is there anything else, mademoiselle?"
I start to shake my head when I remember he can't see me. "N-No. Thank you."
A full minute passes before I realize my husband's right-hand man has no plans of answering.
Ten more minutes go by, and I'm still bothered by this.
"We are here, mademoiselle."
We've landed on what seems like a long-forgotten hangar built in the middle of the Caribbean, and as soon as I'm off the chopper, my husband's men get back into formation like synchronized swimmers, only this time they're in Kevlar and camouflage instead of swimcaps and swimsuits.
They form a human shield around me as we walk from Point A and Point B, and all of them are still on high alert even when we've already boarded what I can only assume is my husband's private jet.
It's only when we've taken off and the pilot tells us we can unfasten our seatbelts that the men finally relax.
One of them looks at me, and I can practically feel him grinning even if I don't actually see anything past his balaclava.
"We're going home, mademoiselle."
All I can do is nod.
Home.
The island has always been my prison, but a home is something I've never had.
Until now.
We'll always have
Paris.
I can't stop turning my head this way and that while his men take care of whatever it needs taking care of.
How is it possible for someone as notorious as Dauphin Tueur to live in the City of Lights? I know he also goes by his other name, but still.
How?
It absolutely boggles the mind, but even my shock isn't enough to keep me from gawking and gaping as we're finally cleared to disembark, and my feet touch Parisian soil for the first time ever.
Is this really happening, God?
The idea of ever seeing Paris in person was one of those impossible things I didn't even bother including in my bucket list. And yet here I am now, being escorted to a limousine, and oh, oh, oh!
I finally remember I have my own phone, and you bet I start acting like a tourist on her first trip abroad.
One day at a time, right?
I take as many photos as I can even if all I can see are French street signs and highways. I'm still snap, snap, snapping away when an hour passes, and landmarks I've only dreamed of finally start popping up.
How can this be real, God?
I don't even know what to feel as I take a selfie with the Eiffel Tower in my background.
Is everything this good because it can only last for days?
Just like how people on Death Row get to eat whatever they want for their last meal, could Paris be my version of the Last Supper?
My mind is convinced that's exactly what's happening right now, and so there's absolutely no time to waste. It insists that I stop taking selfies and start planning my escape.