Get Me Out Of Here

Celia looked straight into Helena’s furious eyes. The air in the grand hallway seemed to instantly drop ten degrees. "Apologize?" Celia repeated, her voice chilling the space between them. "What exactly should I apologize for?"

Helena opened her mouth, but the arrogant words died in her throat. She stared at the deeply unfamiliar, razor-sharp edge gleaming in her previously submissive daughter's gaze. Where was the cowering girl she had endlessly dominated for the past twenty years? This new, unyielding demeanor threw Helena entirely off balance. She swallowed hard, suddenly unsure of herself, a cold knot of dread forming in her stomach.

"Portia," Helena muttered, leaning slightly toward her older daughter, her voice dropping to an anxious whisper. "Let's just let this matter go for today."

"Are you kidding me?" Portia hissed back, her delicate features contorting. "She just threatened us!"

"And what if she makes good on it?" Helena snapped in a hushed, frantic tone. "If she actually goes crazy and throws a tantrum in front of the Sterlings, we're finished. They will destroy this family."

Portia bit her lower lip, her chest heaving with reluctant compliance. She was absolutely terrified of jeopardizing her luxurious life. She had just barely escaped the nightmare of marrying that crippled, sadistic billionaire. Accidentally triggering the wrath of the Sterling family through Celia’s newfound madness was not a risk she could afford to take. Fuming but thoroughly intimidated, Portia shot Celia one last venomous glare and backed down.

Seeing her abusers stunned into absolute silence, Celia didn't waste another second. She turned her back on them and walked upstairs, the sound of her footsteps steady and resolute against the polished hardwood.

Once inside her bedroom, she pulled out a worn suitcase and began to pack. It was pathetic, really. Despite having lived at the sprawling Ashford Estate for over two decades, the belongings in her closet were dismally sparse. A few faded dresses, some basic necessities, and practically nothing of real value. The empty hangers clinking together served as stark, undeniable proof that she had always been treated merely as a temporary visitor in her own childhood home. She zipped the suitcase shut.

When she descended the grand staircase a few minutes later, the downstairs hall was entirely empty. Neither Helena nor Portia had bothered to stick around to see her off.

Celia felt absolutely no sorrow. The heavy, suffocating atmosphere of the house had choked her for years. The quicker she left this hellhole, the better.

She grabbed the handle of her suitcase and headed for the main entrance, but then a sharp thought stopped her in her tracks. Julian’s highly troublesome, arrogant ‘cousin’ was likely still waiting at the front gates in his sleek car. He had already complicated her life enough, and she absolutely could not risk giving him another chance to mess things up. Pissing off anyone intimately connected to Julian Sterling was a verified death wish. With that grim thought securely locked in her mind, she adjusted her grip on her luggage, turned on her heel, and silently slipped out through the estate's heavy kitchen back door.

Meanwhile, outside the towering wrought-iron front gates of the Ashford Estate, Julian’s patience was rapidly wearing thin. He sat in the driver's seat of his luxury vehicle, his fingers drumming a rhythmic, irritated beat against the leather steering wheel. He frowned deeply, his dark eyes scanning the empty driveway. What the hell was taking her so long?

For a brief, fleeting second, he wondered if that ugly woman was currently being bullied by her terrible family. He knew the Ashfords were a den of vipers. But as he reached up and lightly touched his own jawline—the exact spot where she had fiercely slapped him the night before—a cold snort escaped his lips.

No. She was a fierce wildcat. The sheer force of her defiance had practically burned through her dull disguise. She was definitely not the type of woman to be easily broken by a couple of greedy socialites.

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a gentle, saccharine voice drifting through his slightly lowered window. "Would you like to come in, sir?"

Julian turned his head. Standing gracefully beside his sleek car was a woman dressed in high-end designer clothes, her face perfectly painted to highlight her delicate features. It was Portia.

Portia stood there, her heart pounding against her ribs as she finally got a good look at the man sitting in the driver’s seat. She was completely stunned by his extraordinary elegance and breathtaking looks. His sharp jawline, his piercing dark eyes, the effortless aura of absolute power radiating from him—he was flawless. She simply could not fathom how such a magnificent, elegant man could possibly fancy a pathetic, ugly bumpkin like Celia.

Hoping to test her luck and steal his attention for herself, Portia stepped a little closer, flashing a brilliant, carefully practiced smile. "I don't believe we've formally met. I am Celia’s elder sister. You can call me Portia."

Julian’s dark eyes flashed with instant realization. Ah. So this was his original, cheap-priced fiancée. The woman who had thrown Celia to the wolves to save her own skin. He swept a cold, calculating gaze over her. Portia was widely regarded as a great beauty in elite circles, but to Julian, she looked utterly hollow. He found her highly manufactured beauty completely unappealing compared to the fiery, hidden depths he had tasted in Celia. The sheer vanity rolling off Portia in waves made him feel a mild wave of disgust.

He didn't bother offering a polite smile. He just stared at her, expressionless. "Where is Celia?" he demanded, his voice devoid of any warmth.

Portia’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before she recovered, lying smoothly through her perfectly glossed lips. "Oh, Celia? She is still packing her things upstairs. She specifically asked me to come out here and invite you inside to wait for her. It might take a while."

Julian let out a low, mocking sneer. He saw directly through her pathetic, transparent intentions. The idea of Celia inviting him inside to sit on a velvet couch with her treacherous sister was laughable. The wildcat had clearly outsmarted them all. She had likely already escaped the estate from another exit.

Without sparing Portia another single glance, he reached for the console. "Don't bother," he said coldly.

Before Portia could utter another syllable of protest, Julian rolled up his heavily tinted window, completely cutting off her saccharine voice. He shifted the car into drive and stepped on the gas. The powerful engine roared to life, the tires kicking up a thick cloud of gravel and dust as the car tore away from the curb.

Portia stood stranded on the roadside, choking on the exhaust and dust, coughing violently. Her face turned an ugly shade of crimson. She had never been dismissed so effortlessly in her entire life. She was left fuming, her fists clenched tightly at her sides, profoundly and utterly humiliated.

More than an hour later, Celia managed to return to her secretly rented apartment located deep within a notorious, chaotic slum in Veridia City. It was a gritty, unforgiving neighborhood, infamous for its winding alleys, flickering streetlights, and a dangerous mix of desperate people. But to Celia, it was a sanctuary.

She dragged her suitcase up the narrow, creaking staircase and unlocked her door. The small apartment wasn't luxurious by any stretch of the imagination. The wallpaper was peeling in the corners, and the plumbing occasionally groaned. Yet, as she stood in the center of the tiny living room, she took a deep, grounding breath. It severely lacked the suffocating, toxic emptiness of the sprawling Ashford estate. Here, she could actually breathe.

Since Julian Sterling apparently wasn't at his massive villa to see her anyway, staying here saved her a tremendous amount of trouble. She didn't have to face the terrifying, rumored sadist she had been forced to marry, nor did she have to fend off his aggressively flirtatious cousin.

By the late afternoon, Celia realized she needed groceries and basic supplies if she was going to hide out here for a few days. She grabbed her thin jacket, locked the apartment door behind her, and stepped out into the gritty, chaotic neighborhood to run her errands.

The streets were a loud, bustling maze. Vendors yelled from the corners, and the smell of cheap street food mixed with the metallic scent of exhaust fumes. Celia kept her head down, weaving through the sparse crowds, her mind drifting to what her next permanent move should be.

Just as she turned the corner into a narrow, shadowed alleyway to take a shortcut to the market, a deafening BANG shattered the afternoon air.

Celia froze. Was that a gunshot?

Before her brain could even process the terrifying sound, the screech of burning rubber tore through the alley. She looked up, her eyes widening in absolute horror. A battered white van was hurtling directly toward her like a rabid dog, its engine roaring with reckless, uncontrollable speed.

The van's flickering headlights blinded her momentarily. It wasn't slowing down.

Pure instinct took over. She threw herself hard to the side, diving toward a stack of discarded wooden crates just in the nick of time. The van practically grazed the fabric of her jacket as it tore past her, the sheer force of the wind knocking her flat onto the filthy pavement.

But the van didn't speed off into the distance. It slammed on its brakes, the tires screaming against the asphalt. Before the vehicle even came to a complete halt, the heavy metal side door suddenly flew open with a violent crash.

A tall man leaped frantically from the moving vehicle. He hit the rough ground hard, tucking his shoulder and rolling to absorb the brutal impact. He tumbled across the pavement, coming to a sudden, jarring halt right at Celia’s feet.

Celia scrambled backward, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She tried to step back in a blind panic, her palms scraped and bleeding from her fall.

But the man was impossibly fast. He sprang up from the ground like a coiled spring, lunging directly at her. Before she could scream, he grabbed her shoulder, spinning her around and slamming her back against the cold brick wall of the alley.

Instantly, he pressed something incredibly cold, heavy, and hard directly against her right temple. The unmistakable, terrifying ring of a steel gun barrel.

Celia stopped breathing. Every muscle in her body locked in paralyzing terror.

The man leaned in, his chest heaving with exertion. A low, desperate, and chillingly familiar voice breathed heavily next to her ear. "Get me out of here, quickly."

Celia's blood ran cold. She knew that voice.

Trembling violently, she slowly forced herself to look up, her gaze tracing past the dark fabric of his jacket, up to the sharp jawline, and finally to the dark, intense eyes staring fiercely back at her. Her own eyes widened in absolute, paralyzing shock as her brain registered the man's face.

It was him. The arrogant cousin from the villa.

"Nolan!" she gasped.