Chapter 5 Thirty Minutes to Escape

Rhys’s voice cut through the silence, raw and stripped of the tenderness of moments before. He was already moving, tossing his expensive leather jacket onto the kitchen island—a calculated move to put his scent, his presence, on the crime scene in Alex's apartment.

I watched him dial a number on his phone, his movements economical and immediate.

"Owen," Rhys said into the speaker. "The contract is signed. We have a problem. Alex is bleeding, and we need a complete cleanup."

A strained, worried voice crackled through the speaker. "Bleeding? Rhys, what the hell is going on? Did he hurt her? I swear, if he touched her—"

"Control yourself, Owen. The blood is Alex’s," Rhys snapped, cutting off his friend's instant fury. "Ellie is fine, but we need Legal immediately. File a non-disclosure against Alex, draft a statement for Cassandra about a 'sudden medical leave and a travel sponsorship,' and I need a cleanup crew at Alex's apartment—a silent one."

"A cleanup crew? Wait, Rhys. Where are you taking her? What kind of situation requires a cleanup?" Owen demanded, the concern for me overriding all professionalism. "Rhys, this sounds like an extraction. I don’t care about the Vance reputation; I care about my sister's safety! I need specifics. Is this a permanent move? Tell me you have a plan to make sure Alex and his friends never speak a word of this."

"Yes. She is safe, and she is with me," Rhys stated, his eyes flicking to mine—a sharp, non-negotiable command for silence. "You know I wouldn't let anything happen to her. She is starting her new job immediately. The issue requires her expertise in Europe. Now, the mess: The stain is structural. We need to replace the sectional. Pay the building manager whatever he wants. And send a private jet to Midway. Now. Thirty minutes."

He hung up before Owen could protest further, running a hand over the back of his neck. He turned, the tension radiating off him.

His eyes immediately landed on my near-total lack of clothing. I was still clad in the wine-stained, damp black lingerie. The sight made his jaw clench, but he spoke with cold professional detachment.

"First order of business: you are not leaving this apartment looking like that," Rhys commanded. "This isn't a film. We have security and staff waiting. You either get dressed in the nearest thing here—" he gestured vaguely toward Alex's closet—"or you take my jacket. You have five minutes to choose."

The idea of wearing Alex's clothes was revolting. It felt like a second layer of contamination. I grabbed the expensive leather jacket he'd thrown on the counter. The cold leather met my burning skin, a shocking relief, but the weight of the material seemed to pin me in place. It was heavy, warm, and swallowed my small frame, the familiar scent of his cologne and the racetrack a powerful, distracting anchor. The scent was clean and strong, a complete antithesis to the stale, wine-soaked air of humiliation surrounding me.

"We need to stop at your place," he instructed, pulling keys off a nearby hook—Alex's keys. "One bag. Ten minutes max. I'm driving."

The drive across Chicago was a silent, tense blur. Rhys drove Alex’s luxury vehicle with a controlled aggression that made the city traffic irrelevant. When we reached my small, tidy apartment building, the ten-minute timer began.

"Only essentials, Ellie. Passport, ID, necessary medication, and the laptop," Rhys reiterated as we sped toward the elevator. "Everything else can be shipped."

I didn't argue. I raced to my bedroom, pulling the black suitcase Rhys had already supplied out of the bag he’d handed me. My hands worked efficiently, tossing in the few clothes I would actually wear in public—turtlenecks, sensible trousers, the comfortable runners he insisted on.

As I zipped the bag, I went straight to my dresser. In the back of the top drawer, beneath a pile of thermal socks, I found the small, worn frame. It was an old photo of Rhys, Owen, and me from a childhood summer at the lake. Rhys and Owen, both fourteen, looked like lanky giants, teasing twelve-year-old me. This was the piece of history Alex had threatened to expose; the reminder of a life before the trauma, before Rhys built his playboy fortress.

I snatched the photo and stared at it, the contrast between the carefree boy in the picture and the controlled, cold man waiting in my living room hitting me with a physical force. I slid the frame into the side pocket of my laptop bag, a necessary piece of the puzzle I was leaving behind.

Rhys was standing by the door, tapping his foot. His eyes were cold, professional.

"Why are you helping me?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "You could have just walked away and called the police. You could have been the one to finally get rid of the 'history' your friends—my family—have spent years sanitizing."

Rhys looked down at the bag I clutched, his gaze locking on the distinct bulge of the framed photo I’d just hidden. His mask didn't break.

"I am helping you because I needed you," he stated, his voice tight. "And you owe me, Ellie. You owe me the cost of that sectional, the legal cleanup, and the immediate inconvenience to my global schedule. Consider this the down payment on your services."

He walked over, took my bag, and moved toward the door.

"One final thing," Rhys said, pausing near the threshold. "You haven't slept properly since this started."

"My sleep pattern is irrelevant to the attack algorithm," I muttered, slinging my laptop bag over my shoulder.

"It's relevant to my success," he corrected, his voice hardening. "You lose control when you're tired. Your family is convinced you're fine because they choose to be blind. I'm not. If you wake up screaming, Ellie, I want you to know two things: One, you are safe. Two, I will be in the room next door. I don't want any surprises."

It wasn't a question or an offer; it was a security directive. The implication—that he expected me to lose control—was infuriating.

"Don't worry, Vance," I shot back, forcing a cold smile. "I'll try not to wake the pilot."

He didn't return the smile. He simply walked out the door, leaving me to follow.

"Time's up, Doctor Winslow," he said from the hallway. "Let's go solve this symbolic war before the real one breaks out."

I followed him out the door, stepping over the threshold and into the chaotic, dangerous new life he had purchased for me.