Page 18 of All The Pretty Little Lies

I pause at my jewelry box, my fingers hovering over the family heirlooms that have been passed down to me. The Rossi diamond necklace winks at me, a small fortune contained in those perfectly cut stones. For a moment, I consider leaving it behind - a final act of defiance. But practicality wins out. If things go south, I might need something valuable to barter with.

The sound of raised voices drifts up from below, reminding me that time is running short. I quicken my pace, shoving clothes and accessories into the suitcase with less care now. My eyes keep darting to the window, searching for any sign of Oscar or Zaire.

As I zip up the suitcase, my gaze falls on a framed photo on my nightstand. It's from happier a time - my whole family at our villa in Tuscany. Luca and I are laughing, our parentslooking at us, smiling. Smiles I haven’t seen in a long time. Next to the photo is my phone. I grab it, ready to do what Oscar had instructed. But, I hesitate. I can’t erase it just yet. I take a deep breath, steadying myself for what's to come. With trembling fingers, I open a new text to my brother. The words flow from my heart, a bittersweet mix of love and fear.

Stay safe, Luca Whatever happens, remember that I love you.

I hit send, watching the message disappear. A lump forms in my throat as I navigate to the phone's settings. With a few quick taps, I initiate a factory reset. The screen goes black, and then flashes to life with the startup logo. I place it gently on the nightstand, the final connection to my old life left behind.

My feet sink into the plush carpet as I make my way to the door. The house feels different now, charged with an electric tension that makes the hair on my arms stand on end. As I descend the grand staircase, my father's voice echoes through the halls, a storm of Russian expletives crackling with fury. I catch snippets of his conversation - "incompetent," "disaster," "fix this now" - each word laced with venom.

At the bottom of the stairs, I pause, my hand resting on the cool marble banister. My mother stands by the front door, her usual composure shattered. She opens her mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. Instead, she reaches for me, pulling me into an embrace that feels foreign.

As Mother releases me from her embrace, her eyes lock onto mine, shimmering with unshed tears. "Be strong, my darling," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the gentle hum of the arriving town car. "Russia is not easy for women, but you are a Rossi. You will endure. Just like I do."

Her words settle over me like a heavy cloak, a mix of expectation and comfort that I've known all my life. I nod, not trusting my voice to remain steady if I speak. The weight of the moment, the finality of it all, threatens to overwhelm me.

"Do as you're told," Mother continues, her fingers gently smoothing my hair, a gesture so achingly familiar it makes my heart clench. "Everything will be okay if you just follow their lead. Remember, this is for the family. Do not disappoint your father. Do your duty. Give them an heir. It’s easier after that."

The town car gleams in the morning sun, its sleek black exterior a stark contrast to the lush greenery of our estate. The driver, a stone-faced man I don't recognize, steps out and approaches us with fluid efficiency. He reaches for my bag, and I relinquish it without protest, feeling oddly detached from the whole process.

Mother's hand rests on the small of my back, guiding me towards the vehicle. Each step feels like I'm moving through molasses, my legs heavy with reluctance and fear. I scan the windows of our sprawling mansion, searching for any sign of Father, but he's nowhere to be seen. His absence speaks volumes, a silent declaration of his expectations.

As we reach the car, Mother turns me to face her one last time. Her eyes roam over my face as if committing every detail to memory. "You are stronger than you know, Vesper," she says, her voice thick with emotion. "Never forget that."

She ushers me into the back seat, the leather cool against my skin. As the door closes, I catch one last glimpse of her - my beautiful, complicated mother - standing tall and proud despite the tears now flowing freely down her cheeks. The image burns itself into my mind, a bittersweet farewell to the life I've always known.

The driver slides into his seat, and the engine purrs to life. As we pull away from the house, I press my hand againstthe window, watching as my childhood home grows smaller in the distance. The manicured lawns and wrought-iron gates that once felt like the boundaries of my world now seem laughably insignificant compared to the vast unknown that lies ahead.

I sink back into the plush seat, my mind racing with possibilities. Will Oscar and Zaire's plan work? Or am I truly bound for Moscow and a life I never chose? The uncertainty is both terrifying and exhilarating, a cocktail of emotions that leaves me feeling dizzy and breathless.

As we merge onto the highway, I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

As the car cruises down the highway, my fingers drum nervously against the leather armrest. The weight of everything I've left behind presses down on me, making it hard to breathe. I glance at the driver, his stoic profile revealing nothing. Does he know about Oscar and Zaire's plan? Is he in on it, or just another pawn in this dangerous game?

My eyes dart to the floor of the car, searching for any sign of the promised phone. At first, I see nothing but pristine carpeting. Then, as we round a bend, a glint of metal catches my eye. There, partially hidden beneath the front passenger seat, I spot the edge of a smartphone.

My heart races as I lean forward, feigning the need to adjust my shoe. With trembling fingers, I grasp the device and quickly tuck it into my lap. The driver's eyes flick to the rearview mirror, but he says nothing. I hold my breath, waiting for him to pull over or call my father, but the car continues its steady pace down the highway.

Once I'm sure he hasn't noticed, I power on the phone. The screen flickers to life, displaying an unfamiliar interface. It's a burner phone, I realize, with no personal information or unnecessary apps. There's only one notification: a new message from an unknown number.

I open it, my pulse pounding in my ears. The words on the screen make my breath catch in my throat:

Put on your seatbelt and hold tight. Things are about to get interesting.

A mix of fear and exhilaration courses through me. This is it. The moment of truth. I fumble with the seatbelt, clicking it into place just as the car takes a sharp turn onto an exit ramp. The sudden movement throws me against the door, and I grip the armrest tightly.

The peaceful highway scenery gives way to a maze of industrial buildings and abandoned warehouses. Confusion furrows my brow. This isn't the way to the airport. The driver's knuckles tighten as he grips the steering wheel, his eyes darting between the road and the rearview mirror.

“Where are we going?” I ask, playing my part. The driver doesn’t respond. “Hello, I’m talking to you. This isn’t the way to the airport.”

The driver's eyes flash with anger in the rearview mirror. "Shut up!" he snarls, his composure finally cracking.

But before I can react, the world explodes into chaos. A thunderous crash rocks the car as something slams into us from behind. The impact throws me forward, my seatbelt cutting into my chest as it strains to hold me in place. My head whips back, stars bursting behind my eyes.

We're spinning now, the world outside the windows a dizzying blur of gray and green. I can hear the screech of tires, smell burning rubber and something acrid - gasoline, maybe? My stomach lurches as we continue to rotate, faster and faster.

Then, another impact. This one comes from my side, the metal of the car door crumpling inward with a sickening crunch. The window shatters, showering me with tiny shards of glassthat sting my exposed skin. I see the driver lurch forward, the seatbelt that would have stopped his motion gone, and watch in horror as he’s thrown from the car through the windshield.

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