Page 29 of They All Own Me

"That's it?" She laughs. "Hell, I've been trapped in that marriage for ten years. Three weeks is nothing."

"Then we're agreed?" I ask.

Tatum stands, smoothing her dress. "Agreed. When do I move in?"

"Tomorrow," Connor says. "Pack light. Nothing traceable. We can get you whatever else you may need."

"Done." She heads for the door, then pauses. "One last thing - what happens when this is all over? Do you have a plan for that?"

The vulnerability in her voice is damn near heartbreaking.

I shrug. "That's up to you Tatum. We're playing it by ear, but rest assured we're here to help you get free."

"Free," she repeats softly. "I like the sound of that."

Chapter 17

Tatum

I sit perchedon our expensive white couch, reading the latest smutty book I've downloaded to my e-reader. It's one of the few excitements I get, living vicariously through these characters who have these big buff golden retriever men rescuing her from peril.

I can't help but laugh. If you think about it, I'm kind of living the plot of one of these books right now.

Makeshift wife with corrupt husband gets kidnapped by three hot as sin mobsters. Oh the irony.

I sip my coffee, savoring the quiet morning to myself without Thomas's constant criticism. He left at dawn muttering something about a "crucial breakfast meeting." Right. Because those happen at 6 AM.

"A breakfast meeting," I say to my reflection in the glass fireplace. "With your pants around your ankles, no doubt."

The thought doesn't sting like it should. Instead, I find myself laughing at the pathetic predictability of it all. He probably has his secretary bent over his mahogany desk right now, between his precious morning meetings.

My burner phone buzzes. Another unknown number - one of my new "friends" no doubt. The message reads: "Ready for your grand disappearing act?"

A foreign feeling runs through me, nothing like the dull obligation I feel toward Thomas. Hell, is this excitement?

I type back: "Born ready. Just waiting for my cue."

The response comes quickly: "Good girl. Stay sharp."

The grandfather clock chimes seven. In a few minutes, I'll be "missing." Here I am, waiting to be kidnapped by mobsters—and I helped plan it. The absurdity isn't lost on me.

I glance around our showroom of a living room, taking in the staged family photos and carefully curated decor that screams "perfect political family." What a joke.

"This might be the most exciting thing that's happened to me since..." I trail off, realizing I can't remember the last time I felt this alive. My perfectly manicured life has been nothing but a carefully orchestrated performance, complete with costume changes and scheduled appearances.

The thought of breaking free from this gilded cage, even under such bizarre circumstances, sends a thrill through me. My skin tingles with electricity, and my breath quickens. I shouldn't be enjoying this as much as I am, but there's something intoxicating about finally taking control of my narrative.

"What does it say about me that getting fake-kidnapped by the mob is the highlight of my year?" I whisper to myself, shaking my head with a wry smile.

Another text: "T-minus 3 minutes."

"Time to give the performance of my life," I murmur, heading towards the kitchen.

I open the side door and heft the two black garbage bags over my each of my shoulders, its contents clinking softly. My heart pounds against my ribs as I step into the cool morning air. Themanicured lawn stretches before me, perfect and pristine like everything else in this manufactured life.

One bag contains a carefully curated selection of necessities—a few pieces of jewelry that were mine before the marriage, some cash I've squirreled away, and basic essentials. And the other well, just garbage of course.

I pause, taking in the neighborhood that's been my personal layer of hell for the past decade. The immaculate row of McMansions stretches before me, each one a carbon copy of entitlement and excess.

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