Anatoli seems grimly determined to get to Albania as fast as possible. At the moment he’s listening to a German talk show on the radio, which Alessia doesn’t understand. The monotony of the voices, the constant rumble of road noise, and the dreary countryside are all dulling her senses. Sleep is what she wants. When she’s asleep, her anguish is a low hum, like static on the radio. It’s not the searing pain that tears at her heart when she’s conscious.

She turns her mind to Maxim.

And the pain amplifies.

Stop. It’s too much.

She looks through tired eyes at her “betrothed,” studying him. His face is hardened in concentration as the Mercedes eats up the miles. His complexion is fair, betraying his northern Italian roots—his nose straight, his lips full, and his blond hair, uncommon in her town, is long and unkempt. Alessia can look at him dispassionately and judge him to be a handsome man. But those lips have a cruel twist to them, and those eyes are piercing and cold when he’s glaring at her.

She remembers when she first met him. How charming he’d been. Her father had told her that Anatoli was an international businessman. During that first meeting, he’d seemed so dashing and knowledgeable. He was well traveled, and she’d listened rapt to his stories of Croatia, Italy, and Greece—these faraway places. She’d been shy, but pleased that her father had selected such an erudite man for her.

Little had she known.

After she had met him a few times, she started to see flashes of the man he really was. His irrational anger at the local children who’d surrounded his car out of curious wonder when he came to visit, his temper when arguing with her father about politics, and his sly admiration when her father scolded her mother for spilling some raki. The signs were there, and he’d rebuked Alessia a few times, too, but his true nature had been constrained by social etiquette.

It was at a local dignitary’s wedding, where Alessia was playing the piano, that Anatoli finally revealed his dark side. Two young men, whom she had known at school, lingered when she finished playing. They flirted with her until Anatoli managed to usher her into a side room, away from them and the festivities. Alessia, secretly thrilled, had thought he wanted to steal a kiss, since it was the first time they’d been alone together. But no—Anatoli was furious. He slapped her hard across her face, twice. It was a shock, even though living with her father had prepared her for physical anger.

The second time it happened, she was at the school. A young man came to ask her a couple of questions after her recital. Anatoli chased him away and dragged her into the cloakroom. There he hit her a couple of times and grabbed her hands and pulled back her fingers and threatened to break them if he ever caught her flirting again. She’d begged him to stop, and mercifully he had, but he’d pushed her to the floor and left her sobbing in that room, alone.

That first time, she kept his attack a secret. She excused it. It was a one-off. She had misbehaved. She had encouraged the young men by smiling at them.

The second time Alessia was devastated.

She’d thought that maybe she could break the cycle of violence that beset her mother, but it was her mother who’d found her while she lay curled up, sobbing and trembling, on the floor.

I don’t want you to go through your life with a violent man.

They’d wept together.

And her mother had taken action.

But it was all for naught.

Now here she is—with him.

Anatoli gives her a sideways look. “What is it?”

Alessia averts her eyes, ignoring him, and stares out the window.

“We should stop. I’m hungry, and you’ve not eaten,” he says.

She continues to ignore him, though hunger claws at her stomach, reminding her of her six-day walk to Brentford.

“Alessia!” he barks, making her jump.

She turns to him. “What?”

“I’m talking to you.”

She shrugs. “You’ve kidnapped me. I don’t want to be with you, and you expect conversation?”

“I didn’t know you could be this disagreeable,” Anatoli mutters.

“I’m just getting started.”

Anatoli’s mouth twitches—and to her surprise he seems amused. “I can say this about you, carissima, you are not boring.” He flicks the turn signal, and they pull off the autobahn into a service area. “There’s a café here. Let’s get something to eat.”

* * *

Anatoli places a tray bearing a black coffee, several sachets of sugar, a bottle of water, and a cheese baguette in front of her. “I cannot believe I am serving you,” he utters as he sits. “Eat.”

“Welcome to the twenty-first century,” Alessia retorts, folding her arms in an act of defiance.

His jaw hardens. “I will not tell you again.”

“Oh, do your worst, Anatoli. I’m not eating. You bought it, you eat it,” she snaps, ignoring her growling stomach. His eyes flare in surprise, but he presses his full lips together, and Alessia suspects he’s trying not to smile. He sighs, reaches over, picks up her baguette, and takes a theatrically large bite out of it. With his mouth full, he looks both absurd and ridiculously pleased with himself, so much so that an involuntary snicker escapes from Alessia.

Anatoli smiles—a proper smile that travels all the way to his eyes. They regard her warmly, and he no longer tries to hide his amusement. “Here,” he says, and he hands her the remaining part of the baguette. Her stomach chooses this moment to rumble, and when he hears it, his smile broadens. She eyes the baguette and him and sighs. She’s so hungry. Against her better judgment, she takes it from him and begins to eat.

“That’s better,” he says, and starts on his own meal.

“Where are we?” Alessia asks after a few bites.

“We’ve just passed Frankfurt.”

“When will we reach Albania?”

“Tomorrow. I hope to be home by tomorrow afternoon.”

They eat the rest of their food in silence.

“Finish up. I want to get going. Do you need to use the restroom?” Anatoli stands over her, keen to move on. Alessia takes her coffee without adding sugar.

Like Maxim.

It’s bitter but she downs it anyway and grabs her water bottle. The service station, with its large parking lot and smell of diesel fumes, is hauntingly familiar and reminiscent of the journey she made with Maxim—but the difference is, she wanted to be with Maxim. Alessia’s heart aches. She is getting farther and farther away from him.

* * *

I’m sitting in the British Airways business-class lounge at Gatwick Airport, waiting for the afternoon flight to Tirana. Tom is leafing through The Times and sipping a glass of champagne while I’m brooding. I’ve been in a state of high anxiety since Alessia was taken from me.

Maybe she went with him willingly.

Maybe she’s changed her mind about us.

I don’t want to believe that, but doubt is creeping into my mind.

It’s insidious.

If that’s what’s happened, at least I’ll get to confront her about her change of heart. To distract myself from my unsettling thoughts, I snap and upload a few photos to my Instagram. Once that’s done, I think back over the morning’s events.

First I’d bought Alessia a phone, which is now in my backpack. I’d met with Oliver and gone through a quick agenda of all estate business; to my relief everything seemed to be running just fine. I’d signed the papers required by the Crown Office for my inclusion onto the Roll of the Peerage, with Mr. Rajah, my solicitor, acting as my witness. I’d given both men a redacted version of the weekend’s events with Alessia and asked Rajah to recommend a lawyer specializing in immigration services, so we could begin the process of securing some kind of visa for Alessia to be in the UK.

Afterward, on a whim, I’d visited my bank in Belgravia, where the Trevethick Collection is secured. If I find Alessia and all is not lost, I will ask her to marry me. Over the centuries my ancestors have amassed quite a haul of fine jewelry crafted by the most prominent artisans of their day. When the collection is not on loan to museums around the world, it is safely stored in the bowels of Belgravia.

I needed a ring, one that would do justice to Alessia’s beauty and talent. There were two in the collection that might have been suitable, but I chose the 1930s Cartier platinum-and-diamond ring that my grandfather, Hugh Trevelyan, bestowed on my grandmother, Allegra, in 1935. It’s an exquisite, simple, and elegant ring: 2.79 carats and currently valued at forty-five thousand pounds.

I hope Alessia likes it. If all goes to plan, she’ll return to the UK wearing it—as my fiancée.

I pat my pocket yet again, checking that the ring is safe, and scowl at Tom, who’s stuffing his face with nuts. He looks up. “Hang in there, Trevethick. I can tell you’re fretting. She’ll be fine. We’ll rescue the girl.” He’d insisted on accompanying me when I called him and told him what had happened. He’s left one of his guys to keep watch on Magda, and he’s here with me. Tom loves an adventure. It’s why, back in the day, he joined the army. He’s up on his metaphorical white charger, ready for the fray.

“I hope so,” I answer. Will Alessia see us that way—as rescuers, not as an inconvenience? I don’t know. I’m itching to get on the plane and get to her parents’ home. I have no idea what I’ll find there, but I hope I find my girl.

* * *