The Villains Must Win-Chapter 223: No Second Chances 23

"I’ll join you shortly," Fredrich said, voice unreadable. "Make yourself comfortable."

The butler gestured for her to follow. Fredrich stayed behind this time, his posture relaxed but somehow unreadable.

As Lina walked down a smaller corridor behind the servant, a faint knot twisted in her stomach.

Something wasn’t right.

The suite was nothing short of regal. When the butler opened the door, she was greeted by the warm glow of amber lights from an antique chandelier.

Thick curtains framed arched windows overlooking a courtyard with a tinkling fountain. The bed was massive, draped in silk and gold embroidery.

A writing desk sat near the window, flanked by towering shelves of aged books. On the ottoman, her carry-on bag had already been placed neatly, as though anticipating her arrival.

"Dinner will arrive shortly," the butler said with a polite bow. "Mr. Jones insists that you join him later."

"Of course he does," she murmured as the door closed behind him.

Lina stood in the center of the suite, trying to take a breath. The room was beautiful, yes—but it didn’t feel like hers. It felt like a museum display, or a trap cloaked in silk.

She wrapped her arms around herself and walked to the fireplace. Her fingers traced the carved marble edge. Cold. Perfect. Impersonal.

Moments later, a knock.

She tensed—but it was just another servant, bringing in a tray of soup and fresh bread, followed by a teapot with fragrant mint.

She sat down on the chaise lounge and stared at the food. Her body was grateful. Her mind was not.

Everything felt orchestrated—too smooth, too careful.

She didn’t touch the soup at first. Instead, she pulled a sheet of stationery from a drawer on the desk and scribbled a note: Must leave. Gotta get to England. Can’t risk staying. Her hand hovered over the paper, then hesitated.

How would she even get this out?

She sighed, setting it aside, then finally began to eat. Each spoonful tasted rich and comforting—but it didn’t warm her. It reminded her of places she didn’t belong.

Half an hour passed before Fredrich returned. He entered without knocking, his shirt sleeves rolled up now, jacket gone. The tension in him had softened, but the power hadn’t.

"You’re awfully quiet," he observed, stepping into the suite like he owned it—because he did.

"I’m processing," she replied. "Still trying to figure out if I’ve been kidnapped or rescued."

That almost earned a smile. Almost.

He stepped closer and nodded at the untouched tea. "May I?"

She nodded, and he poured himself a cup, sitting across from her.

"You’re safe here, Lina."

"You keep saying that," she murmured. "But this place—your guards, the way everyone listens to you like you’re some kind of . . . monarch. It’s hard to relax when I feel like I accidentally wandered into someone else’s kingdom."

Fredrich sipped the tea, his eyes never leaving hers. "You did wander into it. But you’re not a prisoner."

"You sure?" she asked, arching a brow. "Because this suite feels an awful lot like a very elegant cage."

He leaned back slightly. "A gilded cage is still shelter, when there’s a storm outside."

That made her pause. She looked down at her hands. He wasn’t wrong. She’d been running blindly. Christian’s reach was long, and his temper longer.

"Tomorrow," Fredrich said, voice lower now, "I’ll drive you to a private airfield. We can get you to England. Or . . . if you’re not ready, we can wait. It’s your choice."

She looked up sharply. "You’d really do that?"

"If that’s what you want," he said simply. "But I don’t think it is—not until you’re sure the man chasing you has stopped searching England. You don’t want to lead him straight to your grandparents, and bring them trouble, do you?"

Lina frowned. There was something unsettling about the way he spoke—like he already knew everything about her.

It made her instinctively raise her guard. Yes, she had escaped Christian. But now, it felt like she’d stumbled into the path of someone even more dangerous.

Someone with secrets of his own . . . and the power to keep them buried.

She stared at him, eyes narrowing slightly. He was too calm, too composed. But there was no deceit in his words. At least none she could sense.

Fredrich stood and walked to the window. Moonlight framed him like something out of a painting. Regal. Cold. And yet . . . handsome.

"Rest, Lina," he said, his back still to her. "Whatever you decide, I’ll help you get there. I don’t keep things that want to leave."

He left then, closing the door softly behind him.

And Lina sat, bathed in golden lamplight, more confused than ever.

Was he dangerous?

Yes.

But for now . . . he was also what she got.

There was no cell service—just as she expected. She was in a foreign country, after all. To get connected, she’d need to buy a local SIM card . . . or at least connect to Wi-Fi.

She realized then—of course—she’d forgotten to ask for the password. Again.

But it didn’t matter tonight. She was too tired—too drained from everything. From running, from hiding, from Christian. From stepping onto a jet with no idea where she’d land, and ending up in a place as surreal as this.

She would ask tomorrow. In the daylight, when her head was clearer and her legs didn’t feel like lead. She’d ask Fredrich for the Wi-Fi or maybe even a ride to town to sort out a SIM card.

More importantly, she’d contact her grandparents. Let them know she was alive, that she was okay. She hadn’t even told them she’d left yet—not out of cruelty, but because there had been no time.

Just fear, panic, and the desperate need to get away.

Tomorrow. She’d figure it all out tomorrow.

For now, Lina curled deeper into the plush bed, letting the heavy silence of the estate settle over her like a weighted blanket. It was strange to feel this kind of quiet again—not the suffocating silence of fear, but something more neutral. Almost peaceful that she forgot about the game.

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