If you want to be Silas’s wife, you take care of his mess, or you get back on the plane to Ohio.
While Norah and Eli uncovered Victoria’s hidden tyranny, Silas Montgomery was miles away, fighting his own desperate battle for freedom.
The “wellness facility” on Catalina Island was a gilded cage. Beautiful views, gourmet meals, but every door was locked, every window reinforced, every conversation monitored. Victoria’s reach was long.
He had been told it was for his own good, a necessary respite from the pressures of fame. But the endless “therapy” sessions, the forced medication, the constant psychological manipulation had made it clear. This was a prison.
Silas sat on his bed, running his calloused thumb over a small, almost invisible wire he’d meticulously salvaged. It was from an old prop trunk, a relic from a stunt he’d done years ago. A fine, strong wire saw, easily overlooked.
He’d kept it, not knowing why, a desperate whisper of his former self. Now, it was his only hope.
The security panel on his wall, connected to the electronic lock, was surprisingly old-fashioned in its design. A simple, plastic housing.
He worked in the dead of night, the silence of the island punctuated only by the distant lapping of waves. The wire saw, slowly, painstakingly, began to cut through the plastic. Each whisper-thin shaving fell silently to the floor.
Hours passed. His hands cramped, his muscles ached, but the image of Norah, and then the faces of his children, fueled his resolve. He had to get back to them.
Finally, with a soft *click*, a small section of the panel popped free. Wires, thick and colorful, were exposed. He remembered enough from his stunt days, from working with explosives and practical effects, to know which ones to cut.
A sudden alarm blared, piercing the night. He had tripped a secondary circuit.
He didn’t hesitate. He burst out of his room, the alarm echoing through the quiet halls. The facility staff, mostly nurses and unarmed caregivers, were caught off guard.
Silas, a trained action hero, moved with a speed and agility that surprised them. He dodged a security guard, vaulted over a reception desk, and burst out into the cool night air.
He knew this island. He’d filmed here before. He sprinted down a familiar path towards a secluded cove he remembered.
“Go, go, go!” he muttered to himself, his lungs burning.
As he reached the rocky shore, a sleek speedboat materialized from the darkness. Its engine idled quietly, barely disturbing the water.
At the helm was Marco, a grizzled, barrel-chested man, his former stunt driver and a loyal friend from years past. Marco had received Silas’s desperate, coded message, smuggled out through a sympathetic kitchen worker.
“Thought you might need a ride, boss,” Marco grinned, his face grim in the low light.
Silas leaped into the boat. “Get us to the coast, Marco. Fast as you can.”
“Got it,” Marco said, pushing the throttle. The boat roared to life, churning the water into a white foam.
They sped away from the island, the facility lights shrinking behind them. Ahead, the mainland lights glittered, but the sky was growing darker, bruised with heavy clouds.
A massive squall, violent and unexpected, was moving in from the Pacific. The boat bucked and slammed against the increasingly choppy waves. Lightning flashed in the distance, illuminating the churning, angry sea.
Silas looked back at the receding island, then ahead at the darkening horizon. He was free, but the storm was only just beginning.
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