Chapter 4 Conspiracy of Escape

# Chapter 4: Conspiracy of Escape

Morning arrived with unforgiving brightness. I woke to a pounding headache and fragmented memories of the night before—Veronica's lips on mine, her hands in my hair, the way she'd whispered my name like a secret. But my bed was empty, the house silent. Had she really been here, or had the scotch conjured her from my subconscious?

The answer came in the form of a folded note on my nightstand, my name written in elegant script.

*We need to talk. Meet me at Blackwell Café, 2 PM. Come alone.*

*—V*

Beneath it, a small postscript: *Drink water. Take aspirin.*

I pressed the note to my chest, my heart racing despite the throbbing in my temples. It hadn't been a dream.

The café was tucked away on a side street downtown, far from the usual haunts of Richard's political circle. I arrived five minutes early but found Veronica already there, occupying a corner table with her back to the wall, a position that allowed her to see every person who entered.

She wore dark jeans and a cream cashmere sweater—the most casual I'd ever seen her—with oversized sunglasses perched on top of her head. Without her usual power suit, she looked younger, more approachable. But when she looked up and saw me, her expression was deadly serious.

"You came," she said as I slid into the seat across from her.

"Your note didn't leave much room for refusal."

The waitress appeared, and Veronica ordered black coffee for herself and an iced tea for me without asking what I wanted. Once we were alone again, she leaned forward, her voice low.

"About last night—"

"If you're going to tell me it was a mistake, save your breath," I interrupted. "I'm not a child."

Something like surprise flickered across her face, followed by a reluctant smile. "I was going to say we were reckless. Anyone could have walked in."

"But they didn't."

"No," she agreed. "They didn't."

We fell silent as our drinks arrived. I stirred my iced tea, watching the ice cubes clink against the glass, waiting for her to speak.

"This complicates things," she finally said.

"What things?"

She hesitated, studying me as if making a final assessment. Then she reached into her bag and pulled out a slim manila envelope, sliding it across the table.

"These are copies of what I've collected on your stepfather. Financial improprieties, evidence of bribery, recordings of conversations he wouldn't want made public." Her eyes held mine. "Enough to destroy his career and possibly send him to prison."

I stared at the envelope, not touching it. "Why are you showing me this?"

"Because I'm planning to use it. Soon." She took a sip of her coffee. "And I thought you deserved to know."

"Why now?"

"The timing is right. The primaries are coming up, and there's already a whisper campaign about financial irregularities in his campaign." She paused. "And because I'm tired of playing the devoted advisor to a man I despise."

The vehemence in her voice surprised me. "I thought you didn't care enough to hate him."

"I lied." She smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "I've hated Richard Greene for a very long time."

I finally picked up the envelope, feeling its weight—literal and metaphorical—in my hands. "What happens after? When this all comes out?"

"I disappear." She said it simply, matter-of-factly. "I have a place. Somewhere no one knows about. I've been planning this for years."

The implication hung in the air between us, unspoken but unmistakable. I set the envelope down, my fingers trembling slightly.

"Why are you telling me all this? Why risk it?"

She reached across the table then, her fingers brushing mine—the briefest touch, yet it sent electricity coursing through me.

"Come with me," she said quietly.

The words hung in the air between us, impossible and exhilarating all at once. "What?"

"When this breaks, it's going to be ugly. The media will descend on your family like vultures. Your mother will be devastated, but she'll survive—she has her family money, her social connections. But you..." She hesitated. "You'll be caught in the middle. The politician's daughter, expected to defend him or denounce him."

"Stepdaughter," I corrected automatically.

She smiled. "Stepdaughter. Either way, it will be a circus. You don't deserve that."

"So you're asking me to run away with you?" The idea was absurd, reckless—and yet, my heart raced at the thought.

"I'm offering you a choice. A way out." She leaned back in her chair. "Think about it. You don't have to decide now."

I stared at her, trying to read beneath the calm exterior. "Is this just about protecting me from the fallout? Or is it about last night?"

Her expression softened almost imperceptibly. "Perhaps both."

We left the café separately, the envelope tucked safely in my bag. Veronica's proposition echoed in my mind as I walked home, each step bringing new questions. Was I really considering this? Abandoning my life, my future at Dartmouth, to run away with a woman I barely knew? A woman who was planning to destroy my family?

And yet... wasn't that exactly what I'd dreamed of? Freedom from Richard's controlling presence, from the suffocating expectations of being the perfect political stepdaughter?

My mother was in the garden when I arrived home, pruning her beloved roses with the precision of a surgeon. She looked up as I approached, shielding her eyes from the sun.

"There you are, darling. I was beginning to worry."

"Just meeting a friend for coffee," I said, the lie coming easily.

She smiled, her face lighting up in a way it rarely did anymore. "It's good to see you getting out more. You've been so focused on your studies lately."

I sat on the stone bench beside her, watching as she carefully trimmed dead blooms from a bush heavy with crimson flowers.

"Mom," I said hesitantly, "are you happy? With Richard, I mean."

Her hands stilled momentarily before resuming their work. "What an odd question."

"Not really. I just... I wonder sometimes."

She set her pruning shears down and removed her gardening gloves, giving me her full attention. "Richard has given us stability, security. He's made sure you have every opportunity." She touched my cheek gently. "That's a kind of happiness, isn't it?"

It wasn't an answer, not really. But it told me everything I needed to know.

"What about before? With Dad?" I pressed, though we rarely spoke of my father, who had died when I was ten.

A shadow crossed her face. "That was different. Your father and I... we were young. Reckless. It wasn't always easy, but..." She trailed off, lost in memory for a moment. "There was a freedom to it. A wildness."

"Do you miss it? That feeling?"

She looked at me curiously. "Sometimes. But we grow up, Alicia. We make different choices." She picked up her shears again, signaling the end of the conversation. "Richard will be home tomorrow. We should have the cook prepare his favorite for dinner."

I nodded and left her to her roses, the weight of her unspoken compromise heavy in my chest. My mother had chosen security over freedom, stability over passion. I wondered if she regretted it, in the quiet moments when she thought no one was watching.

That night, I couldn't sleep. I paced my room, Veronica's proposition turning over and over in my mind. Around midnight, my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.

*Have you thought about it?*

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. Had I thought about it? I'd thought of nothing else.

*Yes.*

The response came almost immediately. *And?*

I took a deep breath, typing before I could change my mind.

*Tell me the plan.*

Three dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared. Finally:

*Tomorrow. Richard's office. 1 PM.*

I stared at the message, reality crashing in. This wasn't a fantasy anymore. This was real—dangerously, thrillingly real.

*I'll be there.*

Sleep eluded me that night. I lay awake, watching shadows play across my ceiling, imagining a future I'd never dared to consider. A future away from here, away from Richard's influence and my mother's quiet resignation. A future with Veronica.

I didn't know if I could trust her. I didn't know if what I felt was real or just the intoxicating pull of rebellion. But as dawn broke over the horizon, one thing became clear: I was tired of pretending. Tired of being the perfect daughter, the obedient stepdaughter, the promising student headed for an acceptable future.

For once in my life, I wanted to be reckless. I wanted to be free.

And if freedom came in the form of a dangerous woman with secrets in her eyes and plans for revenge, so be it. I was ready to take the risk.