17. LEIGH

Chapter 17

LEIGH

“Leigh?” Sabrina’s voice snaps me back to the conversation. “You haven’t passed out, have you?”

“I’m just startled!” That’s not a lie. “Matriarch Records? Are you serious?”

“Yes! The woman is so excited to see more of your work. This could be everything, Leigh! This is your chance!” Sabrina’s voice trembles with excitement, a perfect mirror of the spark igniting inside me.

But reality crashes down, swift and heavy. “Rina, how would that even be possible? I’m still stuck here in Fort fucking Molchanov!” The words taste bitter on my tongue. Just my luck—a dream comes true, only for a nightmare to trap me in hell and lock the door.

Sabrina pauses for a moment before responding, her tone full of promise. “We’ll figure something out. Just leave it to me.”

Her confidence sends a pang of gratitude through me. But deep down, doubt nags at the edges of my mind. How am I going to break free? Even if I am able to come up with a plan, I have no idea how long it’s going to take. Record labels like Matriarch don’t wait forever.

“What did you tell the woman?”

“That you were away at the moment, and I’d pass the message on to you,” Sabrina says. “I’ve got her card.”

“You’re the best, Rina.”

“Speak again soon.”

The call ends, and for a moment, I just stare at the phone. Did Sabrina really just say someone from Matriarch Records wants to see more of my work? My thumb hovers over the call log, and when I confirm the conversation happened, a small smile tugs at my lips. Holy shit—Matriarch Records .

Back in the bedroom, I crawl under the covers, replaying the conversation on a loop. I feel like a kid on Christmas Eve, buzzing with anticipation.

“ Fuck, I did it,“ I squeal into a pillow kicking my legs about in glee. My work has been recognized by one of the giants of the music industry. This is my future—everything I’ve dreamed of for as long as I can remember.

But then, like the Grinch stealing my dreams and future and dampening my excitement, the memory of Radomir’s cold voice detonates in my chest like a grenade: You’ll have a music career if I allow it . White-hot anger flares at his audacity.

Who the fuck does he think he is—God? Newsflash: I’m not religious. I don’t worship anyone, let alone live by some man’s misogynistic rules. Screw that. This isn’t the Dark Ages, and I’m not some shiny ornament for a man’s arm, warming his bed and popping out babies.

My whole life, I’ve been a pawn in someone else’s game. My resolve hardens, solid as steel. I’ll be damned if Radomir—or anyone else—gets in the way of my dreams again. I’m intelligent, resourceful, and grew up with the greatest con man of all—my father.

Those years of watching and learning from him are about to pay off. If there’s a way out of this trap, I’ll find it. All I have to do is pull off the con of a lifetime.

I chew the side of my mouth, rifling through my mental file of my father’s strategies. My brow rises, a slow smile curving my lips as a memory surfaces: The Gambler’s Cross— one of my father’s most brilliant cons, a high-stakes maneuver meant to outwit even the most cunning rivals. The brilliance of the strategy is in its simplicity. Set up two or more unwitting parties, each convinced they’re the sole player in a beneficial scheme.

Neither knows about the other until it’s too late—when chaos erupts, and they’re at each other’s throats, he slips away with the prize. It’s bold, brilliant, and has never failed.

My mind races, sketching out ways to adapt The Gambler’s Cross to my situation. As the pieces start to fall into place, exhilaration bubbles in my chest. But then, beneath the excitement, there’s a tug—a dull, insistent ache. The piece of my heart and soul Radomir has twisted my resolve, planting doubt where there should be none and making me hesitate. I close my eyes and pull from the cold, ill-gotten wisdom of my father.

Remember, Leigh . His voice cuts sharp and clear through the years. When you’ve decided on a play, act with cold, ruthless precision. No distractions. No second-guessing. Block out the noise, trust the plan, and wear your best poker face throughout the game. Mistakes and hesitation—they’ll cost you. And when you’re playing a high-stakes dangerous game, they can get you caught—or killed.

I bury the flicker of doubt. The flicker of Radomir. Emotions are luxuries I can’t afford—not in this game. I crush the traitorous feelings stirring for the Prince of Darkness—flatten them until there’s nothing left. I will NOT live my life under the thumb and at the beck and call of anyone again. I’ve paid my dues in a stolen childhood. No one will take my adulthood.

Especially not when it’s destined to be signed with Matriarch fucking Records.

If I can pull this off, I’ll finally have what I’ve worked for my entire life.

But my heart squeezes, and guilt seeps in, whispering warnings as faces flash through my mind—the people I love, the ones who will inevitably be caught in the crossfire of my bid for freedom.

I close my eyes and grit my teeth, swallowing the rising bile. Another of my father’s twisted lessons resurfaces like an unwanted tutor:

Don’t play the game if you’re not willing to risk the stakes. Always ask yourself—are you in it to win it? If you’re not, walk away before you lose something you can’t afford.

Am I ready for this? Is it going to be worth it?

Because this time, it’s not just money or an object I’m risking. It’s everything I hold dear. The price is the people I love and care for most in this cruel, fucked-up, unforgiving world. Going through with this means never seeing them again.

And do I have the nerve to follow through, knowing the consequences if I fail?

Because this is going to be the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done.

Especially when the mark is the king of the seedy underbelly of Vegas, the head of the Russian mob. One of the most dangerous men alive. I’m about to lock him into a ghost game of my making, where I’ll move the pieces, manipulating the players with clever lies and calculated moves.

Before the Prince of fucking Darkness even realizes he’s playing, I’ll have vanished with my prize— my freedom —and moved on to the final stage of my plan: securing my contract with Matriarch Records and slipping into a new life.

A flash of memory gives me a bit of comfort—a lifeline I hid long ago, something I created knowing that one day, with the kinds of people my father crossed, it might save me. That day has come, and soon, Leigh Dalton will no longer exist.

Restless, I throw back the covers and storm into my writing room. Sleep is impossible with my mind racing—caught between the promise of Matriarch Records and the risky, reckless plan taking shape in my head. I may as well be productive and get some more songs written while I’m tunneling out of this fortress. My gaze falls on my songbook.

I can even start the song I lied to Radomir about earlier today. Thinking of my lie takes me back to the steamy sex we had in the pool and how fast he became a grade-A jerk afterward. His dark threats echo through my mind, along with a name that, for some reason, sparked an inkling of recognition when he mentioned it— Nikolas Vasilikis! As hard as I try, I can’t remember where I’ve heard it before.

As always, in the midst of turmoil, an idea for a song suddenly pops into my mind. I grab my book and sit at the desk, searching for a pen. When I can’t find one, I start rifling through the drawers when my hand freezes.

My heart slams into my chest when I spot the leather-bound book with gold lettering: Song Journal . Along the spine, also in gold, are the remnants of what was once a number, but I can’t make it out. It’s one of my mother’s song journals.

Tears sting my eyes as I reach for it, and I wonder where Radomir found it. I’d asked my father for her song journals, but he’d told me he couldn’t find them. My fingers trace the soft leather, and I hug the book to my chest.

A memory springs from nowhere—I’m transported back in time to our old house, where my mother’s desk stood in a small studio, and I’m sitting right beside her.

Her voice fills my mind, as soft and warm as the sunlight streaming through the windows.

“What are you writing about, Mama? Is it a song about a princess?”

“No, it’s about a little duchess named Lulu-Petal.”

“That’s me! I’m Lulu-Petal!”

“Yes, you are, my darling. Do you want to sing it with me?”

“Yes!” I bounce up and down, clapping in glee, my favorite white princess dress swaying around me.

I clutch the book tighter, barely noticing the tears slipping down my cheeks. Softly, I start to sing the song she always sang to me:

Where golden keys and ink entwine,

A throne unclaimed, a hidden sign.

A truth concealed in shadows deep,

For a duchess’ soul to guard and keep .

A buzzing sound slices through my memories, pulling me back to reality. Shaken, I blink away the tears and realize the sound is coming from the bathroom. Fuck! It’s my phone vibrating. Shit! I must’ve forgotten to hide it in all my excitement over Matriarch Records. I shove the journal back into the drawer and hurry to the bathroom, where the phone buzzes against the marble countertop.

“That was fucking careless,” I mutter, snatching it up. “How am I supposed to pull off a con of the magnitude I’m thinking of if I can’t even remember to hide my damn phone?”

I’m about to turn it off when I see a message from an unknown number flash up:

Hello, Leigh. I was hoping we could meet. We have a lot to talk about and time to catch up on.

My stomach tightens, and my skin prickles. Who the fuck is this? Panic floods my mind. Is it someone my father owes? A debt collector? One of his marks?

Another message pops up:

Don’t worry. I promise I am not someone you ever have to worry about. This isn’t about Mark Dalton. It’s about you!

My heart flips. Could it be someone from the record label?

Are you from Matriarch Records? I type quickly, holding my breath as the typing bubbles appear.

I’m not from Matriarch Records.

My heart sinks. Fuck. It’s someone after my father. I’m about to turn the phone off when another message appears:

I AM Matriarch Records.

“No fucking way,” I whisper, staring at the screen in disbelief. I answer:

Yeah, right, and I’m a princess.

The reply is almost immediate:

Not quite, but close enough. Your grandfather was a duke, and with his passing, your father now holds the title, making you a lady of noble blood, tied to a royal lineage.

Now I know someone’s either screwing with me or setting a trap. My mother was a lounge singer from some small town in England who ran off to Vegas with my father—a man from a long line of con artists and thieves. Royal lineage? Give me a fucking break.

I type back: I think you’ve got the wrong person, buddy, and I really don’t have time for this.

But before I can even blink, another message appears:

This is not a joke. I can help you, Leigh. Remember: Pote min stamatas na ftaneis ton ourano.

The words strike me like a lightning bolt. My heart skips, and fragments of memories swirl in my mind, taunting me from just beyond reach. His words automatically translate in my head: Never stop reaching for the sky!

I stare at the screen as I read the message again, each line gripping me tighter, the Greek words carrying a sense of foreboding yet strange comfort.

Who are you? I type, and every fiber of my being starts to tremble.

The reply comes almost immediately, in Greek:

O enas pou peripata dipla sou stis skiés

O enas pou se prosechei otan eísai pio efpatheis

O enas pou kratas stin kardia sou kai sou dinei dynami otan tin chreiazesai

O enas pou tha edine ti zoi tou gia ti diki sou choris na klepsei oute ena vlemma

O enas pou tha skotosei tous drakous sou

O enas pou echei mia dekaetia na exoraksei

O enas pou borei na se voithisei na eíse eleftheri.

My breath catches, my throat dry, the words stirring something deep inside me as I translate them:

The one who walks beside you in the shadows.

The one who watches over you when you’re at your most vulnerable.

The one you hold in your heart that gives you strength when you need it.

The one that would give their life for yours without so much as a blink of an eye.

The one that will slay your dragons.

The one that has a decade to make up for.

The one who can help set you free.

I stare at the screen, my mind racing. The words feel hauntingly familiar, unsettling yet oddly comforting, and again I’m haunted by a fragment of a memory I can’t quite grasp.

Another message pops up:

You’d better hide your phone, little Duchess Lulu-Petal! Someone’s coming.

The air freezes around me as fear claws its way up my spine. I stare at the phone wide-eyed, confused, tendrils of unease wrapping around me, making my skin prickle. Suddenly, I’m swamped with the unmistakable sensation of being watched.

A sharp knock shatters the silence, reverberating like a thunderclap through the stillness. My feet feel rooted to the floor, and my heart hammers against my ribs like a trapped bird. I nearly drop the phone when the knock comes again, louder this time.

And then it hits me—the unmistakable sensation of being watched, a cold prickle creeping over my skin. Fear paralyzes me.