Reaching up to the rearview mirror, she pushed every button there was until the door in front of her rose up.

And she was off.

The bitch in her made her want to take the front road down so that she passed by the house’s family rooms, but it was more important for her to get off the property without anyone knowing—so she settled for flipping her middle finger off at Easterly in that rearview mirror as she used the staff lane.

When she got to River Road, she hung a left, checked the clock and got out her phone. Rosalinda had to be in by now, and she could finally make the arrangements for a jet—which wouldn’t be a problem. Gin called for a plane once a week or more.

Voice mail. Again.

The damn brunch. She forgot. All the staff were distracted.

But she had needs.

Gin dialed another number, one that was just a single digit different from Rosalinda’s. On the third ring, she was about to give up when the unmistakable British accent of that butler came over the connection.

“Mr. Harris speaking, how may I help you?”

“I need a plane and I can’t reach Rosalinda. You’re going to have to arrange it now—leaving ASAP going to LAX.”

The butler cleared his throat. “Miss Baldwine, forgive me—”

“Do not tell me you’re too busy. You can make the phone call to the pilots directly, you’ve done it before, and then you can go back to whatever brunch-related stupidity—”

“I’m sorry, Miss Baldwine, but there will not be a plane available for you.”

“Are you kidding me.” No doubt because of all the corporate guests coming in for the Derby. But she was family, for godsakes. “Fine, just delay someone else and I’ll—”

“That will not be possible.”

“I am first priority!” The Phantom picked up speed as she stomped on the accelerator—at least until she nearly rammed the car in front of her. “This is unacceptable. You call that control tower, or that list of pilots or … whatever you need to do and get me a fucking plane to the West Coast!”

There was a long pause. “I’m sorry, Miss Baldwine, but I will not be able to provide that service to you.”

A cold warning tightened the back of her neck. “What about later this morning.”

“That will not be possible.”

“This afternoon.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Baldwine.”

“What did my father tell you?”

“It is not my place to comment on—”

“What the fuck did he tell you!” she screamed into her phone.

The exhale the man released was as close as he was going to come to cursing out loud. “This morning, I received a memo addressed to the controller and myself, indicating that the resources of the family would no longer be made available to you.”

“Resources …?”

“And that includes petty cash, bank accounts, travel and hotel accommodations, and access to the other Bradford properties around the world.”

Now her foot slipped off the accelerator, and when the car behind her began to sound its horn, she eased off onto the side of the road.

“I wish there were something I could do to be of aid,” he said in a flat tone that suggested that was, in fact, not the case. “But as I stated, I am unable to assist you.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Perhaps coming home would be best. I just saw you leave in the Rolls-Royce.”

“I’m not marrying Richard Pford,” she said, and then ended the call.

As she stared out through the windshield, the jagged skyscrapers of downtown seemed daunting for the first time in her life. She had never been impressed with the city of Charlemont before, having been around the world several times. But all that travel had occurred when she had had unlimited resources at her disposal.

With a shaking hand, she took out her wallet and popped the flap. She had five one-hundred-dollar bills and a couple of twenties … and seven credit cards, including an Amex Centurion. No driver’s license because she always took a chauffeur. No health insurance card because she used concierge physicians affiliated with the Bradford Bourbon Company. No passport, but she hadn’t planned on leaving the country.

Two hundred yards up on the left, there was a gas station, and she put the Phantom in drive and jerked out into the rush-hour traffic. When she got to the Shell sign, she cut in front of an oncoming truck and stopped next to one of the sets of gas pumps.

When she got out, it was not to pump fuel. The tank was full.

She took out a random Visa card, put it into the reader and pulled the plastic free. Punched in her zip code. Waited to see if the hypothetical transaction was accepted.

Not Approved.

She tried her Amex and got the same response from the computer. When two more Visas didn’t work, she stopped.

He’d killed her cards.

Back behind the wheel, everything went blurry. There were trust funds all over the place, money that was hers … but only in two years, when she turned thirty-five, and not one moment before then—something she’d learned when she’d tried to buy a house in London last year on a whim and been turned down by her father: No matter how much she had yelled at her trust company, they’d refused to disperse any funds, stating that she was not allowed access to them until she met the age criteria.

There was only one place she could think of to go.

She hated begging, but it was better than that marriage—or admitting defeat to her father.