Page 11 of Desperate Crimes (Mergers & Acquisitions #6)

M y mouth is dry.

My head’s still foggy, but the haze is lifting just enough for the panic to settle in behind it.

I sit on the edge of the massive bed and try to steady my breathing.

That’s when I notice it.

A bottle of water, perfectly chilled, condensation glistening on the outside. Beside it, a small tray with snacks— fruit, crackers, almonds, dark chocolate squares .

The kind I like. The exact kind I like.

It should freak me out more than it does.

I grab the water first, unscrewing the cap and downing half the bottle in a few gulps.

Then, I tear into a square of chocolate with shaking fingers. My stomach knots with every bite, but the sugar helps calm the worst of the jitters.

I try lying down, but I can’t sleep.

Not really.

I just keep shifting atop the sheets, silk brushing over bare skin, too aware of everything.

The scent of roses lingers in the air, and I love it.

I hate that I love it.

Liar.

I ignore my inner voice and close my eyes, but the silence? It’s too loud.

There’s this pulsing beat of something in the air.

And a hum beneath my skin that feels suspiciously like longing .

Eventually, I give up.

I slide out of bed, hugging my tight dress to my body, arms around my waist.

I’m thicker than what’s considered trendy. A size sixteen in a size zero world. But most of the women in my family are curvy, and I know how to dress to accentuate my fuller figure.

That doesn’t mean I don’t have my insecurities. We all do. And I hate that when people meet me for the first time they assume they know me. They assume I overeat, don’t exercise, that kind of thing.

Fuck them.

I played soccer from the time I was in preschool through college. I love to hike, swim, and to go for bike rides. I love walks in the city. Trips to zoos and museums.

Even now, while I try to find what it is I want to do with my life, I’m fairly active. I just started a pole dancing class with my cousins Cora and Jade. It’s on Wednesdays.

The class is fun. And I love spending time with the girls.

And suddenly, I wonder if I’ll ever get back to that. To my life.

That old fear slithers back up my throat, and I try to swallow it down, but it’s not easy.

I inhale a fortifying breath, then I pad across the floor, barefoot and unsure of where I’m going.

My hand brushes over the wall until I find a smooth, hidden seam.

A door.

Could be a closet. Or something else. I run my fingers along the panel, noting how well it blends with the wall.

There’s no handle.

Excitement courses through my veins. I wonder, not for the first time how messed up I really am because I’m still not freaking out.

In fact, I’m more curious than anything.

And when I push?

It gives.

Click.

The door swings open on silent hinges, and I freeze in the threshold.

My breath catches.

What lies beyond is not a closet. Not even close.

It’s a— oh my God —a garden!

A secret garden.

An indoor one.

Like a miniature arboretum.

The floor is covered in mossy green rugs that mimic grass beneath my feet, and raised planters line the walls, overflowing with vines and blossoms that thrive in the carefully calculated temperature.

It’s cool, but not cold. And there’s moisture— like a humidifier or something —for the plants.

There’s a bench tucked under an ivy-covered arch and warm golden sconces casting light like fireflies.

But what steals my breath— what owns it —is the centerpiece.

A massive potted spruce tree.

Easily ten feet tall, stretching toward a skylight carved into the ceiling above.

Moonlight spills in, casting silver light across the glossy glass ornaments hanging from the branches— snowflakes, stars, icicles, tiny fantastical creatures, each one delicate and unique.

Twinkle lights circle the beast of a tree like a constellation come to life.

A thousand tiny stars wrapped around branches that shimmer with just enough needle-tipped glamor to take my breath away.

It’s magnificent.

And completely unexpected.

On another wall, I spy roses flourishing in a variety of clay pots. More Halfeti blooms, so deeply saturated they look black as ink.

Rich, velvety and impossible.

I step closer.

They’re real.

Beautiful .

Crimson petals edged in black, a color I’ve only ever seen this perfect in photoshopped pictures or high-concept fantasy bouquets.

He got me black roses.

My heart thuds.

Between those and the Christmas tree, I have to wonder— is my kidnapper obsessed with me?

He knows me better than I imagined.

I always have a tree in my room at home regardless of the month or time of year.

It’s my tradition.

My little slice of joy.

No matter how chaotic life gets, no matter how many security guards hover outside my windows or how overbearing my parents act— Christmas is mine.

I never told anyone about that.

Not really.

And yet here it is.

Recreated in a way no one could ever guess unless they knew.

Unless they’d been watching.

I walk toward the tree slowly, eyes darting over the ornaments.

Some are vintage.

Others are clearly custom.

A snow globe with a blonde woman inside that looks almost like me.

A little book ornament with Princess engraved on the spine.

One— my fingers brush it gently —is shaped like a snake. Another is a wolf.

My stomach tightens.

This wasn’t thrown together.

This was crafted.

For me .

And suddenly I don’t know if I want to cry or scream.

Because this?

This is beautiful.

Romantic.

Thoughtful.

And terrifying.

Let’s not forget that.

Because whoever did this— whoever stole me away —doesn’t just want me.

They know me.

Not in the shallow, surface-level way men usually pretend to.

Not just my name, my face, or what shows up in the tabloids after a gala.

No, this is something else entirely.

They’ve studied me.

Carefully. Intimately.

With the kind of quiet, consuming attention that makes me feel seen in a way I don’t know how to process.

They’ve traced the contours of my private world—things I never speak aloud.

The way I keep a tree in my room year-round because Christmas makes me feel safe.

The exact brand of chocolates I hoard.

They found those softest parts of me— the secret ones, the real ones —and wrapped them in fairy lights and frosted glass. Curated this hidden wonderland like an altar to everything I’ve never dared to ask for out loud.

Like an offering.

And I have to wonder, is that what I am?

An offering?

A tribute dressed in lace and silk and nostalgia?

But the real question—the one crawling through my veins like heat and static—is this. An offering for whom?

Am I meant for the kidnapper or someone else?

Some shadowy buyer or twisted collector?

The idea makes me nauseous.

And a part of me hopes that all this—the tree, the lights, the roses, the restraint—is just for him .

For the voice in the dark who calls me Princess like it’s a birthright.

The truth sits just out of reach, coiled in the corner of my mind like smoke I can’t catch.

And I hate it.

I hate how much I want to know.

I should be planning an escape.

I should be plotting, screaming, fighting.

But instead?

I’m thinking about him.

Whoever he is.

I want to know why he knows me better than anyone ever has.

And why do I like that so much?