Page 1 of Hostage with Benefits

I didn’t ask to be kidnapped on a random Tuesday.

Tuesdays were objectively the worst day of the week. Monday at least had the decency to warn you it was going to be terrible. Tuesday pretended to be normal until it stabbed you in the back.

Or in my case, until a mountain of a man with a scar bisecting his left eyebrow threw me over his shoulder in a Trader Joe’s parking lot while I was still clutching a bag of frozen dumplings.

“Put me down,” I said, my voice flat because honestly, the energy required to sound properly terrified was beyond me after the day I’d had. My therapist would call this a trauma response, but I called it just a usual Tuesday.

The man said nothing, just deposited me in the back of a black SUV with windows tinted so dark they were probably illegal in this state.

Probably all states. But I guessed when you were the type of person who casually kidnapped women from grocery store parking lots, vehicle regulations weren’t high on your priority list.

I should have been screaming, I realized. I should have been fighting. Instead, I was wondering if my dumplings would defrost before I could get them into a freezer. If I ever saw a freezer again.

The man slid into the driver’s seat. He smelled like expensive cologne. It was… not unpleasant, which was a thought I immediately tried to evict from my brain.

“Natalia Petrova?” His accent was thick. His eyes, though, were cold. The kind of blue that made you think of hypothermia.

“That depends on who’s asking and whether they plan on returning me to my apartment before my dumplings defrost.”

His eyes narrowed at me.

“I am Mikhail Volkov.” He said this like I should recognize the name. “Your father has something that belongs to me.”

Of course. Of course this was about my father. Everything terrible in my life circled back to that man.

Mikhail studied me like I was a puzzle with missing pieces.

“You will be my guest until he returns what is mine.”

Guest . That was a fancy word for hostage. But sure, let’s go with that.

“Does your… hospitality include Wi-Fi? I have a deadline with a client tomorrow. I promise I won’t contact the cops.”

For a second, he looked genuinely confused. Like the idea that I might have a job, responsibilities, a life that didn’t revolve around being kidnapped was completely foreign.

“You are not afraid,” he stated. Not a question.

I shrugged. “I’m exhausted. Fear requires energy I don’t have right now.”

An hour later, the car turned onto a private road. I wondered if anyone had seen me being taken, if anyone besides my clients would notice I was gone.

“Most people cry when they are kidnapped,” he said.

“Most people don’t have four years of therapy and only an empty savings account to show for it.” I stared out the window. “Also, I’m still deciding if this is worse than the client call I was dreading.”

His knuckles tightened on the wheel. He wore a ring on his right hand, silver with some kind of crest. It was the kind of ring that would leave a mark if it connected with someone’s face.

The car slowed as we approached a gate that looked like it belonged at a military installation rather than at a private residence. Beyond it, a house rose up against the evening sky. Mansion was probably a more accurate term for this building.

“Welcome to my home,” Mikhail said as the gates parted.

“Charming,” I replied. “Very supervillain chic.”

I caught the briefest upturn of the corner of his mouth. It was just a twitch of his lip, like his face had momentarily forgotten its job was to be a marble statue.

He stopped the car, then opened the door for me and urged me to follow him.

Inside, the mansion was exactly what you’d expect from someone who casually kidnapped people on weekdays: minimal but expensive furniture, no personal photos, tacky golden ornaments everywhere. The kind of place that looked like a movie set and not a real home.

The man led me up a curved staircase, his hand not quite touching my elbow but close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him. We stopped at a door at the end of a long hallway.

“You will stay here,” he said, pushing the door open.

The room was nicer than my apartment, which was a depressing realization. A large bed with crisp white linens. A sitting area near wide windows that probably had a view in daylight. A door that presumably led to a bathroom.

“The windows do not open,” he said. “The door will be locked from outside. If you need anything, there is an intercom by the bed.”

I nodded, still clutching my Trader Joe’s dumplings I hadn’t let go of all this time.

“My frozen stuff is going to melt,” I said, because it seemed like the only normal concern to voice in this extremely abnormal situation.

He stared at me for a beat, then held out his hand. “I will put it in the freezer.”

I hesitated, then passed him the bag. Our fingers brushed, and I noticed how warm his hands were despite his cold demeanor. He checked the contents, brow furrowing at the realization I’d really handed him a bag of frozen dumplings .

“This was going to be your dinner?”His tone made it sound like a personal offense.

“Yup,” I said. “Before the kidnapping course correction to my evening plans.”

He made a sound in the back of his throat. “I will send up proper food.”

“Thanks. Very considerate for a kidnapper.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You will call your father now.” He pulled a phone from his pocket. I assumed it was so that the call couldn’t be traced.

My stomach dropped. I hadn’t spoken to my father in eight months, and our last conversation had been an awkward “happy birthday” and that was it. If this guy wanted to threaten my father, I wasn’t the best way to do that, but I didn’t really have to teach a mafioso how to do his job, right? Right ?

“He won’t care,” I said quietly. “Whatever you’re hoping to accomplish by using me as leverage… it won’t work.”

Mikhail’s expression shifted subtly.

“We will see,” he said, dialing a number and holding the phone out to me.

The call connected after four rings. My father’s voice came through, speaking rapid Russian.

“Dad,” I said in English. “It’s Natalia.”

A pause. Then, “Natasha? Why are you calling from this number?”

I glanced at Mikhail, who was watching me with unnerving intensity. “I’ve been kidnapped by someone who says you stole from him.”

Another pause. Then a string of Russian curses.

“Put him on,” my father said finally.

I handed the phone to Mikhail, who took it without breaking eye contact with me. They spoke in Russian, fast, harsh words I couldn’t follow due to the speed. I caught my name once or twice, but nothing else.

What I did understand was the way Mikhail’s expression darkened, the way his knuckles whitened around the phone. Whatever my father was saying, it wasn’t what Mikhail wanted to hear.

He ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

“Your father says he needs time to acquire what belongs to me,” he said, voice carefully neutral.

“And what exactly did he take from you?” I asked.

“That is not your concern.”

“It became my concern when you threw me over your shoulder in a parking lot.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “You will stay here until the matter is resolved.”

“And how long will that be?”

“As long as necessary.” He moved toward the door. “Use the intercom if you need anything. Dinner will be sent up soon.”

I sank onto the edge of the bed after he left.

The reality of my situation was finally starting to penetrate the shock.

I was being held hostage in a mansion by a man who looked like he could break me in half without even trying, all because my father, who wouldn’t even notice if I disappeared off the face of the earth, had stolen something valuable.

My laptop was still in my car, parked at Trader Joe’s. My client was expecting completed mockups by noon tomorrow.

I pulled out my phone from my pocket, but there was no signal. Of course.

Pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes, I allowed myself exactly thirty seconds of panic. Thirty seconds to feel the fear, the anger, and the complete absurdity of the situation.

Then I got up, went to the bathroom, and splashed cold water on my face. I dried off with a towel and stared at my reflection.

Okay , I told myself. Practical steps. First, don’t get killed. Second, figure out what Dad stole. Third, don’t miss my work deadline.

I walked back into the bedroom and pressed the intercom button.

“Yes?” Mikhail’s voice came through immediately.

“I really need that Wi-Fi password,” I said. “And preferably my laptop from my car.”