Page 34

Chapter 34

Fantasia

W hen we land in Germany, we’re immediately escorted off the plane and into the biting cold. The wind cuts through my thin sweater, and I instinctively hunch my shoulders, my bound hands clutched awkwardly to my chest. Harold’s men herd us across the tarmac toward a sleek black SUV, its tinted windows making my stomach twist. I expect the worst- until the back door opens and I spot a car seat.

Relief flickers through me, brief but undeniable. I sure as hell didn’t expect them to do that. One of Harold’s men gestures impatiently. I climb in first, fumbling to keep my balance. The man follows, placing Valeria in the car seat beside me.

Her head lolls to one side, her breath soft and steady, tiny fists resting limply in her lap. She looks so peaceful- finally calm after hours of terrified cries. My chest tightens, a wave of gratitude washing over me. Thank God she’s asleep. At least for now, she’s warm, quiet, and unaware of the nightmare we’ve stepped into.

The SUV jolts over a pothole, and I instinctively reach out with my elbow, steadying Valeria's car seat with my arm. She doesn’t stir. Too worn out. Too drained.

I shift in my seat, awkwardly curling my fingers to nudge a stray curl from her forehead. My fingertips barely graze her skin, but it’s enough to ease some of the tension throughout my whole body. As long as she’s calm, I can hold myself together.

Harold’s men say nothing as they drive through unfamiliar streets, past steel and glass instead of the rolling green hills I grew up among.

The small modern estate we arrive at is beautiful in a cold, minimalist way. High windows, clean lines- everything precise and calculated. It’s lavish by my current standards, but nothing like the old money splendor of the Ashwood family. There’s no warmth here, no sense of history or belonging. Just cold, empty wealth.

The gates open smoothly, and my stomach tightens as the car rolls into the long driveway.

Every instinct screams at me to plan an escape, to run, to fight, to do something. But I can’t. Not with my hands still bound, not with Valeria sleeping, not when Harold watches me through the rearview mirror, his eyes gleam with something quiet and cruel, like he’s savoring the power he holds- and how little I have.

As soon as the SUV stops, the door swings open. I barely have time to turn before two women, maids, dressed in crisp black uniforms, appear beside the car. One of them reaches straight for Valeria.

“No,” I blurt out, twisting toward her. “Please- please don't take her from me!” My voice cracks with desperation.

A rough hand clamps down on my arm- Harold’s. His fingers dig painfully into my skin as he hauls me out of the car.

“We’ll keep her safe,” he says smoothly. “But that, of course, depends on how cooperative you are.”

I stumble, craning my neck to see Valeria. The older maid cradles her carefully, supporting her head as she carries her away.

Harold marches me inside, down a long hallway and deeper into the house. Each step feels heavier than the last, like my heart is sinking lower and lower in my chest.

By the time we reach the narrow staircase, a wave of anxiety washes over me, making it hard to breathe.

They throw me into a dimly lit cell, barely big enough to stretch my legs. Cold concrete walls, a cot in one corner, a single overhead light buzzing faintly. I barely hear the lock click behind me before I slam myself against the door.

“Don’t do this!” I shout, my voice raw. “Please- I won’t fight you, but don’t keep me from my daughter!”

Harold looms in the doorway, the light casting his sharp features in harsh shadows. He watches me with vague amusement before stepping inside. There’s a camera in his hands, sleek and professional, the kind used for high-profile broadcasts.

My stomach drops.

“What are you?—”

Harold doesn’t answer. He gestures lazily to his men, and before I can brace myself, strong hands grab my arms, shoving me roughly against the wall. Rope coils tight around my wrists, binding them above my head to a rusted chain. I thrash against their grip, my mind swimming, my heartbeat thunderous.

Harold steps back, examining his handiwork with a satisfied smirk. He raises the camera, the red recording light blinking like a malevolent eye. “Now, let's make this interesting,” he says, his voice cold and calculated. He turns to the camera, his eyes gleaming with malice.

“I’ve got something of yours,” he begins, his voice echoing off the cold concrete walls. “Your wife , Piers,” He gestures to me, bound and helpless against the wall. “Seems like you’ve got a lot more to lose than I thought. Might’ve been smarter to keep that quiet. Yep, she’s quite the fighter... for now. But unless you do exactly what I say, you’re about to be a widower.”

Harold continues, his voice dripping with venom. “Here are my demands…”

I shut my eyes against the suffocating weight of it, against the image branded into my mind- Piers, somewhere across the sea, watching this. Seeing me. Hearing these words.

The camera clicks off.

The silence left in its wake is deafening.

Harold pockets the device, sighing like this has all been a tedious bit of business. “See?” he drawls. “That wasn’t so bad.”

I keep my head down, my breath coming in short, controlled gasps.

I need to stay calm.

I need to hold on.

Harold gives me one last mocking pat before exiting the room, leaving me alone in the dim silence.

As soon as I hear the lock slide into place, my knees give out.

I collapse, the chains catching me, biting into my wrists. A choked sob rips from my throat, raw and broken.

This is how Piers is going to find out. Not from me. Not in some quiet, safe moment where I could tell him the truth the right way. Instead, he’ll see me like this- tied to a wall in a cell, with Harold taunting him like it’s all a game.

I turn my face into my shoulder and let the tears come.

For the first time in two years, I pray that he still cares enough to fight- for me, and for the daughter he's only just about to discover.