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CHAPTER 1

Alana

I wake up to something hard biting into my wrists.

Fuck, that hurts.

I try to move, but my arms and legs won’t budge.

I can’t see. Something rough presses against my lips, forcing my jaw open.

A gag. My breathing’s shallow, hot air trapped beneath something covering my head.

Alright. Don’t panic.

Just breathe. What’s the last thing I remember?

Think.

I’m walking out of a particularly brutal Pilates class and I step into the parking lot.

I have that weird prickly feeling at the back of my neck, like someone’s watching me, but the lot’s empty.

Mostly. Just other Pilates students heading to and from their cars.

My phone buzzes in my Marc Jacobs Tote Bag.

I reach in, rummaging through what feels like seven different things before finally fishing it out.

It’s my dad.

Weird.

He knows I’ve just finished Pilates.

We usually have our daily chats in the morning.

Why would he be calling now?

I shake off the thought.

“Hi, Daddy!” I answer, still a little out of breath.

“Princess, listen to me carefully—”

I reach my car.

It unlocks automatically with the keys somewhere in my bag.

I open the door to my Range and climb in, trying to balance the phone between my ear and shoulder.

Everything aches after that class.

“Shit,” I say as I drop the phone while sliding into my seat.

My dad’s voice becomes muffled.

I try to reach for it between the seat and the middle console, but give up.

It’ll connect to Bluetooth once I start the car.

I’ll get it when I get home.

I put my bag down on the passenger seat.

Something flickers in the rearview mirror.

What the hell?

I turn to look, but a hand yanks my head back.

A rag covers my mouth and nose.

And then… nothing.

“Kaden, have you received the wire transfer yet?”

That oily voice yanks me back into the present.

It sounds like something slithering across tiles.

Slick. Cold. A little jolt runs down my spine.

I start to hyperventilate, drawing in short sips of air.

Too fast. No. Focus.

I used to get really bad panic attacks, often triggered by anxiety or severe stress.

But I’ve learned how to manage it with Emily, my therapist. It’s been a while since my last episode and I’m not about to spiral now.

Come on, Alana. You know what to do.

Time to use the exercises.

Ground yourself.

What can I hear?

I strain my ear. There are voices.

People bickering, low and sharp.

The man with the oily voice has moved farther away, but the sound echoes.

The space around me feels wide and empty.

A warehouse, maybe.

What can I smell?

I take in a slow, measured breath.

A sharp, acrid scent clings to my nose, like nail polish remover.

Chemical and harsh.

What can I feel?

My wrists are bound, tight and unforgiving, but I can move my head.

My feet, though, are locked in place.

I’m sitting on something hard.

A chair. And my head…

god, it pounds.

What can I taste?

I swirl my tongue around in my mouth, making contact with the gag placed between my teeth.

I can’t taste anything.

My mouth is dry, tongue feels swollen, too big for my mouth.

What can I see? Nothing.

No…wait. Not nothing.

There’s something over my head.

Some sort of fabric, maybe.

A bag? I can breathe, but it’s hot and stifling.

Shapes flicker at the edges of my vision.

Faint, blurred, impossible to define.

My breathing slows down a little, as the exercise starts to immerse me in the present.

I can hear footsteps echo through the space, heavy and deliberate.

Dress shoes? It sounds like dress shoes.

There’s something off about the sharp click of leather soles in a place like this.

Too polished. Too calm.

My pulse spikes. If I wasn’t so goddamn dehydrated from that Pilates class, I might’ve pissed myself right then and there.

My breath starts to hitch again.

What do they want from me?

Maybe they think my dad’s worth something more than he is.

But they’ve got it wrong.

Way wrong. I think?

You see, my dad’s a good man.

He owns a diamond mine up North, but everything’s always been above board.

And yeah, we’re rich.

But not billionaire rich…

at least, I don’t think so.

He does have a private jet, but he shares it with four other CEOs, so it’s not like we’re out here living in some Netflix special.

And sure, he bought me my car and my apartment, but I’ve got my own business.

One that actually covers most of my bills.

I barely even use his credit card anymore.

Only when it’s, like, a real emergency.

Maybe I’m being trafficked?

Is this like a Taken scenario where I’m going to be sold to the highest bidder?

I feel like I’m too old for that sort of thing.

They usually only abduct children, teens and people in their early twenties, right?

Guess I’m short enough to be mistaken for a child…

A figure looms over me.

I breathe in. Leather, smoke and the faintest trace of metal.

Even with the chemical haze dulling my senses, his scent cuts through.

Sharp, expensive and wrong.

He smells like danger wrapped in cologne.

Then he grabs my chin through the fabric, tilting it upwards and a whimper slips out before I can swallow it.

I hear another man approach.

The first one drops my chin.

That oily voice speaks again, “The payment’s not in yet. Should me and the boys take her for a little ride first? See how hard it is to break a diamond?”

Prick.

His name is Prick, I decide.

His mother must be so proud.

Bile rises in my throat and my eyes start leaking.

Oh look, guess I’m not as dehydrated as I thought.

I struggle against my restraints.

If I can break the chair, maybe I can run.

Maybe I can do something.

I twist my wrists hard enough to burn.

“Oh, we’ve got ourselves a little fighter, don’t we?” Prick says.

The first figure still remains silent.

I try to scream, but the gag in my mouth turns it into a choked sound.

Prick strikes me across the face.

Hard. Fuck , how many rings is this guy wearing?

Blood floods my mouth.

The world blurs for a second.

I bite back a sob. Don’t cry.

Don’t give him that.

Someone lets out a low, warning growl.

And then… a ding. Like a text.

Or a payment notification.

“Too bad,” Prick says and walks away.

The first figure leans down.

“Looks like Daddy just saved his little princess,” he whispers against my ear.

Thank God.

Did I mention I fucking love my dad?