“Indeed.” Adrian pauses. “I stopped by The Blue Room. You weren’t there. Or at your apartment.”
The accusation in his tone makes my jaw clench. “I’m handling something.”
“Handling what exactly? You sound... off.”
I laugh, the sound hollow even to my own ears. “Just taking care of our Amelia situation.”
Silence stretches between us. Then: “Gabe. Where are you? Where is she?”
“Somewhere private. Somewhere we can really talk.”
“Jesus Christ.” His voice drops to a harsh whisper. “Tell me you didn’t.”
“She needs to understand. Five fucking days of silence, Adrian.”
“You can’t do this.” The cool composure in his voice fractures. “If anything happens to Amelia, Maya will never forgive me. Never. We had an agreement about collateral damage.”
“Collateral damage?” I snarl, watching Amelia stir slightly on the bed. “She’s not collateral. She’s mine.”
“Listen to yourself. You’re spiraling.” Adrian’s voice turns uncharacteristically urgent. “This isn’t you. This isn’t how we operate.”
“You don’t get to dictate how I handle this.”
“Let me come to you. We’ll figure this out together.”
I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window. “Better stay away. I know what I’m doing.”
“Gabe—”
I end the call, switching my phone to silent before turning back toward the bed where Amelia is beginning to stir. Time for me to make her understand.
23
AMELIA
Consciousness comes in staccato bursts—my head throbbing, mouth cotton-dry. I blink against the dim light, trying to piece together fragments of memory. My studio. Gabe’s face. His hand covering my mouth.
A rush of panic explodes through my chest as I bolt upright.
“God—” My voice comes out ragged. This isn’t my bedroom. Not Gabe’s penthouse or apartment above the club either.
Rough-hewn log walls. A woodstove. One small window showing nothing but darkness. The metallic taste of fear floods my mouth as I register what happened.
He took me. Drugged me and brought me here.
I swing my legs off the bed, noticing my shoes neatly placed beside it. The gesture is bizarrely considerate from a man who just kidnapped me. My head spins as I stand, forcing me to grip the bedpost until the room steadies.
Breathe, Amelia. Observe.
My brain compartmentalizes the terror into manageable sections. I catalog my prison: sparse furnishings,approximately twenty by fifteen feet. Candles cast amber light against pine boards. No phone visible. No obvious weapons within reach.
Then I see the table.
Rope coiled in perfect concentric circles. The knife he held to my throat. A collar I recognize from his apartment.
My brain shifts into the familiar patternmaking I’ve relied on my entire life. Not haphazard placement. Deliberate. A narrative laid out for my consumption. The objects form a visual declension, from darkness to submission. From threat to surrender.
I move closer, studying shadows cast by candlelight across the implements. The composition tells a story—his fantasy of what happens next.
