Second, the person wraps a rope around Wallace's neck, pulling him taut against the driver’s seat as he grips at the material, desperately trying to free himself.
And third, the person points a gun at me.
My scream freezes in my throat, and I back myself up against the other door, heart pounding in my ears.
"Drive. Now."
My body is frozen in shock and disbelief. This can't be happening. Not here. Not to us.
Wallace hits the gas, and the car lurches forward as I try and fail to compose myself.
The spacious interior of Asher's car now feels suffocating. Wallace's eyes find mine in the rearview mirror, wide with a fear I've never seen in him before, as rough rope wraps around his throat like a serpent.
The man holds the makeshift leash with casual control, one hand managing our driver's life while the other keeps the gun trained on my chest with unwavering steadiness.
And then the person turns to me, light from passing streetlamps illuminating his face in harsh, intermittent flashes. Recognition hits me like a physical blow, driving the air from my lungs and making my vision swim with disbelief.
Richard.
But not the Richard I remember. Not the polished literary agent with his crisp suits and practiced charm. This version is a shadow of the man who once held my career in his hands. His face is gaunt and haggard, cheekbones sharp with weight loss and stress. Bloodshot eyes stare at me with manic intensity, surrounded by dark circles.
"Richard," I whisper, trembling with a mixture of shock and terror. "W-What are you doing?"
The question seems to ignite something volatile within him. His face contorts with rage, spittle flying from his lips as he leans forward. "You ruined my life," he snarls, the words dripping with venom. "You little cunt. You didn't even put out, but you went crying to your rich boyfriend anyway."
The crude language hits me like a slap.
"Richard—" I try again, feeling more desperate by the second.
"Shut up!" The gun jerks toward my face with violent intensity, and I flinch away from the cold metal. "You don't get to talk. You don't get to do anything except listen to what you've done."
In the driver's seat, Wallace's knuckles have gone white on the steering wheel. The rope bites into his neck with each movement, leaving angry red marks against his weathered skin.
"I lost everything because of you." Richard continues, his voice cracking with emotion. "My job. My reputation. Everything I spent twenty years building, gone in an instant. My wife left me. Took the kids. The house. Even the goddamn dog won't look at me. I'm looking at spending the rest of my life in prison. Do you understand that? Prison."
Terror floods my veins like ice water, numbing my extremities and making my thoughts sluggish. I recall what James Rock had told me at the gala, that he had multiple charges racked up. That what he had done to me wasn't a one-time deal but a habit he repeated with many women, and now he’s facing payments for his crimes.
The only thing I don't understand is why he's here now, with me.
My hands shake uncontrollably in my lap, fingers twisting together in a futile attempt to maintain composure. I think of my phone in my purse on the floor, so close but impossibly far away. Any movement might set him off, might make this nightmare even worse.
The car moves through traffic with surreal normalcy. Other drivers chat on phones or sing along to radios, completely oblivious to the drama unfolding just feet away from them. We're surrounded by witnesses who can't see us.
"All those other women… They understood how the game worked. They knew what it took to make it in this industry. A little quid pro quo. A little gratitude for the opportunities I provided. But not you. You had to be special."
The gun wavers erratically as he talks, his grip loosening and tightening with his emotional state. Wallace flinches when the barrel swings past his head, and I hold my breath, waiting for the accidental discharge that could end everything.
"Where are we going?" Wallace asks, his voice remarkably steady despite the rope cutting into his throat. Even now, he's trying to gather information, trying to find a way out of this nightmare.
"Shut up and drive, or I'll blow her pretty head off," Richard snarls, and the casual way he threatens my life makes my blood run cold.
My breath comes in shallow gasps that fog the window beside me. The pearls at my throat feel impossibly tight, as if they're trying to choke me. Every instinct screams at me to run, to fight, to do something, but the gun keeps me frozen in place.
"Richard, please?—"
"I said shut up!" He lunges forward with startling speed, pressing the barrel of the gun against my temple with enough force to leave a mark.
I freeze completely. Every muscle in my body locks as if I've been turned to stone. The cold metal bites into my skin, and I can smell the lingering scent of alcohol on his breath.
