I haven’t seen him since the first day. Since he threw my driver’s license on the table, told me I was nothing but leverage, and walked out.
He’s become a ghost.
But I know he’s watching.
There are no visible cameras in the bedroom. I checked the smoke detectors, the vents, the recessed lighting. But I feel the weight of his gaze. It’s a prickle on the back of my neck. A sense of being studied.
My only contact with the outside world is the food tray.
Three times a day, at 8 a.m., 1 p.m., and 7 p.m., the lock clicks. The door opens six inches, stopped by a thick security chain, and a tray slides onto the floor.
A man’s voice, deep and gruff, says, “Eat.”
Usually, I stay back. But today, desperation makes me bold. I scramble off the chair, rushing the gap to beg for news, but he is already turning away.
I press my face to the crack. He pauses on the hallway runner, tapping his earpiece and muttering low, assuming I’m out of earshot.
“Package fed. Tell Cassian she’s still quiet.”
Cassian.
The name lands in the silence like a dropped coin. That’s him. The monster.
The boots fade away down the hall.
I look at the tray: roast chicken, a wedge of bread, steamed vegetables, and a bottle of water.
My stomach cramps, a hollow, twisting pain that demands to be filled. For the first day, I refused to eat, throwing the tray at the wall instead. But today, my hands are shaking so badly I can barely make a fist.
I sit on the floor and drink the water. I force down the bread, chewing mechanically. It tastes like ash, but I swallow it. I need the calories. I need to be ready for the moment the door opens all the way. That’s my chance.
I sit in the velvet armchair, my knees pulled to my chest, still wearing the black button-down shirt Cassian gave me. It smells like him—gun oil and expensive soap. I hate that I find the scent comforting. I hate that wearing his clothes makes me feel protected, even though he is the threat.
I stare at the television.
It’s a sleek screen mounted on the wall opposite the bed. It’s my only window to the outside world. My only lifeline.
I’ve got it tuned to the local news channel. The volume is low, a constant murmur of traffic reports, weather updates, and political scandals.
I’m waiting for my name.
Breaking News: Search Underway for Judge’s Daughter. Federal Agents Raid Hamptons Estate. The Disappearance of Iris Hale: Day Three.
I wait. And I wait.
But the ticker tape at the bottom of the screen only scrolls through stock market prices and sports scores.
Why haven’t they reported it?
The question gnaws at me.
I rationalize, building logic to keep hope alive.
It’s a media blackout, I tell myself. The FBI ordered silence to protect the negotiations. If they announce I’m missing, the kidnappers might panic. My father is keeping it quiet to keep me safe.
Yes. That has to be it.
My father is a strategist. He plays chess, not checkers. He wouldn’t go to the press; he would go to the tactical teams. Right now, there are probably satellite scans sweeping this coastline. There are tactical units gearing up in a staging area.
