I look at the door handle.
Jump,my brain whispers.
Don't be stupid, Helena.We are doing eighty miles an hour.
I tell myself to think and stay calm, but my body doesn’t listen. Fight-or-flight mode kicks in, and every cell is hellbent on fleeing.
I reach out and yank the door handle.
Locked. Of course it’s locked.
I slam my palm against the window.Thud.
The sound is dull. The glass is thick. Bulletproof.
"Let me out!" I scream. "Stop the car!"
The driver doesn't flinch. He doesn't even look in the rearview mirror. He’s a statue, a machine programmed to drive, just like the man beside me is programmed to destroy.
Konstantin doesn't look up from his phone.
"Stop screaming," he says. His voice is annoyingly calm. "You’re fogging the glass."
His indifference snaps something inside me.
It’s worse than his anger. It makes me feel small. Insignificant.
I feel like a piece of luggage he threw in the back seat, an object to be transported and stored.
"You can't just take me," I spit, turning my body to face him. "This isn't the dark ages. People will look for me. My staff. The press.”
I take a breath, trying to find logic in the madness.
"I have a board of directors meeting on Monday. If I’m not there, questions will be asked."
Konstantin stops typing and sighs.
"Your staff will be told you are taking a sabbatical to handle family matters," he says, his thumb scrolling through a message. "The press will be told nothing."
He finally looks at me.
"And the police? The police are already paid for. No one is looking for you, Helena. You’re a line item on a ledger I acquired," he adds.
"You’re a monster," I hiss.
He leans back against the leather.
"I’m a businessman," he replies. "And you are bad for business."
"A businessman?" I laugh, a shrill sound that scratches my throat. "You’re a thug in a tuxedo. You broke into my home. You threatened my father. And for what? To settle a grudge? To make yourself feel big?"
He doesn't answer. He remains focused on his stupid phone.
I lean closer, invading his personal space. I need him to look at me, to crack that ice and see if there’s a human being underneath the suit.
"You lied back there," I say, my voice trembling with rage. "All that garbage about my father having blood on his hands. You made it up."
He stops typing, lowers the phone, and turns his head slowly. His eyes are black pits, devoid of light. He stares at me with a terrifying stillness.
