Page 119 of Cruel Obsession

The van lurches beneath me, sending me sliding across metal flooring. My shoulder slams into something hard—a metal toolbox, maybe—and pain radiates down my arm. Every movement reveals new aches, injuries I can’t remember receiving. The floor reeks of motor oil, cigarettes, and that indefinable sour smell that belongs exclusively to men who consider bathing optional.

I try to lift my head, but nausea surges immediately. The effects of the chloroform haven’t worn off yet. I stay still, eyes barely open, listening.

Accented voices filter back from the front seats. Two men, speaking in a confusing mix of English and Russian.

“We’re behind schedule.” The voice is rough, impatient. “Gavriil won’t be happy if we damage her.”

“The money is guaranteed once we reach The Emirates. Stop worrying about the old man.” The second voice sounds younger, cockier. “He cares about the merchandise, not the timeline.”

Merchandise. Me. And worse—Gavriil Laurov.

The name pierces through the remaining fog in my mind, clarifying everything with terrible precision. This is Arkady’s father. The man whose cruelty is spoken of in whispers even by those who fear nothing.

Instinctively, I want to flatten my hand over my stomach, but my wrists are bound with zip ties, cutting into the skin with every movement. A wave of panic washes over me.

My baby.

I swallow the sob building in my throat. I can’t afford the luxury of fear right now. I need to think. I need to escape.

Arkady will be looking for me. The thought offers momentary comfort before reality crashes back. He doesn’t even know I’m missing yet. By the time he realizes, I could be on a plane to Dubai, handed over to a system that treats women like property to be used and discarded.

I’m on my own.

I flex my fingers, testing the zip ties. They’ve bound my wrists in front of me—another mistake. Had they secured my hands behind my back, I’d have far fewer options. The ties are tight, digging into my skin, but with my hands in front, I can still maneuver. My ankles, I realize with a surge of hope, are completely unbound.

The van jerks violently, then shudders to a complete stop. The suddenness of it sends me sliding forward.

“Chto za khuy?” The younger voice explodes in angry Russian. “Not again!”

“Traffic jam.” The older one sounds resigned. “Nothing we can do.”

“Call Mikhail. Tell him we’re delayed. Again.”

“And say what? That New York traffic is shit? He knows.”

Their argument escalates, peppered with Russian curses. I recognize a few from Arkady’s occasional outbursts—none of them polite.

This is it. My opportunity. Maybe my only one.

I push myself up to sitting, moving slowly to keep the wave of dizziness at bay. The drug is wearing off, but not fast enough. The van’s interior swims in and out of focus as I take stock of my surroundings.

It’s a cargo van, empty except for me, a toolbox, and some dirty rags. The front seats are separated from the back by a partial metal divider. Through the mesh, I can see the backs of their heads—one with close-cropped silver hair, the other dark and longer.

My eyes fix on the rear doors. Double doors, probably with external handles. They might have child locks, but commercial vans often don’t. It’s a gamble worth taking.

I scoot backward on my bottom, using my heels to push myself toward the doors. Each movement sends pain shooting through my bound wrists, but I bite my lip and continue. The floor is filthy, covered in grit.

“This is taking too fucking long,” the younger kidnapper complains. “We’ll miss the flight if this doesn’t clear soon.”

“Shut up, Kostya. I’m thinking.”

“Think faster, old man.”

I reach the doors and twist around, positioning my feet against where I think the handle mechanism should be. The motion sets off another round of dizziness. I close my eyes, willing it away. Not now. I can’t afford weakness now.

With my back against the side wall, I probe with my feet, searching for any give in the door. I try to remember how cargo van doors work from the inside. I’ve never had reason to know until this moment.

I press experimentally and feel nothing. Shifting my feet higher, I push again.