Page 51 of Damsel in Disguise

Me: Signal bad here.

And also a few of my pictures, which look suspiciously like I took the selfies myself with my eyes closed to keep up with the aesthetics.

Not only are there my voice messages in my tone.

All sent from my phone.

I check the sent timestamps. They’re staggered and calculated. Enough to reassure my family believably.

Someone had access to my phone.

Someone who understood exactly how to calm the Keinstons without triggering escalation.

A slow, sick realization creeps in, not from the fear of my phone being tapped in the meantime but more from the understanding that this was a clean orchestration.

I need to change my phone as soon as possible.

My backpack sits exactly where it is. I don’t bother checking my backpack for now, and sling it over my good shoulder.

All I can think of is that this is someone’s home. And that someone has to be my captor, the one who staged this whole setup. I need to know who the piece of shit is.

With my phone still clutched in my hand, I carefully unlock the door and peek outside.

It’s eerily quiet and empty. Carefully, I push it open only as much space as I need to squeeze my body out, slowly stepping out of the bedroom.

The door opens into a mezzanine landing overlooking a mansion’s living space below. Floor-to-ceiling glass. Steel banisters. Clean architectural lines. Everything in monochromatic tone.

My feet walk over to the attached railing on their own and stare down at the living room.

Expensive art pieces hang on the wall in flawless order, rare indoor plants are placed on each corner, but none of them matter now.

“Goodness! You’re awake.”

I nearly jump out of my skin, even though the feminine voice is too sweet to ignore.

I turn.

A woman in her mid-twenties stands at the far end of the mezzanine hallway like she’s been there the entire time.

Tall. Composed. Dressed in an understated silk blouse and tailored flare pants. Her blonde hair falls neatly over one shoulder. No visible tension in her posture.

She smiles at me. It’s the kind of smile that doesn’t reach the eyes.

“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Keinston,” she greets me conversationally, as if we’re meeting over at a charity event.

My throat goes dry. “And who are you?”

She tilts her head slightly, studying me. That smile widens by a fraction. “I’m Mrs. Hertley.”

Wait what?! Hertley…? She’s his… his wife?

He brought me here. Not a hospital. Not some underground lab. His house. Why?

To keep me close? To monitor me? To finish what the headlights started? Can’t believe Alistair Hertley is my captor.

My heart pounds harder. The thought should terrify me.

Instead, something electric unfurls in my stomach. It’s sharp and reckless and impossible to suppress—all rational thoughts overridden by a million butterflies flapping their wings at the possibility.