Page 77 of The Silent Princess

“It’s faster this way,” he barks. I swallow, shaking my head, pointing at the screen again, the obvious getting further from us. “The app doesn’t know traffic,” he says bluntly with a shrug. There is no traffic. Both hands on the wheel, his casual, warm tone shifts to a robotic, emotionless one. My fingers tighten around the phone, and I position it on my right, almost under my thigh, calling Tristan for the what? Third, fourth time? Then texting as fast as I can.

Me: Help.

I am still holding on to a thread of hope that it could be a better road, even though I know it isn't. We were a street away from my house. So far, we have seen at most three cars in the last ten minutes. I am not going to make it. Not only to see Dad, but perhaps to live at all. I will end up in tomorrow’s newspaper, or perhaps I will disappear without a trace. I look out the window, trying to recognize anything, but the streets grow darker, emptier. The houses disappear. The road narrows. The trees press closer on both sides. If I die tonight, I might as well try everything I can to escape right now. Holding the handle tight, I force it to open. Locked. Eyes on the handle, I can feel Bob shooting holes into my face.

“Hey, we’re almost there, don’t worry, birdy.” Birdy. Typing on my phone, I show him my notes app.

“Can you stop the car? I’m almost home. I can manage.”

Running his hand over the lower part of his face, he groans. “Nah, sorry, birdy, change of plans.” My eyes double, squeezing my phone, trying again with the door handle. He glances at my attempts with the shadow of a smirk.

“Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you. Just…just stay calm, okay? They told me to drive you there, and I really have a daughter I’d like to go home to, so, yeah.” He shrugs. “Money’s tight. Gotta find ways to make ends meet.” By kidnapping people? Trapped inside myself and this car, I do the only other thing I can think of and type 911 discreetly on my phone. It brushes my thoughts that I could call Mara, but given the situation, I am pretty sure she’s involved in one way or another. Crashing my body to the opposite side of him, I slide the phone to my ear as I hear the reassuring voice of a woman. “911. How can I help you?” If only I could speak. If only I had a way to tell her. But I do not, and so I stay on the line, hoping they have some sort of protocol for kidnapped people unable to talk on the phone.

“Hello? 911, is there someone there?”

“Hey!” Bob shouts. “What are you…” The car shifts abruptly to the right, where anyone coming from the opposite direction could hit us right in the face. Probably would be a good thing. It expands my chances to escape. With one brutal motion, he tugs at my T-shirt from the collar, forcing me to lean into him right as he manages to take my phone, the caller still asking, “911, are you there?” Bob opens the window and throws my phone out, crushing the small hope I had of Tristan finding me. Palms on my face, I start sobbing erratically, tears falling in waterfalls, my body spasming as if I were already at the end of a barrel, waiting for an inevitable death.

“You do that again, and I’ll hit you so hard in the face you’ll say goodbye to that pretty nose of yours.” Knees up, I hug myself, trying to soothe an upcoming panic attack, knowing that this man overpowers me in every way. I could still unlock my belt and try to hit him, but I doubt my small size would have any impact on him, and getting beaten to death seems frightening enough.

“Put this on,” he orders, stretching to open the glove compartment, extending a black fabric from it. Long and thick. “Over your eyes. Do it, or I’ll lose patience. We’re almost there, and if you don’t have it on, they’re gonna lose their shit.” Terror runs down my nape. A blindfold. “If it’s not on in the next two minutes, I assure you I’ll make sure you never see again.” Not wanting to test whether it is a real threat, I unfold the lengthy piece of fabric and cover my eyes, trying to trick him by leaving a slight opening under my eye, but it is too thick and wide to do so. I knot it behind my head, not only mute but now also completely blind. The thought hits me that birds are kept in complete darkness to keep them immobilized. Birds…just like the nickname Mara chose for me. Birdy. A bird in a cage, the door opening just enough to see a glimpse of sunshine, trying so badly to escape only to realize the wings have been stapled to the metal all along.

Trapped. Just like I have been for years inside myself, with no voice.

Trapped in a house where love had become a rare occurrence.

Trapped in this car away from the man I love.

Trapped because that is all I know, and perhaps that is what was meant to be.

We drive for what seems like ten minutes, or thirty, or forty. My senses try to hold on to the barest details. Shaking and hyperaware, I smell pollution, exhaust, and metal as we seem to come to a stop. We did not drive that far. Or did we? Another car seems to pass close. Could we be in the city? That is good, right? They did not bring me into the middle of nowhere to get shot and hide my body like in the movies. The car goes down, the motion making me sick, the smell of cars, gasoline, and what feels awfully like a parking basement hitting me. We are under something. In the city. Coming to a stop, I hear Bob’s door opening. I focus, trying to hear anything else–sounds, voices. All I hear are steps, many–at least another person here, or more, two or three. Doors open and close, as if somebody is checking the car and the trunk, and I get the sudden sensation of being alone in the car. Just like you feel when someone is watching you in a room. I can feel them watching me from outside. Am I going to die? Will I ever see Tristan and Dad again?

My palms cover the blindfold, but I keep it on. Perhaps darkness is less scary, and perhaps not seeing anything right now could save me if they do not want me to see my surroundings.

The passenger door opens, and I gasp as a hand unlocks my belt and grabs my arm forcefully, dragging me out as I try to get away. But the man, judging by the size of his grip, clutches my arms from behind, forcing me to walk forward. I cannot see, cannot scream, and I try to walk as best as I can, each step fearing something to hit my face. Steps follow me, upward and behind, like I am being escorted, and I am now unable to make out any of my surroundings. Doors unlock and codes are entered, beeps coming from here and there. So there is technology to enter this place. It is not that easy. The same man clutching my shoulders smells like sweat and cheap aftershave that could swap for bathroom freshener.

Pressing my shoulder, I step forward again and stumble, a silent scream coming out of me. Stairs. It’s just stairs. They are not forcing you to jump from a rooftop. Why would they take so much care in bringing me here if it was to kill me so quickly? One foot after the other, I try my best not to fall at every step, leading, without a doubt, to what feels like a basement. The air is thick with the lack of ventilation and the dampness of what I imagine are pipes. Basements are not good, right? This is where people disappear and are never found. Hurriedly, I step back, trying to turn and climb the stairs again, but I stumble upon a wall of flesh, his hands gripping my shoulders harder, pressing me into going forward.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

My knees nearly give out. With one last step, the man shoves me forward.

No, no. The fear of falling into a pit of nothingness grips me, and I scream once again, terrified and silent. As if God has heard me, I am met with a hard, unforgiving surface. With the blindfold still tight over my eyes, I cannot see, but I hear movement. Steps. Rustling fabric. Someone clearing their throat. Someone else is here. I try to get back up on my feet, but the same hands land on my shoulder, keeping me down, on my knees, as a cold laugh rolls through the darkness, bouncing on the walls, so much so that I do not know up from down, south from north.

“Well,” a man says, his voice young, masculine. “I think I understand what the fuss was all about.” An accent colors his intonation, amusement carrying in his voice. “A pretty little thing he got himself,” he mutters. Protecting myself with my arms crossed over my chest, I bite the inside of my cheeks, terror pulsing in my veins. What is going to happen? How will Tristan find me? The presence comes closer, until I can feel fingers untying the knot behind my hair.

Brightness blinds me as my hand covers my eyes, burned by the bright neon lighting. The man behind me seems to have retreated, and I am now facing someone. My eyes take a minute to adjust to my surroundings. It is not a large basement. This is…a cell. The same size as my bedroom, with one single neon light on the ceiling, concrete from top to bottom, empty of everything. There is no chair, no table, no nothing. Two meters from me stands a man wearing a black suit, his back resting on the opposite wall, his shiny loafers contrasting with the spartan surroundings. He’s around Tristan’s height but far less muscular, his frame leaner and less imposing. A snake is tattooed across his right hand, coiled around a dagger. His hair is nothing like Tristan’s clean, short cut. It’s long enough for him to rake his fingers through, the greasy strands combed back and brushing his earlobes. His nose is straight, his chin oddly short. But his eyes, small and black, hold the promise of hellfire in their depths. A monster dressed like a gentleman.

“You must wonder why you are here, Ella?” He waves at me, mentioning my name like this is common knowledge, like we know each other, before crossing his arms nonchalantly. “I have spent the last decade trying to find Ashford’s Achilles’ heel, so imagine my surprise when your stepmother, who could not repay her debt to me, told me that you were quite close to Tristan Ashford. That your sister, Emily, I believe, had seen him drive you to the end of the street one day, thinking no one had seen you. Tristan Ashford, driving back home a young, pretty thing like you? Ah, of course he’s smitten. After digging, I found out that he was meeting you late at night at his office, and well, not only is your stepmother now debt-free since she traded you, but I am also going to have all of Tristan’s assets, company, territories, everything he built, his legacy, his fortune, his houses and yacht. Because you see…if he wants to get you, he’ll have to trade everything he ever had.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “So I hope your love is strong, little birdy, because that is the only chance you will have. He’ll lose everything to get you, and even then…if I do not change my mind before. Imagine if you’re not worth it? Ah.” He scoffs with a short, cold laugh. “So…for both our sakes, let’s hope he loves you very dearly.” His words run like snow over me, numbing my hopes and dreams. Yes, Tristan likes me, but would he lose everything he has ever built and owned for me? No, of course not. I am just a maid he is fond of, nowhere near someone he would burn the world for. “I’m gonna go now, and you are going to undress, and Nikolai,” he says, pointing behind me, “Nikolai is going to take care of you so we can send a pretty video of you to your boyfriend.” What? No. I will not let this man touch me. Rounding my side, the man in a suit stops. His palms rub against each other, as if he is making fire. “How rude of me. I am Cole, by the way. Cole Vodianov.” His hand finds my chin, lifting it up to his gaze. “And if Tristan does not come for you, love, trust me, I will keep you to myself.” My blood turns cold as Nikolai comes into view. The door behind us opens and closes again, the sound of a lock echoing loud and clear.

I try to get away from his grip, fighting this mountain of a man, his face stern and unmoving like a damn robot. He is tall and huge, missing an ear; his khaki jacket and pants look like a military uniform, but his hair is too long and smells like petrol and dirt, and his face seems beaten too many times, features smushed and distorted. He looks like a man who's been in situations I wouldn't dare step into, even in a nightmare. I take a chance at putting my fist in his face, but he grunts, overpowering me with the sigh of a tired man holding a mouse in his hand. The next second, his hand collides with my brow, and everything turns black.

A minute passes.