Page 119 of The Betrothal

I swallowed heavily, feeling a surge of cold dread. I didn’t know this man. I had no guarantee that I wasn’t about to disappear, properly.

A sense of resignation followed. I had little to no choice.

Slowly I stripped away the coat, keeping on the hat. It was one thing for my heavy layers to scream ‘look at me’ but something that said ‘look at me’ more? That was the distinctly silver hair of a nationally sought-after missing woman.

“Toilets?” I asked when Christian returned, placing an orange juice in front of me and a glass of amber liquid on ice before him.

Drinking before noon, a great sign. I looked between the glass and him, and his lip curled. We were not about to be firm friends.

“Towards the bar, door on the left.” Christian’s phone was out, him having dismissed me.

Standing unsteadily, I made my way out. Fortunately, not having to work my way through the main bar, I located the thankfully empty toilets where I took a moment to compose myself.

This was finally happening. I had no idea what to think, but one thing I knew was that I was scared. Really, deeply, frightened.

I splashed some water on my face, dabbing at it gently with a coarse paper towel when the door swung inwards. A woman, roughly my age, entered and slowed when she saw me. She hesitated before smiling nervously, then she turned and scurried out.

Odd. This endless ride with Christian couldn’t come soon enough.

Having used the bathroom and pulled myself together, slightly, I emerged back into the hall, wandering back through to the back room of the pub.

“Excuse me, miss?”

I slowed, the hairs on my neck rising slightly. I could see the edge of Christian’s table, so I stepped forwards, ignoring the voice.

“Miss?”

I paused. Christian had come into view, he remained lounged in the booth but his eyes were sharp, assessing. He watched the person behind me.

I took a steadying breath and turned slightly to bring the speaker into my line of sight.

Not one, but three men occupied the doorway into the main bar. They all wore dark clothing, not quite formal but certainly coordinated. A uniform of sorts.

“Miss,” the man spoke again. “Can you tell me your name?”

I embodied the composure I definitely didn’t feel, refusing to give them my full attention I remained only half facing them.

“No, because that would be none of your business,” I replied brusquely.

One of the men snorted at my reply, but the one who spoke bristled.

“It’s definitely her,” he spoke to his companions. “I’ve been looking at her photo for weeks. The woman was right, this is her.”

His companions shuffled towards me and I kept my gaze averted.

“Should we call MPIT? Missing persons are leading?” one of them asked as I forced myself not to visibly tense as my anxiety ramped up.

They had found me.

“Fuck MPIT,” the other snarled. “Think of the bonus. Miss.” They all stepped towards me. “If you’ll come this way, no need for a scene.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, if you don’t mind.” I stepped towards Christian, reaching for my belongings.

“I do, actually.” One man rounded me. “Sir, are you aware you’re in the company of a missing person?”

Christian’s jaw ground and I shook my head at him tightly.

“This man has no idea who I am, I met him ten minutes ago.” Not a lie. “And I’m not a missing person.” I yanked my belongings from the booth, feeling a dark danger seeping from Christian.