Darkness.
Not a gentle darkness.
A thick, heavy, suffocating blanket of it.
My first thought is a clinical one.
Amnesia.
Drug-induced loss of consciousness.
Then, the memory hits me.
A flash of tweed.
The chilling, triumphant smile.
The sweet, chemical smell on a cloth.
Harrison.
My eyes fly open.
The darkness remains.
I'm lying on something firm.
A scratchy blanket is pulled up to my chin.
My head is pounding, a dull, throbbing ache behind my eyes.
I try to sit up, my muscles screaming in protest.
I am Dr. Elara Voss.
I am a trauma specialist.
I am a kidnap victim.
The roles war inside my head, my clinical brain fighting against a rising tide of pure, primal terror.
Okay.
Assess.
Orient.
I'm in a small room.
The air is cool and still.
It smells of antiseptic and dust.
I swing my legs over the side of the cot I'm lying on.
My feet touch a cold, concrete floor.
I stand up, my body swaying.
I reach my hands out, feeling my way through the blackness.
My fingers touch a wall.
It's smooth.
Cold.
I follow it, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I find a corner.
Then another wall.
Then a door.
I feel for a knob.
My hand closes around it.
It's cold, heavy metal.
I turn it.
It doesn't budge.
Locked.
Of course, it's locked.
A wave of panic, hot and dizzying, threatens to pull me under.
I fight it down.
I will not be a hysterical victim.
I will not give him that satisfaction.
I am not his patient.
I am not his tool.
I am his enemy.
And I need to find a way out of here.
(The following section is from Theo's perspective)
An hour.
She's been gone for an hour.
She was just going to his office.
To confront him.
To get answers.
It was a stupid, reckless, brave thing to do.
And I let her go alone.
I pace the length of the glass wall in my living room.
The sun is setting, but I don't see it.
All I see is her face when she realized the truth about Harrison.
That fierce, determined fire in her eyes.
I pull out my phone and call her.
Straight to voicemail.
"You've reached Dr. Elara Voss. Please leave a message."
Her voice is calm, professional.
A ghost from a life that feels a million miles away.
I call again.
Voicemail.
Again.
Voicemail.
A cold, familiar dread coils in my gut.
This is how it starts.
The not knowing.
The silence.
The waiting for a call from a coroner.
No.
Not again.
I will not lose her.
I dial Dmitri.
He answers on the first ring.
"She's gone," I say, my voice a low growl. "She went to Harrison's office in Pasadena an hour ago. She's not answering her phone."
"Understood," Dmitri says, his voice calm. "Sending a team to the location now."
"Not yet," I snap. "I go first. Activate it."
"Sir?"
"Activate the tracker on her phone. Now."
There's a beat of silence.
I had Dmitri install a location tracker on her phone after the paparazzi swarm in Vegas.
A discreet bit of software she would never notice.
It was a controlling, paranoid, unforgivable invasion of her privacy.
And it might be the only thing that saves her life.
"Activating now, sir," Dmitri says.
A map appears on my tablet a second later.
A single, pulsing blue dot.
Her phone.
It's not at Harrison's office building.
It's pinging from a different address.
A private residence in a secluded, wooded area a few miles away.
His home.
He took her to his home.
"I'm sending you the address," I say to Dmitri, my voice cold with fury. "Have your team meet me there. No sirens. No lights. We go in quiet. Wait for my signal."
I grab my keys from the bowl by the door.
My hands are steady.
My mind is clear.
The grief is gone.
The fear is gone.
All that's left is a singular, burning purpose.
Harrison has made a grave mistake.
He thinks he's taken a pawn.
He has no idea he's just taken the only thing in the world I have left to lose.
And I will burn his entire world to the ground to get her back.
(Elara's perspective resumes)
The lock on the door clicks.
A sliver of light appears.
The door swings open.
Harrison stands there.
He's holding a small tray. On it is a glass of water and a plate with a single, sad-looking sandwich.
He's smiling.
The same calm, paternal smile from my nightmares.
"I thought you might be hungry," he says, as if this is a perfectly normal situation.
As if he didn't just drug me and throw me in his basement.
"What do you want, Alistair?" I ask, my voice hard.
"What I've always wanted, my dear," he says, stepping into the room and placing the tray on a small table. "For justice to be served."
"By kidnapping me?"
"You're not a prisoner, Elara," he says, his voice a soothing lie. "You're bait."
The word hangs in the air.
Cold.
Sharp.
"Theo will be worried about you," he continues, his eyes gleaming with a mad, triumphant light. "He will come for you. He's predictable in that way. His savior complex is his greatest weakness."
He walks around the small room, his hands clasped behind his back.
"And when he gets here… he will find this room empty. He will find your phone. He will find a note, in your handwriting, confessing to our affair."
My blood runs cold.
"He will fly into a jealous rage. A tragic, violent outburst. And in that rage… he will make you disappear."
I stare at him, the full, horrifying scope of his plan crashing down on me.
He's not just going to frame Theo for my kidnapping.
He's going to frame him for my murder.
"He destroyed my chance to save Sarah," Harrison hisses, his calm facade finally cracking. "He took her from me. So now, I will take you from him. It's poetic, don't you think? He will be destroyed by the very thing he prides himself on."
"His need to save the brilliant, ambitious woman with a soft spot for broken things."
He leaves.
The door locks behind him.
I am alone with the sad sandwich and the full, terrifying weight of his insanity.
I am bait.
A pawn in the final move of his twisted, years-long chess game.
My eyes dart around the room, frantically searching for an escape.
For a weapon.
For anything.
The door is solid steel.
The walls are thick concrete.
There are no windows.
My eyes adjust to the dim light filtering in from the hallway.
And I start to notice the details of my prison.
It's not just a basement.
The walls are painted a soft, calming shade of blue.
The floor is not just concrete, it's sealed and polished.
And across from the cot I woke up on… there is a single, comfortable-looking armchair.
Positioned perfectly.
For a session.
My heart stops.
I know this layout.
I know this design.
This isn't a storage room.
This isn't a cellar.
I look at the walls again.
They're not just concrete.
They're soundproofed.
The horrifying realization hits me with the force of a physical blow.
I am in a purpose-built therapy room.
A private, soundproofed clinic.
A place designed for healing, for trust, for vulnerability.
And he has turned it into my cage.