The first thing Aria felt was cold marble beneath her cheek.
Then the ache in her head.
Then the quiet.
She opened her eyes to light—soft, gold, unfamiliar. For a moment she thought she'd dreamed everything: the alley, the gunshot, those eyes. But the faint smell of smoke and leather told her otherwise.
She sat up slowly. The room was far too beautiful to belong to a kidnapper—wide windows opening to the skyline, sheer curtains breathing in the wind. The floor glowed with evening reflections from the city below.
Someone had changed her clothes; she was in a clean white shirt, loose around her shoulders. Her throat tightened.
Where am I?
A low hum of conversation came from beyond the double doors. She moved quietly, bare feet against the cool floor, and pressed her ear to the crack.
Two men were speaking.
"…we should move her to the estate, Demian. The city's too exposed."
His voice answered—low, calm, and cutting through her like smoke.
"No. She stays where I can see her."
Her pulse jumped.
Demian.
The name felt like a curse and a heartbeat all at once.
She backed away, searching for anything that looked like an exit. The room had one large door—guarded, obviously—and a balcony with glass sliding panels. When she tried them, they were locked from the outside. But she saw a narrow service ledge running along the side of the building, ending near a fire escape a few floors down.
Her hands trembled.
It was insane, but staying was worse.
She pulled a chair under the window, climbed up, and started working at the latch with a hairpin from her pocket. It took a minute, but the lock finally clicked. She slid the glass open just enough to feel the rush of night air.
And then—
"You're braver than I thought."
She froze.
Demian was leaning against the doorframe, jacket gone, sleeves rolled to the elbow. The city lights caught on the edge of his watch, the faint scar at his jaw. He didn't look angry—just curious, like a predator watching its prey decide whether to run.
Aria forced herself to speak.
"You can't keep me here."
He stepped closer, his voice still quiet.
"If I let you go, they'll find you before dawn. The man you saw die had brothers. They won't ask questions before pulling a trigger."
She shook her head. "So I'm supposed to trust the man who kidnapped me?"
"No." He stopped a few feet away. "You're supposed to stay alive."
The words hung there, heavier than the air between them.
Demian turned away, walked to the minibar, and poured a glass of water. He placed it on the table near her without looking.
"Drink. You were drugged to keep you from panicking. It wasn't my idea."
"Whose then?"
He glanced over his shoulder. "Mine. I don't like screaming."
She almost laughed from the sheer absurdity of it. Instead she backed away from the window and sank onto the edge of the bed.
He studied her for a long moment, then said quietly,
"You wanted a story, didn't you? That's what journalists do—dig until they bleed. Congratulations. You found one."
She lifted her chin. "And what happens when I publish it?"
A small, humorless smile touched his mouth.
"Then you'll need a second life to enjoy the fame."
The silence stretched until her hands began to shake again. He noticed. His tone softened—not much, but enough to sound almost human.
"Eat something. Rest. Don't touch the balcony again."
When he left, two guards took position outside. The heavy doors shut with a metallic click.
Aria sat in the quiet, staring at the glass of water until her reflection blurred. The skyline glittered beyond the window like a cage made of light.
She thought of the story she'd wanted—exposing corruption, bringing justice.
Now she was the headline: Unknown Woman Missing After Mafia Shootout.
Her eyes drifted to the balcony again. The wind tugged at the curtains.
Somewhere below, car engines started. Voices. Orders.
She crept back to the door and pressed her ear against it.
Demian's voice again, sharper now.
"They know. Move her in ten minutes. No mistakes."
A man asked, "Should we wake her?"
"No," Demian said. "If she runs again, I'll handle it myself."
Her stomach turned cold. Whoever they were, this was bigger than her.
She stepped back, heart hammering. For the first time she understood—this wasn't just about a photograph. She'd fallen straight into a war, and Demian Volkov wasn't her only hunter.