The screaming downstairs had started as muffled, angry, desperate shouts, but when the gunshot cracked through the air, sharp and unmistakable, Amira's entire body went rigid. She let out a strangled scream, her hands flying to her mouth as she scrambled backward on the bed, yanking the duvet around herself like armor.
Her heart didn't just race; it thrashed against her ribcage, each beat so violent she could feel it in her throat, her temples, and behind her eyes.
This is it. This is how I die.
The thought came unbidden, cold and certain, and with it came the flood of regret. Every decision she'd made in the past two years cycled through her mind in rapid succession: leaving her mother's house, dropping out of college, chasing the lifestyle she'd seen on Instagram, and believing that men like Daniel came without strings attached.
She should have stayed. She should have been smarter. She should have chosen safety over ambition and stability over the intoxicating taste of champagne and designer labels.
She should have stayed with Daniel, she would have been safe; now she was a pathetic loser who had lost all round and was about to pay with her life for her stupidity.
Unfortunately, wishes were not horses, she wasn't with Daniel. She was alone in a hotel room that reeked of stale cigarettes and cheap air freshener, wearing nothing but her own desperation.
Her clothes, the good ones, the ones that made her feel like she belonged in rooms like this, were at the dry cleaners. The replacements she'd ordered online hadn't arrived. So here she was: naked, hungover, and utterly defenseless. The whisky she'd downed the night before to quiet her anxiety now sloshed in her stomach like poison, making her head pound and her vision swim.
She sobbed quietly, pressing her face into the duvet, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Please, God. Please. I'll do better. I'll be better. Just get me out of this.
Then came the bang.
"OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW!"
The voice was male, authoritative, and absolutely terrifying. Amira's entire body seized. She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle the whimper that threatened to escape and pressed herself against the headboard, willing herself to disappear into the wallpaper.
Maybe they'll think no one's here. Maybe they'll leave if she stayed really quiet.
Silence. Five seconds. Ten.
"OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW OR I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL BREAK IT DOWN!"
Her lungs burned. She realized she hadn't taken a breath. She didn't dare. Every muscle in her body was coiled tight, trembling with the effort of staying absolutely still.
Then the pounding started.
Heavy. Rhythmic. Each impact sent a shudder through the doorframe, and Amira could hear the wood beginning to crack. Splinters. The door was splintering.
Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God.
Her phone. Where was her phone?
Her hand shot out, scrambling across the nightstand, knocking over an empty glass and a bottle of aspirin before her fingers closed around the cool metal. She yanked it toward her, nearly dropping it in her panic, and with shaking hands, she unlocked the screen and dialed 911.
The line rang. Once. Twice.
The pounding grew louder and more violent. She could see the door buckling inward now, the lock straining against the frame.
Three rings.
And then, warmth. Humiliating, shameful warmth spreading beneath her. She looked down in horror as the realization hit: she'd lost control of her bladder. The duvet beneath her was soaked, the smell of urine was sharp and unmistakable.
No. No, no, no—
"911, what's your emergency?"
The door exploded inward.
Ten men, massive, broad-shouldered, and dressed in black tactical gear, poured into the room like a flood. Amira screamed, clutching the phone to her ear as her voice cracked with terror.
"PLEASE HELP ME! I'M ABOUT TO BE ROBBED! THEY'RE IN MY ROOM; PLEASE SEND SOMEONE! THEY'RE GOING TO—"
A hand shot out, massive and gloved, and ripped the phone from her grasp. The line went dead.
"Please don't kill me," she sobbed, her voice barely a whisper. She couldn't look up. Couldn't bear to see the faces of the men who were going to hurt her, rob her, or maybe worse. "Please. I'm an only child. It's just me and my mom. Please, you can take everything. I don't care. I didn't look at your faces. Please Just don't—"
"Amira, what the fuck?"
Her head snapped up as relief suddenly flooded through her in waves such that she sobbed; she would have thrown herself at him if not for the little accident earlier.
Daniel.
He stood in the center of the wreckage, his dark hair disheveled, his jaw clenched so tight she could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin. Behind him, Chase and James flanked him like bodyguards, their expressions unreadable. The other seven men, his security detail, she realized with dawning horror, stood in a semicircle around the bed, their eyes fixed on her with a mixture of confusion and something else she couldn't name.
"Where the fuck have you been, Amira?" Daniel's voice was low and dangerous. "I've been looking for you all over the city."
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her throat had closed up entirely. All she could do was sit there, wrapped in a urine-soaked duvet, her mascara streaking down her cheeks, her hair a tangled mess, and wish the floor would open up and swallow her whole.
"I—" she croaked, then stopped. What could she possibly say?
Chase shifted his weight, his gaze flicking to the wet spot spreading across the bed, then quickly away. James coughed and studied the ceiling. None of the other men said a word, but she could feel their judgment like a physical weight pressing down on her.
"Please," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Give me a minute to get dressed."
"So you can pull another stunt like this?" Daniel took a step closer, his eyes blazing. "Disappear again? Make me tear this entire city apart looking for you?"
"I'm naked under this blanket," she hissed, humiliation burning through her like acid. "And you scared me so badly that I—" She couldn't say it. Couldn't force the words past her lips. "Just give me a minute to clean up."
Daniel's expression didn't soften. "You can do that at home."
Before she could protest, he closed the distance between them, scooped her up, blanket, shame, and all, and lifted her into his arms like she weighed nothing. She made a small sound of protest, but he ignored her, turning toward the door.
"Get her things," he barked at one of the body guards. "And someone call housekeeping. Tell them to send the bill to my office."
Then he deposited her on the back seat of the car; he and Chase sat beside her as if trying to prevent her from making a run for it, while James sat in the passenger seat. The ride back to the penthouse was silent except for the hum of the engine and the muffled sound of traffic outside. Amira sat rigid in the backseat, still wrapped in the blanket, staring at nothing.