Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 99917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
THREE
LILIAN
Asudden sharp pain lances across my forearm, carrying with it a burning sensation.
“Scream,” the younger man whispers, his breath hot against my ear. “Scream his name or I’ll make it hurt.”
My gaze catches on the glint of a blade and the butt of the knife in the man’s hand. He’s using the perfect amount of pressure to press the blade into my skin, but only deep enough to cut, not enough to do serious damage. A thin line of blood beads across my flesh, bright crimson against the paleness. The last thing I want to do is give them the satisfaction of using my fear against Aries and Arson, but I’m not stupid enough to test him.
If I don’t do what he wants, then he’ll ramp up the torture, and something tells me he’s good at torturing, especially with such cold eyes, ones that appear to be void of life. I’ve seen that look before—in board rooms, at charity galas, and in my mother’s eyes when she thinks no one is watching. To them, we’re expendable and replaceable in every sense.
“ARSON!” I scream, letting genuine fear and pain loose in my voice.
It’s not hard to do, especially because I am afraid. Not just of these men, but of what they represent—the hidden strings, the puppet masters behind the Hayes family drama. The ones who’ve been funding Arson’s revenge.
The phone is pulled away before I can say anything else, and a hand clamps down over my mouth. I taste salt and metal—sweat and the remnants of my own blood from when they first grabbed me by my tongue.
The room spins while my heart hammers against my ribs to the point of pain.
Breathe, Lilian. Steady. Don’t show them weakness.
My mother’s voice is in my head, as always. The constant narrator of my life, telling me how to act, how to feel, and how to breathe. Even now, miles away from her, she’s watching me through the lens of years of conditioning.
Back straight. Chin up. Hayes women don’t show fear.
The man with the phone—older, refined, and wearing an expensive watch—finishes the conversation and hangs up the phone. The subtle nod he gives his partner makes my stomach clench.
“Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Hayes,” he says, like we’ve just concluded a business meeting instead of a hostage negotiation.
The hand on my mouth disappears, and the knife moves away from my arm.
“Fuck you,” I spit, voice steadier than I feel.
He smiles, amused rather than offended. “Such foul language from a Hayes heiress. What would your mother say?”
“Probably that I should have used a more creative insult.”
He laughs, and the sound is genuine, which is somehow worse than anger would be. Like we’re playing a game with rules only he understands.
I peer around the room where I’m being kept. It looks like a corporate apartment—neutral colors, generic furniture, no personal touches. A gilded cage, but a cage nonetheless. The windows are blacked out, but I’m pretty sure we’re high up somewhere. The city sounds distant.
I’ve been here for hours, though it feels longer. My arms ache from the zip ties cutting into my wrists, and my head throbs where they grabbed me. Those things suck, but it’s the superficial stuff that bothers me most—the rub of my leggings at my ankles, the way my hair continues to fall into my eyes.
They’re the stupidest things to focus on when my life is in danger, but they’re the things I can control, even if only in my mind.
The man with the knife—younger, harder around the edges despite the expensive suit—watches me with open curiosity.
“What?” I snap at him.
“You’re not what I expected,” he retorts, head tilted slightly. “For someone with a supposedly fragile heart, you’ve got quite the spirit.”
I resist the urge to correct him about my condition. Let them think I’m weaker than I am. Mother taught me that, too—never reveal your full hand, especially to enemies.
“Sorry to disappoint,” I say instead.
The older man puts his phone away, adjusting his cuff links with practiced precision. There’s something familiar about him—something in the set of his jaw, and the way he holds himself. In the back of my head, there’s a memory, although it refuses to come forward. I’ve seen him before, somewhere on the periphery of my life.
One of Richard’s business associates? One of Mother’s countless friends?
“We have some time before our deadline,” he says, settling into an armchair across from me. “Perhaps we could use it productively.”
“If by productively, you mean interrogating me? No thanks.”
“Conversation, Miss Hayes. Civil discourse between interested parties.”
“Can you speak normally? If you wanted to have a civil conversation, kidnapping me wasn’t a good way to go about it.”
“It was a regrettable necessity.” He gestures to the younger man, who produces a first-aid kit and begins cleaning the cut on my arm.