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They're cleaning up loose ends. I'm the wrong woman. I heard them talking, saw their faces, and can identify at least some of them. I'm a witness to a kidnapping, to whatever criminal operation they're running.

Of course, they're going to kill me.

They’ll get the money from my father and then kill me anyway.

The logical part of my brain tries to push back.They moved you to this nice room instead of leaving you tied to a chair. That means something.But the terrified part—the part that just heard three people die—drowns out the logic.They were just keeping you comfortable until they decided what to do with you. Now they've decided.

I check the door again. Still locked.

I go to the window and look outside. It’s a beautiful afternoon out—clear blue skies, sunny. The landscaping on this estate is gorgeous. I’m trapped in a picture book, and somehow that makes it feel even more like horror.

By now, Isabelle will have realized I’m not coming and that I’m not answering my texts. She will have called someone—the police, maybe, but I don’t have much hope for help from that department. Men with criminal organizations like this pay the police off, don’t they? Undoubtedly, they won’t look too hard if they do track down who has me. And I can’t imagine they’ll even get that far anytime soon. It’s New York. I could be anywhere.

The room has a bathroom attached, equally luxurious, with marble counters, expensive fixtures, and fluffy towels. I go in there and splash cold water on my face, trying to calm down and think clearly. My reflection in the mirror looks pale, and my hair is disheveled from running my hands through it.

I look terrified. I am terrified.

"Think," I tell my reflection. "Think strategically. What do you know?"

I know they grabbed me by mistake. I know the handsome man with the blue eyes—the one who said "this isn't the right woman"—is in charge. I know they moved me here instead of killing me immediately, after discussing how much I might be worth.

My hands are shaking. I grip the edge of the marble counter and force myself to breathe. In through my nose, out through my mouth. The way my yoga instructor taught me, back when my biggest concern was whether I could hold the crow pose for thirty seconds.

That was yesterday. That was a lifetime ago.

I go back into the main room and sit on the edge of the bed. Then I stand up again and pace to the window. Back to the door. To the bathroom. Back to the window.

The sun sinks lower. The light in the room changes from afternoon to evening, and no one comes. No one opens the door or tells me anything.

The silence starts to feel worse than the gunshots were.

I’m hungry, but my stomach is tied up in so many knots that I can’t imagine how I could eat. I’m also terribly thirsty. If they were going to ransom me instead of killing me—really give me back to my father—then wouldn’t they feed me and give me water?

Maybe they're waiting until dark to move me. Maybe they're digging a grave somewhere. Maybe they're arguing about the best way to dispose of a body. Maybe?—

Stop it,I tell myself firmly.Stop catastrophizing. You don't know anything yet.

But not knowing is almost worse than knowing. At least if I knew what was coming, I could prepare for it. I could brace myself. I could?—

What? What could I possibly do?

I'm powerless here. Completely, utterly powerless. I can't fight my way out. Can't talk my way out. Can't buy my way out, unless they follow through and ask my father for a ransom. All the money in the world, all my father's billions, and none of it matters because I'm locked in this room with no way to access any of it unless they let me talk to the one man who can help me.

I pace back to the window and press my forehead against the cool glass. The sun is almost gone, just a sliver of orange on the horizon.

I hear footsteps in the hallway outside. My entire body goes rigid. The footsteps are heavy, deliberate, coming closer… and then they stop outside my door. They sound like the boss, from earlier, when he came into the office, and I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

My heart is pounding so hard I feel dizzy. There's nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The room is a cage, and I'm trapped in it. The lock clicks and the door opens.

And he walks in.

It’s the man from earlier, as I thought—the one in charge. I catch a glimpse of three men out in the hallway, dressed in tactical clothing and carrying weapons, before the door closes and it’s just him and me.

How is he so handsome?

The thought is ridiculous, but I can’t help it. In my mind, a man like this, one who kidnaps women and shoots men and demands ransoms, who runs a criminal organization, would be ugly. But this man is movie-star handsome. He’s tall and lean, and he’s changed clothes since I saw him last. He’s wearing slim-cut suit trousers now and a button-down shirt. When he moves, I can see the muscles flex beneath the fabric, and my eyes catch on the tattoos climbing out of his collar and cuffs, up his neck, over his hands.

His eyes are wintry blue, and hard as chips of ice. His presence fills the room the same way it did before, commanding and cold. He has a sharp jaw, strong features, a full mouth, and a straight nose.It’s never been broken,I think, which feels like another nonsensical bit of information that doesn’t matter at all right now.