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I brace myself for violence—for him to pull a gun, put his hands around my throat… whatever method they've chosen. But he just stands there, looking at me with those cold eyes, his expression unreadable.

"Sit down," he says. His accent is thicker than I remember, the words slightly clipped.

I don't move. I can't. My legs feel like they're made of concrete.

"Sit," he repeats. It's not a request.

I sink onto the edge of the bed, my hands gripping the mattress to keep them from shaking. He stays by the door, his posture relaxed but alert, like a predator that doesn't need to rush because the prey has nowhere to go.

"You heard gunshots," he says. There’s no question in his words.

I nod, not trusting my voice.

"You think you are next."

Another nod.

Something that might be amusement flickers across his face, but it's gone too quickly to be sure. "You are not next."

The words don't register at first. I stare at him, waiting for the punchline, the twist, the moment when he reveals this is just psychological torture before the end.

"You are worth more alive than dead," he continues, his tone businesslike and clinical. "Specifically, you are worth a ransom."

Ransom.The word hangs in the air between us.

"Your father is a billionaire," he says. "I’m told he is a very wealthy man. He will pay to get you back."

Relief floods through me so suddenly and completely that I feel lightheaded. I'm not going to die. Not right now. Not today. They want money, not my life. The repetition of it, here and now, when I thought for sure that they had changed their minds, makes it feel more real. As long as my father pays, I will be fine…and why wouldn’t he? My father isn’t the warmest man in the world, but I do know he loves me. And he’s poured immense amounts of money into my schooling and comfort. He wouldn’t refuse to pay when it means my life.

I try desperately to hide the relief and keep my face neutral, but I'm not sure I succeed. His eyes narrow slightly, like he can read every emotion crossing my features.

"Here is how this works," he says, pulling a folded piece of paper and a pen from his pocket. "You write a letter to your father. You will tell him you are alive, you are unharmed, and that you will be returned safely in exchange for money. You sign it, and I will call so he can speak to you, then send it to him. He pays. You go home." He sets the paper and pen on the dresser, his movements precise and controlled.

"It’s that simple," he adds. "A business transaction. Nothing personal."

I find my voice finally, though it comes out rougher than I'd like. "You're serious."

His lips thin. "Da. Yes. Very serious."

"And you think my father will actually pay?" The question comes out before I can stop it, edged with the slightest bit of defiance. I don’t know where it comes from… maybe it’s just frustration, for him keeping me waiting for so long when he never intended to do anything other than follow through on his original discussion of ransom. "For someone as unimportant as me?"

His eyes lock onto mine, and his eyes narrow slightly. His gaze sweeps over me, and even though there’s nothing but ice in it, I feel a prickling across my skin. The way he looks at me, with so much intensity, makes my heart beat a little faster despite myself. This man seems as though he does nothing halfway.Nothing.

"You are his daughter," he says flatly. "He will pay."

"You don't know my father."Why am I still talking back to him?It’s like I can’t leave well enough alone. Like I can’t help but needle him, try to put him on the back foot the way he’s made me feel all day now. “Maybe he doesn’t give a shit about me.”

The man raises an eyebrow. “You are his only child. I doubt that is the case. But if it is, and he refuses—” He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Then it is a good thing that bullets are cheap, and you don’t look like you eat much. I won’t lose much money on you.”

I stare at him, dumbfounded. Panic threads through me at the casual way he talks about killing me, but I refuse—I fuckingrefuse—to let him see it. “You wouldn’t kill a woman.”

His expression tightens. “You have no idea who I am.”

I lick my lips nervously as the panic builds. I don’t want to break in front of this man. I don’t want him to see how afraid I am. “You’re right,” I manage. “I don’t. That doesn’t seem fair, does it? I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s unwise. You already know too much.”

I shrug, breathing slowly, in through my nose and out through my mouth, still as I try to appear unbothered. “Well, I know your face, so what’s your name, added to that? How do you know if you ransom me, I just won’t go to the police afterward?”Oh my God, shut the fuck up, Liesl.But I can’t seem to stop.