The Kidnapping
California had quieted in the early evening. The sky was painted in bruised purples and oranges, the last sunlight spilling over the streets. But my mind was anything but calm. Even after yesterday's chaos at the plaza, even after saving the little girl, something pressed against my chest—a weight I couldn't name. The sense that someone was watching, waiting.
I tried to ignore it, dismiss it as paranoia. Focus, I reminded myself. This was California. Freedom. Nothing else.
Then the sensation hit again—hair prickling at the nape of my neck, that subtle vibration of danger that made my stomach twist.
I froze.
Before I could move, a strong hand clamped over my mouth, muffling my scream. Another grabbed my arm, yanking me backward into a waiting van. Leather, faint cologne, tension. My heart slammed against my ribs, my pulse hammering against my skull.
"Let go of me!" I snapped, kicking instinctively, but they were professional. Precise. Efficient. Nothing sloppy, nothing haphazard. The kind of people you didn't challenge and lived to tell about it.
The van roared to life, tires squealing briefly as we sped through near-empty streets. My mind raced, calculating, analysing, planning. If I could reach my phone—no, impossible. It was in my bag, across the van. I scanned their faces quickly. Michael? No. These were strangers.
Hands. Darkness. Fear. Metallic taste on my tongue.
I clenched my jaw. Logic over panic. Panic got people killed. Logic gave survival a chance.
Somewhere else, Nicolas Easton had stepped out of a meeting at Easton Tower. His phone buzzed. He ignored it. Then the call came—a number he didn't recognize.
"What do you want?" he barked. Tension pulled at his jaw.
"You're keeping her away from me," a voice accused, sharp, demanding. "I want to see my daughter."
Nicolas' lips twisted into a humourless smirk. "Your daughter?" he said darkly. "Don't you dare call her your daughter."
"You signed your rights away after my brother's death. Don't call my number again," the voice warned. Nicolas slammed the phone down, throat tight, rage coiling like a snake inside him.
And still some small, dangerous part of him whispered her name: Lyra.
Back in the van, I kept my mind sharp. Hood over my head made the world blur, but I could see enough: one man adjusting his cuffs nervously, another with a faint tattoo curling up his wrist—a symbol I recognized from mercenaries trained in corporate extractions.
Corporate extractions. My stomach dropped.
They hadn't just targeted me for ransom or intimidation. Someone wanted me—specifically, and for reasons I couldn't yet name.
The van skidded to a stop. Hands grabbed me, dragging me into an expansive, cold mansion. Marble and polished wood filled my senses, mingled with faint cologne that spoke of wealth, power, and control.
I assessed the room, noting exits, shadows, patterns. My spine was rigid, my mind racing. Every instinct screamed caution.
Then the hood was ripped away.
Blinding light seared my eyes.
And there, across the room, sat an old man. Calm. Commanding. Immovable.
I straightened further. My voice was steady, cool, controlled. "You kidnapped the wrong woman."
He measured me, silent. "You speak boldly for someone restrained," he said.
"I speak honestly," I said, unflinching. "I have nothing to fear."
His eyes softened almost imperceptibly, and I noted it. Warmth was subtle—but it was there.
From the side, Michael who looked like Nicolas' right-hand man from the night after the charity gala stepped forward, hesitant. He wanted to intervene, to explain. But the patriarch silenced him with a single gesture.
"Enough!" the old man roared. "Who is responsible for this?"
A man stepped forward, head bowed. The patriarch's hand lifted, tempering his fury.
Then, a slow clap echoed behind the gathering.
My pulse quickened.
"I step away for five minutes," a voice drawled, smooth, controlled. "And return to a ruckus."
Nicolas appeared, tall, imposing, deliberate. His gaze found mine, and the world narrowed to that moment. Ice-cold eyes, storm contained behind control.
"So," he said, voice low and precise, "we meet again, Fairy."
Recognition, confusion, curiosity it sharpened the air between us.
"Wait…" I frowned, every nerve on alert. "Did you kidnap me?."
He tilted his head, amusement flickering in the dark depths of his expression. "What if I did?"
I bristled. "Why would you do that? What do you want from me?"
The old man watched quietly, amusement in the flicker of his eyes.
"I owe you an apology," he said finally, calm and authoritative. "The way you were treated goes against my principles."
"Also," The Patriarch had a hard time hiding his smirk, "I did the kidnapping. He wouldn't have been able to pull it off."
I assessed him, as I always did. Powerful. Intimidating. Warm, and a whole huggable teddy bear.
A whole feeling of self awareness jolted me out of my head space. The room was strangely quiet and then I forced a tiny grin despite the adrenaline still pulsing in my veins.
I shook my head slightly. "I said that out loud, didn't I?" The patriarch cracked a chuckle at me.
Nicolas didn't move. Didn't speak. But his presence was a storm controlled, predator-like. And yet, I was intrigued.
Minutes passed. The patriarch finally spoke. "I only wanted to grant Ariel's wish. She has spoken a lot about you since the incident. Her vitals are also doing strangely better since she met you."
My chest tightened at the name. Ariel the little girl I had saved yesterday. The fragile smile. The whispered words: fairy aunty.
Nicolas loomed behind me, calm, controlled, infuriating. My pulse quickened, nerves thrumming with his presence, though I refused to acknowledge it.
"You think this is simple?" I said, voice low, sharp, professional. "You think a few words and a smile erase what just happened?" I gulped again. "
He didn't answer. Only studied me, and I felt the unnerving weight of being completely seen.
California had promised freedom. Instead, it delivered peril, power, and a man whose every glance felt like both challenge and threat.
And I refused to look away.