The engine's roar faded behind me, leaving only the thrum of my own heartbeat and the uneasy shuffle of the kidnappers around me. The car smelled of leather and gasoline, mingling with a faint hint of fear that wasn't entirely mine. My hands were bound in front of me, wrists chafing, and a thin scarf bit at my neck.
This is real, I reminded myself, gripping the edges of my shirt beneath the restraints. Not a nightmare, not a test, not something I can wake up from.
The taller one leaned close, his voice low but sharp. "Boss wants her alive. Keep her quiet and we'll get paid."
I swallowed, nodding silently. My chest ached, not from the bindings, but from the helplessness I felt. Why me?
It wasn't the first time I'd been powerless. Abandoned at six, thrust into a house where my only crime was existing, punished by Liam, ignored by everyone but John—every humiliation, every injustice had built a layer inside me that kept me alive now. That quiet, stubborn part of me that refused to break.
You survived the Smiths. You survived worse. You'll survive this.
The kidnappers spoke in murmurs, occasionally glancing back to ensure I hadn't tried anything. Their movements were precise, practiced, like this wasn't their first job. I studied them, noting which one seemed twitchy, which one was calm, who had a scar above the eye. Knowledge was power—even here.
Memories floated unbidden, piercing the tense silence. I remembered Liam's hands on me, cold and demanding, yet impossibly familiar. I remembered the moments I had felt his obsession, the way his eyes always tracked me, the way his presence both terrified and ignited something I didn't understand.
Focus, I told myself. This is not Liam. This is reality.
Yet I couldn't deny it—the memory of him, of all that he had claimed, lingered in my chest like a warning and a comfort at the same time. And then John—sweet, patient John, who had never crossed the line yet had given me the one sliver of hope in that suffocating house.
The van came to a sudden stop, jolting me against the seat. "We're here," one of them said. My stomach twisted.
The door opened. Light spilled in, blinding after the darkness of the interior. My eyes adjusted slowly, scanning the area: concrete walls, steel beams, the faint hum of security cameras. I was somewhere unknown. Somewhere meant to keep me trapped.
"Stay quiet," the taller one hissed. "You don't want to wake the boss."
I nodded again. My pulse raced. My mind spun—not with panic, exactly, but with planning. I couldn't fight them head-on. I wasn't strong enough. But I could watch, I could listen, I could remember. And maybe, just maybe, I could turn this into an advantage.
As they moved away to prepare the room, I sank to the cold floor. The chill seeped through my clothes and into my bones, reminding me I was alive. I hugged my knees, letting my head rest lightly against them.
I've survived cold floors before. I've survived worse than fear. I can do this.
My thoughts wandered again, reluctantly, to my past. My parents' eyes the day they left me at the orphanage, the cold indifference of the world around me when I had nowhere to go, and the faint warmth of my grandfather's hug. I drew strength from those memories, those brief moments when someone had seen me for more than my misfortunes.
Hold onto that, Fiona.
The footsteps returned, closer now. One of the men carried a tray with water and bread, placing it just out of reach. "Eat," he said. I hesitated, then forced myself to nibble, refusing to show fear. They watched me like hawks.
And then—a shadow across the room. The one they referred to as "the boss" had arrived. I didn't look up. I didn't want to see the face of the person controlling my fate.
The room felt smaller, tighter, oppressive. I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. All I could do was breathe, shallow and quick, and wait.
I thought about escape. Routes, angles, weak points I'd noticed during the van ride. Small things: how the shorter kidnapper shifted his weight, which way the locks on the doors opened. One mistake and I run. One chance and I take it.
But I also thought about Liam. Where are you now? The thought felt almost like a heartbeat. I hated myself for thinking of him in this place, in this moment, when survival was supposed to be all that mattered. And yet, I could not stop. His obsession, his claims over me, the dark intimacy we shared… it made me remember that I was never truly alone in my struggles.
The kidnappers discussed plans in the corner, unaware that I had already begun noting every detail. Names, tones, glances, movements. I would survive this. I would.
A sudden sound—a door slamming—snapped me out of my reverie. One of the kidnappers cursed, pacing the floor. "She's tougher than we thought."
I tilted my head, listening. Yes. I am.
The rest of the night passed in tense observation. I counted, memorized, and waited. Every movement of the captors, every muttered word, every creak of the floor became a part of my mental map. I could not yet escape, but I would be ready.
And somewhere deep inside, a small part of me clung to hope—hope that someone would come. Someone who would not negotiate. Someone who would not leave me to chance.
It has to be Liam.
The thought surprised me. Not because I trusted him, but because the memory of him, the obsession in his eyes, the promises hidden in his dark silences, had carved itself into my mind. And now, in this moment of helplessness, I realized—he would come. He would find me.
As dawn approached, the kidnappers fell into a predictable rhythm. I adjusted my position on the cold floor, suppressing every tremor, every whisper of fear. I had survived worse. I would survive this too.
And somewhere in the shadows of captivity, I promised myself one thing: I would be ready when the storm arrived.
Because I knew it would.