31. Elle
ELLE
The chicken is filling the apartment with a glorious aroma that makes my mouth water. I check on it again, pushing the Snowden abduction from my mind. I don’t know him, so I don’t care. He’s just another rich arsehole as far as I’m concerned. Callous, yes. But it falls under ‘not my problem’.
I close the oven door and wander back to the sofa, dropping into the cushions with a sigh.
The TV is still droning on about traffic and weather, nothing useful.
I flip through channels until I land on some cooking show where a chef is making pastry from scratch.
It’s oddly soothing to watch someone else work with their hands.
Restless, I get up, wondering why neither Tiernan nor Fintan has checked on me today. After last night, it’s the least I expected.
Trying not to let it get to me, I watch the cooking programme a bit longer, then get up to set a place for one at the kitchen island with those stupid balloon plates and wooden cutlery.
This is my life now. Eating off children’s party plates in a penthouse worth more than most people earn in a lifetime, waiting for men who may or may not come back.
The timer on the oven beeps, and I grab the oven mitts, and pull out the tray. The chicken is golden brown, the skin crispy and perfect. The vegetables are roasted to perfection. I set it on the counter and just look at it for a moment.
The accomplishment settles over me, and it’s sad that it matters so much. But it does. It’s the first thing I’ve controlled in days.
I struggle to carve myself a generous portion of chicken and pile the vegetables and potatoes beside it.
I drizzle gravy over everything, and it sloshes dangerously close to the edge of the small, flimsy plate.
I sit down at the island and cut into the chicken with the wooden knife.
“Ridiculous,” I mutter, but I manage to get a piece free.
The first bite is heaven—crispy skin, tender meat, perfectly seasoned.
I close my eyes and let myself have this small victory.
The silence presses in again as I eat. Nothing but the low murmur of the television in the background. I glance at the clock on the wall. Where are they?
I tell myself I don’t care, and that I’m perfectly fine on my own. That I don’t need them checking on me like I’m some fragile thing that might shatter without supervision.
But the lie tastes worse than the chicken tastes good.
I finish my meal and clean up, washing the plate and fork before tossing them in the recycling. The remaining chicken goes into the fridge, covered carefully.
I wander back to the sofa and curl up in the corner, pulling a throw blanket over my legs. The cooking show has ended, replaced by some old detective show.
My eyes drift closed, but I’m jolted awake by the sudden splatter of rain against the window. I try again, but I’ve been disturbed enough that sleep isn’t coming back easily. I sit up, rubbing my eyes and staring at the rain-slicked window. The city looks grey and miserable, matching my mood.
I stand and pace to the window, pressing my palm against the cool glass. The bracelet Fintan gave me catches the dim light, throwing tiny sparkles across the wall. I twist my wrist, watching them dance.
Where the hell are they?
The question gnaws at me more than I want to admit. After last night—after everything—I expected at least one of them to check in. To make sure I’m not losing my mind alone in this gilded cage.
My stomach tightens with a feeling I don’t want to name. It’s the old, familiar dread of being forgotten. Of not mattering enough to warrant attention once the novelty wears off.
“Stop it,” I mutter to myself. “You don’t need them.”
I turn away from the window and head for the study to find something to read. Anything to occupy my mind and stop this spiral.
The study is cold, and I wrap my arms around myself as I scan the shelves.
Leather-bound volumes line the walls, most of them looking like they’ve never been opened.
I run my finger along the spines, reading titles.
Classic literature mixed with business books and what looks like an entire collection on military strategy.
“Lovely,” I mutter. “Nothing says relaxation like The Art of War.”
I pull out a worn copy of Jane Eyre and flip through it. The pages are yellowed with age, and someone has made notes in the margins. The handwriting is neat, precise.
I take it back to the sofa and try to read, but the words blur together. My mind keeps wandering to Tiernan and Fintan. To Lorcan on his way to the Caymans. To Alex Snowden, who’s been snatched off the street.
I slam the book shut and toss it onto the coffee table.
This is driving me insane. The not knowing. The waiting.
I stare at the lift panel from the sofa.
Still red.
Still locked.
Still smug.
I get up and walk to it, pressing the button even though I already know nothing will happen. The panel stays red. No soft ding. No doors sliding open. No freedom.
I press it again.
Nothing.
My irritation grows. I jab the button a third time, then slap my palm against the metal panel. The impact stings. The red light doesn’t change.
“Let me out,” I mutter.
The penthouse answers with silence.
I turn away before I start screaming at a lift, which feels like the kind of breakdown I should save for later. I pace back into the living room, grab the remote, and flick the television off. The sudden quiet makes my skin crawl.
I switch it back on.
Then off again.
Then back on.
“For God’s sake,” I hiss and throw the remote onto the sofa.
I need my phone. I need access to the outside world. I need to know whether Fintan and Tiernan are ignoring me, are dead, or in the middle of some maybe-criminal bullshit that no one wants to explain because apparently, I am too precious for details and must be locked away for my own safety.
I get up and go to the lift again, because apparently, I’m now a woman who doesn’t know when to quit.
The red light stares back.
“I know,” I say to it. “You’re not changing.”
I jab the button anyway. It doesn’t respond. I could die up here, and the lift would still expect proper authorisation.
That thought hits me harder than I’d like, and I gulp, taking a step back.
As soon as I do that, the light goes green.
I blink to make sure I’m not imagining it.
I’m not. It’s green.
I’m rooted to the spot as there is a soft ding and the doors slide open.
Expecting Tiernan or Fintan or both of them to stride out, I’m startled to see it empty.
“Hello?” I whisper, and then cringe.
Nothing happens. No one replies. The lift doors stay open, a gaping maw to freedom that a few days ago I would’ve lunged for.
Now, I just stand there staring into the empty cubicle, a growing realisation dawning that it is a trap and there is currently no way out for me.