Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
Thorne
I've been conquered in my own damn house. Outmaneuvered on a battlefield of my own design. Juno, or Linnea, as the asshole she brought into my home called her, has upended everything, made me the hunted, the victim, fucked over by a pair of con artists rather than doing the fucking.
My mouth is dry and bitter, and I grab the Macallan 12 and take a slug straight from the bottle.
I think of the contract, my own desperate gamble, which brought her into my orbit, and wonder how the money I was paying her wasn’t enough.
I’m certain anything she and her boyfriend might have robbed from me couldn’t be pawned for even close to that sum.
But perhaps this was all supposed to happen after she left, so she got two payouts.
I should hate her. I should want to crush her.
Part of me does, but another part is fucking hurt.
I got attached. Damn, I’m a fool.
I take another swig from the bottle, relishing the burn as it slides down my throat. It's not enough to numb the ache in my sternum or the bitter taste of betrayal on my tongue, though. I've been played, and the worst part is, I can't even bring myself to fully hate her for it.
My phone buzzes, and I glance at it with disinterest. It's George, the concierge, probably with some trivial matter that I can't be bothered with right now. I ignore it, but it rings again and again until I answer just to get rid of him.
"Sir, there's been an incident with Miss Juno. She’s been assaulted. Should we call the police?"
For a moment, I'm tempted to tell him to send her back to me, but I'm certain it's another fucking ploy. A game she and the dick play if things go wrong and she needs to pull on the heartstrings.
Well, too bad. I don’t have any.
“Call her a cab and send her home. She's not my problem anymore,” I tell an audibly shocked George.
I can hear Juno… no, that’s not her name - Linnea - in the background. She sounds despondent and defeated as she tells him not to worry. That she’ll make her own way home.
I swat away the twinge of concern that threatens to surface. It's all an act, I remind myself. Everything about her has been a lie.
I end the call and toss the phone onto the couch. My fingers itch to pick it back up, to call George and tell him I’ve changed my mind, but I resist. I've been weak enough already.
As a consolation, I walk to my office and turn to the bank of security monitors lining one wall.
Jun… Linnea really doesn’t know very much about me.
I’ve always kept this door locked when I was gone, and anything of value is in here, although I guess to a two-bit thief some of the stuff around the rest of the apartment looks like a good haul.
Hell, it probably is, but it’s nothing I’d miss.
But the fact is, I don’t just live in this penthouse, I own the building…
and my humble beginnings are enough that I’m a paranoid bastard.
Fuck that. It’s not even paranoia, it’s experience.
I know the kinds of hustles lowlifes pull because I’ve witnessed most of them firsthand.
Which is why all my businesses and properties are wired to the max.
That’s how I know dear old Reggie couldn’t have gotten in here on his own.
Fury bubbles up again, and I rewind the feed to see if I can catch a glimpse of her leaving, see if she's really as hurt as she sounded. Not that I can do much about it, since I don’t know her full name or where she lives - Primal Fantasies rules to keep everyone protected.
But it’ll at least make me feel better to know I was justified in my decisions.
I scan through each monitor until I spot her, then choke on my own breath as I see her struggling and screaming, her face twisted in terror.
Fuck is she actually that good of an actress?
Then he hits her, and I can see the beginnings of bruises forming on her pale skin as she falls. It reminds me that one of her cheeks was unnaturally pink when I walked in on them.
Fuck! I don’t think this is an act after all. And I sure as hell didn’t make millions by being a gullible fool.
My gut wrenches as I watch her collapse, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs, her entire spirit broken in a way I never came close to achieving, and nor did I want to.
I don’t want to see it now.
Something doesn't sit right. The pieces don't fit together, and I've always prided myself on seeing the whole picture. What the fuck have I missed?
I rewind, searching for the moment she brought that bastard into my home. The footage will tell me what I need to know. There - I see her exit the elevator with a couple of grocery bags, which in itself seems incongruous, and she’s alone.
I glare at the screen. He must have come later… But how did he get past George? Something else I need to investigate.
Since I’m anal about security, it irks me that I don’t know how he got into the building if he didn’t come up with Juno, so I rewind further. No little asswipe gets into my building without me knowing how. If there’s a breach, I need to know about it and fix it.
“Ah… there you are, you little punk,” I mutter under my breath as I locate him outside the building, looking around like he’s casing the joint, but not so obviously that George would notice.
He watches Mrs. Albany as she enters the building and greets my concierge, so he knows he can’t walk straight in, but the timestamp is much earlier in the day.
I fast forward until I find him again, and my blood turns to ice as I watch him enter the frame barely mere seconds after Juno enters the building. So, they were together…
I’m about to switch off, feeling vindicated in my initial assumptions, when William Lancaster, one of our younger, not so bright, trust-fund tenants strolls towards the entrance and I catch Reggie making his move, engaging Will in conversation and pushing into the building with him.
With his pinstripe suit, even as obviously cheap and badly cut to someone like me, Reggie doesn’t necessarily look out of place, and George naturally assumes the two men are together and clears them through.
“Fucking hell!”
I fast-forward back to Juno entering the penthouse and my heart jumps into my mouth as I observe Reggie force his way into my apartment behind Linnea, shoving her roughly through the door.
She stumbles, groceries spilling across the floor.
I lean in closer to the screen, my fists clenching as I take in her frightened eyes.
I was wrong. This wasn't planned. She didn't invite him in, after all.
"Damn it all!"
I continue watching, bile rising from my gut as the scene unfolds. The way he gropes her, threatens her. Her feisty attempts to fight back.
And then I see myself storm in, misreading it all. The cold fury on my face as I misinterpret everything. My stomach churns with guilt and horror at my own actions.
I fast-forward, desperate to see what happened after I threw her out. Then I feel like someone's punched me in the gut as I witness Linnea stumbling from the building, only to be confronted by that thug again. She tries to run, but he grabs her, dragging her towards a car.
"Fuck!" I slam my fist on the desk, furious at myself for not listening to her. For not protecting her when she needed me most.
I grab my phone, frantically dialing George. "Where’s Juno? Did you see where she went?"
"Sir, I'm sorry, but Miss Juno left on foot about 20 minutes ago. She refused a cab and wouldn't let me call the police. She seemed quite distraught."
My mind races. I have to find her, have to make this right somehow. But I have no idea where she lives or how to contact her.
I pace the room, running my hands through my hair in frustration.
How could I have been so blind? So quick to assume the worst?
I've prided myself on reading people, on always being in control.
But I misjudged this situation, badly. And now Linnea could be in serious danger because of my arrogance and assumptions.
I grab my keys and rush out the door, my mind racing. Where would she go? Back home seems most likely, but I have no idea where that is. The streets around my building are empty; no sign of her.
My phone buzzes and I snatch it up, hoping it's George with more information. But it's just a work email. I curse and shove it back in my pocket.
I jog down the sidewalk, scanning every face, every alley.
My heart is pounding, guilt and anxiety churning in my gut.
How could I have been so blind? The signs were there if I'd just looked closer.
Her terror, her desperation. I was too caught up in my own paranoia to see what was really happening.
Too eager to see the worst, because I knew I was becoming too invested.
After a few blocks, I slow to a stop, panting slightly. This is useless. She could be anywhere by now. I need more information.
Pulling out my phone again, I call Primal Fantasies, the agency that arranged our contract. "This is Thorne Ashwood. I need the particulars on one of your contractors. It's an emergency."
“I’m sorry, Sir.” The overly polite receptionist tells me in an irritatingly perky voice. “But all our client details are confidential.”
I resist the urge to yell at the woman who’s only doing her job. That’ll just get me hung up on. “Of course. Perhaps you could put me through to Mr. Smith,” I try, instead. “It’s a matter of the utmost urgency.”
“Let me just see if he’s available,” she chirps, and I have to muffle my growl. What part of urgent didn’t she understand?
It seems to take forever before I'm transferred to the top man, although I doubt it was more than a couple of minutes. I use the time to start heading back to the underground garage where my vehicle is parked.
“Mr. Ashwood,” he begins, but I cut him off.
“Juno - the girl I’m contracted with. I have reason to believe she’s in danger. I need her contact information," I demand urgently. "Her real name, address, phone number - anything you have."
Smith sighs heavily. "Mr. Ashwood, you know I can't give out those details. It violates our confidentiality agreements."
"Damn it, this isn't about the contract!" I snap, my frustration boiling over. "She could be in real danger. Some thug came to my apartment today, and I read the situation wrong. I made a terrible mistake, and I need to make it right before something happens to her."
There's a long pause on the other end of the line. I can almost hear the gears turning in Smith's head as he weighs his options.
"Please," I add, swallowing my pride. "I wouldn't ask if it wasn't absolutely critical. But if you really don’t feel you can do this, then please, go to her yourself. Make sure she’s okay. I’ll cover any expenses. Anything she needs.”
“That’s hardly my job…” he starts.
That’s it. I’ve had enough. I’ve tried doing this the nice way, now it’s time for the big guns.
“In that case, Mr. Smith, prepare yourself for a visit from the police, because I have no other choice but to report the assault on her, and you can explain to them why you refused to help a woman in trouble.”
“Now, Mr. Ashwood, let’s not be hasty…”
I stay silent, allowing him to make his decision.
Another sigh. "I shouldn't do this, but since I’m aware of some of her story, and can corroborate it could lead to some danger, I’ll bend the rules, just this once.
But rest assured, Mr. Ashwood, if there’s any complaint or comeback from doing so, there will be consequences.
Her name is Linnea Reed." He reels off an address, and I barely manage to thank him before I hang up and sprint for my car.
This has all taken far too long. I just hope I get to Linnea before that other fucker goes back for her.
Because I have absolutely no doubt he will.