Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ingrid
The emerald catches the light every time I move my hand.
I can't stop looking at it.
Can't stop touching it.
Can't stop smiling at this tangible proof that my life has become something I never thought I deserved.
"You're doing it again."
I look up from my hand to find Fern watching me from the doorway of the break room, an amused smile on her face.
"Doing what?"
"Staring at your ring like it's going to disappear if you look away."
Heat floods my cheeks.
"I'm not—"
"You are. And it's adorable." She crosses to me, holds out her hand. "Let me see it properly. I've only seen the photos your mother keeps shoving in everyone's faces."
I extend my hand, letting her examine the ring.
The emerald gleams under the break room lights, the surrounding diamonds sparkling like tiny stars.
"Oh, Ingrid." Fern's voice softens. "It's stunning. Absolutely stunning."
"Gunnar picked it out. With my mom's help."
"I heard. Charm hasn't stopped talking about it. The jewelry store, the proposal, how excited she is to have Gunnar as another son," She squeezes my hand before releasing it. "I'm so happy for you, sweetheart. You deserve this."
"Thank you."
"I mean it." She settles into the chair across from me, her expression warm. "I've known you since you were born. Watched you grow up, watched you struggle, watched you try to find your place. And now, seeing you like this—engaged, glowing, actually happy—it's everything I've hoped for."
My eyes sting.
"Don't make me cry at work."
"Too late. You've been crying happy tears for a week straight. What's a few more?"
I laugh, wiping my eyes.
She's not wrong.
Since Gunnar proposed, I've been an emotional mess.
The good kind.
The kind where joy keeps spilling over because there's too much of it to contain.
"Everyone's so excited," Fern continues. "The whole club's been buzzing since the announcement. Runes said it's the best news we've had in months."
"Better than solving the trafficking case?"
Her expression flickers.
Just for a second.
"That's still ongoing. But yes—in terms of personal happiness, your engagement is definitely the highlight." She reaches over, pats my hand. "Everyone loves Gunnar. Always has. He's one of the good ones."
"I know."
"I remember when you two were kids, running around the clubhouse, getting into trouble. Even then, he followed you everywhere. Like a little shadow. Runes used to joke that he'd imprinted on you like a baby duck."
I laugh at the image.
"He wasn't that bad."
"He was exactly that bad. And look at you now—engaged, moving in together, planning a future." She sighs happily. "Your mother hasn't stopped crying, you know. Happy tears. She's been waiting for this forever."
"That's what Gunnar said."
"Because it's true. We all have been. Waiting for you to find someone who sees you properly. Someone who stays." Her eyes meet mine. "Gunnar's that person. He always has been. It just took you both a while to figure it out."
"Better late than never?"
"Much better." She glances at her phone, then stands. "Speaking of late—I need to get going. Runes wants to grab an early dinner before the evening rush."
"Hot date?"
"Something like that. Even after thirty years, we still try to make time for each other." She winks. "You'll understand soon enough."
I walk her to the front of the spa, checking the schedule on the way.
One more client.
A four o'clock massage.
Then I can close up and head home to Gunnar.
Home.
Our home.
The word still makes me giddy.
"Are you sure you'll be okay closing up alone?" Fern asks, pausing at the door. "I can stay if you need—"
"Go. Enjoy your dinner. I've got this."
"Just one more client?"
"Just one. A new booking—" I check the name on the schedule. "William Smith. Four o'clock deep tissue. I'll be done by five, closed by five-thirty."
"Okay." She still looks hesitant. "Text me when you lock up?"
"I will. Now go. Runes is waiting."
She hugs me—quick but warm—and then she's gone.
The spa settles into silence around me.
Peaceful.
Calm.
The ambient music playing softly through the speakers, the scent of eucalyptus and lavender in the air.
This is my sanctuary.
My space.
The one place where I feel completely in control.
I check the time.
Almost four o’clock now.
Thirteen minutes until my last client arrives.
I use the time to prep the massage room—fresh sheets on the table, oils warming, lights dimmed to the perfect level.
Everything is just right.
At 3:58, the front door chimes.
I head out to greet my client.
He's standing in the lobby—tall, broad-shouldered, maybe mid-forties.
Wearing jeans and a plain button-down shirt.
Nothing remarkable about him.
Nothing that should make my stomach tighten with unease.
But something does.
Something I can't name.
Something in the way he's looking at me.
"William Smith?" I ask, keeping my voice professional.
"That's me."
"Welcome to Calming Spaces. I'm Ingrid. I'll be your massage therapist today."
"Ingrid." He repeats my name slowly, like he's tasting it. "Pretty name."
"Thank you. If you'll follow me, I'll show you to your room."
I turn, leading him down the hallway.
His footsteps are heavy behind me.
Too close.
I'm being paranoid.
He's just a client.
A new client who booked a massage like hundreds of other people have done.
There's nothing to be afraid of.
"Here we are." I open the door to the massage room, gesture inside. "You can undress to your comfort level and lie face down under the sheet. I'll knock before I come back in."
"How long do I have?"
"Take your time. Five minutes or so. Is there anything specific you'd like me to focus on today? Any areas of tension or pain?"
"My shoulders. Lots of tension."
"I'll make sure to give them extra attention. Would you like some water?"
"No."
"All right. I'll give you a few minutes to get settled."
I close the door behind me.
Stand in the hallway.
Breathe.
I don't know why my heart is racing.
Don't know why my hands are trembling slightly.
He's just a client.
Just a normal client with tension in his shoulders.
Nothing to worry about.
I check my phone.
A text from Gunnar:
How's your day going, future wife?
I smile despite my nerves, type back:
Almost done. One more client then heading home. Love you.
His response is immediate:
Love you too. Text me when you leave.
I smirk at my phone and type back:
Always do.
I pocket my phone, take another breath.
Five minutes.
Then I'll knock, do the massage, and be done.
Home to Gunnar.
Home to our apartment.
Home to our life.
Everything is fine.
At four minutes, I return to the room.
Knock softly on the door.
"William? Are you ready?"
No answer.
I knock again.
"William?"
Silence.
Maybe he didn't hear me.
Maybe he's already on the table, face down, relaxed.
I open the door slowly.
"I'm coming in—"
The room is empty.
The massage table is bare—no sheet pulled back, no client lying face down.
Just empty space.
Confusion floods through me.
"Hello? William?"
I step inside, looking around.
Maybe he's in the attached bathroom?
Maybe he—
The door slams shut behind me.
I spin around.
He's there.
Behind the door.
Where he was waiting.
"Hello, Ingrid."
I open my mouth to scream.
His hand clamps over it before any sound escapes.
Cold metal presses against my throat.
A knife.
"Don't scream," he says, his breath hot against my ear. "Don't move. Don't do anything stupid, and maybe—maybe—I'll let you live."
Terror.
Pure, absolute terror floods my system.
I can't breathe.
Can't think.
Can't do anything except stand frozen with his hand over my mouth and a blade at my throat.
"Good girl," he murmurs. "Now, I'm going to move my hand. If you scream, I'll cut your throat. Understand?"
I nod.
Barely.
Just enough for him to feel it.
His hand slides away from my mouth.
The knife stays pressed against my skin.
"Please," I whisper. "I don't—I have money. My purse is in the break room. Take whatever you want, just please—"
"I don't want your money."
"Then what—"
"I want your boyfriend to get a message." His grip tightens on my arm. "Your fiancé, I should say. Congratulations, by the way. Saw the announcement on Facebook. Beautiful ring. Beautiful couple. Too bad it's not going to last."
Facebook.
The engagement post.
That's how he found me.
"I don't understand," I manage. "What message? What do you want with Gunnar?"
"He doesn't know how to mind his own business. Neither does his little club." The man's voice hardens. "That raid a few weeks ago? Almost cost us a lot of money. A lot of time. A lot of very valuable merchandise."
Merchandise.
Children.
He's talking about children like they're products.
"We got away clean that time," he continues. "Your boyfriend got a knife in the gut for his trouble. Thought that would be enough of a message. Apparently not. Apparently, your club is still sniffing around. Still trying to play hero."
"I don't know anything about—"
"Shut up." The knife presses harder. "I don't care what you know. I care what you can tell them. And here's what you're going to tell them—back off. Stop looking. Stop interfering. Or next time, it won't be a warning. Next time, it'll be a funeral."
"Please—"
"Do you understand?"
"Yes. Yes, I understand. I'll tell them. I'll—"
"Good."
He releases me.
I stumble forward, gasping, my hand going to my throat.
For one second—one brief, beautiful second—I think it's over.
Then his fist connects with my face.
The impact sends me flying.
I hit the massage table, knock it sideways, and crash to the floor.
Pain explodes through my cheekbone, my shoulder, my hip where I landed.
"That's for the inconvenience," he says calmly.
I try to get up.
Try to crawl away.
His boot catches me in the ribs.
I scream—can't help it—the pain is too much.
"And that's for the kids we lost."
Another kick.
This one to my stomach.
I curl into myself, trying to protect my body, but he's too fast, too strong.
"Your boyfriend thought he could be a hero." Kick. "Thought he could save those brats." Kick. "Cost us weeks of work." Kick. "Cost us a delivery." Kick.
I can't breathe.
Can't scream anymore.
Can only lie there and take it.
"Maybe next time he'll think twice."
He crouches down beside me.
I flinch away, but there's nowhere to go.
The knife appears again, glinting in the dim light.
"Something to remember me by."
The blade bites into my arm.
I cry out—weak, broken—as he carves a line from my elbow to my wrist.
Not deep enough to kill.
Just deep enough to scar.
"Pretty ring," he says, grabbing my left hand. "Too bad you won't get to wear it much longer if your man doesn't back off."
He wrenches the ring off my finger.
Pockets it.
"No," I gasp. "Please—not the ring—please—"
"Tell your boyfriend William Smith says hello. Oh wait—" He laughs. "That's not my real name. Guess he'll have to figure that out himself."
He stands.
Looks down at me—broken, bleeding, crying on the floor of my own spa.
"This is the last warning. Keep out of our business or else."
Then he's gone.
The door opens.
Closes.
Footsteps retreating.
Silence.
I lie there.
Can't move.
Can't think.
Can only feel—the pain in my ribs, my face, my arm.
The blood pooling beneath me.
The cold, empty space on my finger where my ring used to be.
He took it.
He took my ring.
The ring Gunnar gave me.
The ring that meant everything.
Tears stream down my face.
Hot and desperate.
I need to get up.
Need to call for help.
Need to—
My phone.
Where's my phone?
I try to move.
Agony rips through my side.
Broken ribs.
Maybe.
Probably.
I drag myself across the floor anyway.
Inch by inch.
Leaving a trail of blood behind me.
The break room.
My phone is in the break room.
So far away.
Too far.
I'm not going to make it.
The edges of my vision are going dark.
The pain is fading, which means shock is setting in.
Which means I'm running out of time.
"Help." My voice is barely a whisper. "Someone—help—"
No one can hear me.
The spa is empty.
I'm alone.
I'm going to die here.
On the floor of my sanctuary.
My safe space.
Alone.
Gunnar.
I'm sorry.
I'm so sorry.
I should've told you I loved you more.
Should've appreciated every moment.
Should've—
The front door chimes.
Footsteps.
Fast.
Urgent.
"Ingrid?"
Dad's voice.
"Ingrid, the lights were on. Are you still—"
He stops.
I can't see him from here, but I hear the sharp intake of breath.
The sound of him moving, fast, toward the massage room.
Then he's there.
In the doorway.
Looking down at me.
His face goes white.
"Ingrid. Oh god—Ingrid—"
"Daddy." The word comes out broken. Childlike. "Daddy, he took my ring. He took my ring and he said—he said—"
"Don't talk. Don't move." He's on the floor beside me, hands hovering, afraid to touch me and make it worse. "I'm calling for help. You're going to be okay. Do you hear me? You're going to be okay."
He's pulling out his phone.
Dialing.
Talking to someone—I can't follow the words.
Everything is fuzzy now.
Distant.
His hand finds mine.
Squeezes.
"Stay with me, baby girl. Stay with me. Help is coming."
"Tell Gunnar," I manage. "Tell him—tell him I love him. Tell him I'm sorry about the ring."
"You're going to tell him yourself. You're going to be fine."
"The man—he said—message—"
"Don't talk. Save your strength."
"Keep out of their business. Or else." I cough. Taste blood. "That's what he said. Keep out or else."
Dad's expression shifts.
From fear to rage.
Cold, lethal rage.
"He's dead," Dad says quietly. "Whoever did this to you is dead. I swear it."
I want to respond.
Want to tell him to be careful.
Want to tell him not to do anything stupid.
But the darkness is pulling at me now.
Heavy and warm.
"Stay awake, Ingrid. Stay with me."
I try.
I really try.
But the pain is too much.
The fear is too much.
Everything is too much.
The last thing I hear before the darkness takes me is my father's voice—breaking, desperate, the VP mask completely shattered. "Don't you leave me, baby girl. Don't you dare leave me."
Then nothing.
Just silence.
And darkness.