Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
LEA
Three days pass in a blur of submission and recovery, my feet healing nicely.
I’ve created a routine designed to lull Nico and his security team into complacency.
Every morning, I limp to the kitchen, accept breakfast from Maria, and retreat to the sunroom where I read books from the well-stocked shelves.
Each afternoon, I nap or pretend to. Each evening, I dine with Nico when he’s present, maintaining polite, restrained conversation.
I am a model prisoner. Compliant, subdued, resigned.
It’s all an act.
Behind the facade, I’m mapping, memorizing, calculating.
The lake house is larger than I initially thought, with multiple points of entry and exit.
The security team operates on twelve-hour shifts, with a change at 6 AM and 6 PM.
Blake oversees both teams, but he’s not always present.
There are blind spots in the camera coverage, particularly in the northeast corner of the grounds where the tree line comes closest to the house.
Most importantly, I’ve discovered that Nico is distracted. Something significant is happening that requires frequent calls and occasional absences. Whatever it is, it’s consuming enough of his attention that he hasn’t noticed my careful observations.
Today marks my fourth day of captivity here. I sit in the sunroom with a biography of Catherine de Medici open on my lap. I’m not reading it. Instead, I’m watching the reflection of the security guard in the window as he makes his rounds. Right on schedule, as always.
The door opens, and Nico enters. He’s wearing a charcoal suit, impeccably tailored as always, but there’s a tightness in his shoulders that wasn’t there yesterday.
“Good morning,” I say, not looking up from my book.
“We’re going out,” he announces without preamble. “If your feet can handle it.”
A rush comes over me. I look up, genuinely surprised. “Absolutely. My feet are much better,” I hurry to say before he changes his mind. “But out? I thought I was under lockdown. I thought Moretti was hunting me.”
“Moretti has gone quiet,” Nico replies, his expression unreadable. “My sources show he’s regrouping, likely waiting for the next big shipment to make his move. The immediate threat of a direct assault has passed. For now.”
The news sends a jolt of hope through me. “So, if it’s safe... I’m free to go?”
A cold smile touches his lips. “No. You’re not.
This ends the day Moretti is no longer walking among us.
Not a moment before. You know too much to be ‘free’ of this, Lea.
And besides,” his gaze darkens slightly, “I’m not done with you.
” He gestures toward the hallway. “Get dressed. Maria has put suitable options for a business lunch in your closet.”
I carefully mark my place in the book. The hope I felt moments ago curdles into cold reality. I’m not a guest being protected; I’m a possession being managed. “May I ask where we’re going?”
“The Peninsula. I have a meeting that requires your presence.”
This is unexpected. Interesting. Potentially useful.
“I’ll need thirty minutes,” I say, carefully rising from my chair, my healing feet still tender.
“You have twenty,” he replies, checking his watch.
In the bedroom, I find three new outfits hanging in the closet. They are all elegant, conservative business attire. I pick a navy-blue sheath dress with a matching blazer.
As I apply makeup, I consider the implications of this outing.
It’s the first time I’ll be leaving the lake house since my capture.
It represents both a risk and an opportunity.
On one hand, Nico wouldn’t be taking me into public if he wasn’t confident in his control over me.
On the other hand, any change in routine creates possibilities.
I finish dressing and step into the living room where Nico waits, phone in hand, reading messages.
“Acceptable?” I ask, gesturing to my outfit.
He looks up, his eyes moving over me. “Yes. Let’s go.”
Blake drives the Bentley while Nico sits beside me in the back. The privacy partition is up.
“Who are we meeting?” I ask, watching the lakefront scenery pass by the tinted windows.
“A business associate. You’ll be there as my companion, nothing more. You will not speak unless spoken to. You will not ask questions. You will not make notes, mental or otherwise.” His tone is flat, brooking no argument.
“I understand.”
“If anyone asks, we’re in a relationship. You’re a former journalist who now assists with my charitable foundation.”
I nod, storing away this additional detail. A charitable foundation, seriously? Just another ploy to appear legitimate, I’m sure. And the ideal method to accumulate favors, or “bribe” politicians.
“And if anyone asks about my mother?” I venture.
His jaw tightens. “You haven’t spoken to her in weeks. You’re estranged over personal matters. Nothing more specific than that.”
“Is she still in Seoul?”
“That’s not your concern.”
But his quick deflection tells me something. He might not know where she is. The thought gives me a strange, cold comfort. My mother, the spy and manipulator, is beyond even Nico’s reach.
We arrive at The Peninsula, and the world shifts from the tinted quiet of the Bentley to the hushed opulence of the lobby. Nico’s hand is a firm, possessive weight on my arm, a silent warning.
The ma?tre d’ of the hotel’s restaurant greets Nico not with deference, but with the quiet respect reserved for a man who owns the very air he breathes.
He leads us not through the main dining room, but down a discreet hallway to a private suite.
Inside, the silence is heavy, broken only by the faint clink of ice as a man rises from his seat at a table set for three.
He is in his sixties, Asian, and dressed in a tailored gray suit.
“Mr. Varela,” he says, his voice smooth, his English perfect. He extends a hand.
“Mr. Kang,” Nico replies, his grip on my arm never loosening as he shakes the man’s hand. “Thank you for agreeing to this meeting. This is Lea Song.”
Mr. Kang’s eyes, sharp and intelligent, turn to me. They widen, but only for a fraction of a second. “Ms. Song? Professor Eunji Song’s daughter?”
I feel the pressure of Nico’s fingers increase on my arm, a microscopic signal to be cautious.
“Yes,” I say, my voice steady. “You know my mother?”
“By reputation only,” Mr. Kang replies, though his eyes are doing more than recognizing a reputation; they are dissecting me, searching for an allegiance, a weakness. “Her work on international supply chains is quite influential in certain circles.”
My mind races, but I keep my expression a careful, pleasant blank. He knows.
We sit. Waiters appear as if from nowhere, pouring water into heavy crystal glasses. Mr. Kang declines wine, as does Nico. I follow their lead, a silent act of alignment.
“I must admit,” Mr. Kang begins once we are alone, “I was surprised by your invitation, Mr. Varela. Our organizations have not historically found much common ground.”
“Circumstances change,” Nico replies smoothly, relaxing into his chair. “Moretti’s recent aggression creates unusual alliances.”
Mr. Kang nods, a thoughtful, almost imperceptible movement. “And you believe my associates and I can help with this situation?”
“I believe we can help each other,” Nico corrects.
He leans forward slightly, a subtle shift that commands the entire room’s attention.
“Your shipping consortium has been experiencing... difficulties at certain ports. Unexpected inspections. Delayed clearances. Particularly for shipments originating from Busan.”
Mr. Kang’s expression remains a mask of politeness. “You are well-informed.”
“I make it my business to be.” Nico lets the statement breathe for a beat. “I can ensure smoother processing of your containers. In exchange, I need information about a particular operation that has recently come to my attention.”
“And what operation would that be?”
“One involving pharmaceutical ingredients,” Nico says, his voice dropping slightly, “moving through the NK Pharma Consolidated network.”
The name shocks me. NK Pharma. The logo from the folder in my mother’s office. The room seems to tilt, the quiet hum of the hotel fading to a dull roar in my ears. I force myself to remain still, to breathe, my face a carefully blank canvas.
“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that entity,” Mr. Kang says, his voice a perfect study in polite denial.
“I think you are,” Nico counters. “Just as I think you’re aware of Professor Song’s role in establishing that network.”
Mr. Kang’s eyes flick to me, then back to Nico, a silent accusation in his gaze. “This seems an inappropriate conversation to have in front of the professor’s daughter.”
“On the contrary.” Nico’s voice is silk over steel.
“Ms. Song is fully aware of her mother’s activities.
” He pauses, and then he makes his move.
His hand covers mine on the table, a gesture that looks intimate, protective.
But I feel the truth of it. The slight, possessive squeeze, the way his thumb presses into my pulse point.
It isn’t a gesture of affection. It’s a brand.
He continues, his voice smooth as poison.
“In fact, she’s helped me understand the scope of the operation. ”
The lie lands, and in that instant, I am no longer a journalist, no longer a companion, no longer even a captive. I am a prop. A piece of evidence. A human bargaining chip deployed with devastating precision. The anger that surges through me is so hot, so pure, it almost makes me gasp.
And he’s done it before.
The memory flashes, sharp and bitter: the dim restaurant corridor, the terrified face of the contractor, Thomas Abernathy, pinned against the wall by Nico’s presence. And Nico’s voice, using my name as a weapon then, too. Ms. Song was just wondering...