Chapter 9
IRIS
Time doesn’t move in a straight line here. It loops. It pools in the corners of the room like stagnant water.
Since I woke up in this bed, I’ve been counting.
I’ve been in this room for three days now. This sprawling, beautiful, terrifying box.
72 hours.
4320 minutes.
I know because I count the rhythm of the waves crashing against the cliffs below the reinforced glass. One, two, crash. One, two, crash. I count how many times the air conditioning vents click on and off.
I’ve clawed at the window seals until my nails bled. I’ve dragged the armchair over to the vent, standing on my tiptoes, trying to pry the grate loose with a spoon I stole from the food tray. It’s welded shut. Every inch of this room is engineered to keep a canary from flying.
Counting keeps the panic at bay. Counting is order. And in a world that has dissolved into chaos, order is the only thing I have left.
The room is a paradox. It’s full of gray storm light, yet it feels suffocatingly dark. It has a spa-like scent that makes my stomach turn. Every surface is polished. Every texture is soft.
It’s a velvet-lined box. Safe and utterly suffocating.
I’m pacing like a caged animal.
I walk the perimeter.
Twenty-two steps from the locked door to the window. Turn.
Fourteen steps to the bathroom. Turn.
From the bathroom to the bed. Ten steps.
My legs ache, a dull throb that reminds me I’m alive. The bruise on my neck has bloomed into a violent shade of violet and yellow—a fingerprint necklace left by the man who put me here.
I haven’t seen him since the first day. Since he threw my driver’s license on the table, told me I was nothing but leverage, and walked out.
He’s become a ghost.
But I know he’s watching.
There are no visible cameras in the bedroom. I checked the smoke detectors, the vents, the recessed lighting. But I feel the weight of his gaze. It’s a prickle on the back of my neck. A sense of being studied.
My only contact with the outside world is the food tray.
Three times a day, at 8 a.m., 1 p.m., and 7 p.m., the lock clicks. The door opens six inches, stopped by a thick security chain, and a tray slides onto the floor.
A man’s voice, deep and gruff, says, “Eat.”
Usually, I stay back. But today, desperation makes me bold. I scramble off the chair, rushing the gap to beg for news, but he is already turning away.
I press my face to the crack. He pauses on the hallway runner, tapping his earpiece and muttering low, assuming I’m out of earshot.
“Package fed. Tell Cassian she’s still quiet.”
Cassian.
The name lands in the silence like a dropped coin. That’s him. The monster.
The boots fade away down the hall.
I look at the tray: roast chicken, a wedge of bread, steamed vegetables, and a bottle of water.
My stomach cramps, a hollow, twisting pain that demands to be filled. For the first day, I refused to eat, throwing the tray at the wall instead. But today, my hands are shaking so badly I can barely make a fist.
I sit on the floor and drink the water. I force down the bread, chewing mechanically. It tastes like ash, but I swallow it. I need the calories. I need to be ready for the moment the door opens all the way. That’s my chance.
I sit in the velvet armchair, my knees pulled to my chest, still wearing the black button-down shirt Cassian gave me. It smells like him—gun oil and expensive soap. I hate that I find the scent comforting. I hate that wearing his clothes makes me feel protected, even though he is the threat.
I stare at the television.
It’s a sleek screen mounted on the wall opposite the bed. It’s my only window to the outside world. My only lifeline.
I’ve got it tuned to the local news channel. The volume is low, a constant murmur of traffic reports, weather updates, and political scandals.
I’m waiting for my name.
Breaking News: Search Underway for Judge’s Daughter. Federal Agents Raid Hamptons Estate. The Disappearance of Iris Hale: Day Three.
I wait. And I wait.
But the ticker tape at the bottom of the screen only scrolls through stock market prices and sports scores.
Why haven’t they reported it?
The question gnaws at me.
I rationalize, building logic to keep hope alive.
It’s a media blackout, I tell myself. The FBI ordered silence to protect the negotiations. If they announce I’m missing, the kidnappers might panic. My father is keeping it quiet to keep me safe.
Yes. That has to be it.
My father is a strategist. He plays chess, not checkers. He wouldn’t go to the press; he would go to the tactical teams. Right now, there are probably satellite scans sweeping this coastline. There are tactical units gearing up in a staging area.
They are coming.
“He wouldn’t leave me,” I whisper to the empty room. “He needs me.”
The thought is bitter. He needs me. Not he loves me.
I push the thought away.
He does love me. I’m his daughter. I’m the only thing he has left since Mom died. He was hard on me, yes. He was demanding. He was cold. But that was to make me strong. That was to prepare me for... this.
Stand tall, Iris. Do not let them see you crumble.
I stand and walk to the window.
The ocean churns below, a cauldron of gray foam. The drop is sheer—three hundred feet of black rock. I press my hand against the cold, solid glass.
“Where are you?” I breathe.
My reflection in the glass is a disaster, with dark circles under my eyes and matted hair. I look like the victim in a crime drama.
You’re not a victim, I tell myself. You’re a Hale. You endure.
I turn back to the TV.
The clock on the screen reads 5:58 p.m.
My stomach tightens.
Tonight is the Judiciary Gala, the event I spent six months planning. It’s the event where I placed the damn lilies to secure my father’s nomination, and it’s happening right now without me.
I sit back down in the chair and pull the remote closer, gripping it like a weapon.
If there is any news, it will be tonight. If my father is going to make a statement, he will do it there. He can’t hide my absence at the Judiciary Gala. People will ask. The press will ask.
He’ll have to answer.
And when he speaks... when he looks into the camera and pleads for my safe return... Cassian will see.
Cassian will see that he was wrong. He’ll see that I’m not an “insurance policy.” He’ll see that he’s kicked a hornet’s nest.
The news anchor, a blonde woman with perfect teeth and dead eyes, shuffles her papers.
“And now, live to the Waldorf Museum for the social event of the season,” she says. “The 10th Annual Judiciary Gala is underway, and rumors are swirling about a major announcement from the keynote speaker, Senator Thomas Caldwell.”
The screen cuts to a live feed.
The Waldorf Museum.
It looks beautiful. The evening is clear, and the museum’s exterior is lit by golden floodlights. Tinted black town cars are pulling up to the red carpet.
I lean forward, scanning the crowd.
I see the Senator. He looks healthy. Alive.
Thank God.
The relief hits me so hard I almost sob. I didn’t kill him. I didn’t kill the Senator. The lilies were removed. Cassian’s team… they really did sanitize the room. They took the flowers.
“I saved him,” I whisper. “I fixed it.”
The camera pans across the Grand Hall. My chest blooms with pride at my arch. The eighteen-foot masterpiece of white wisteria and cream roses. It’s magnificent, framing the entrance exactly as I designed it.
It also hurts to look at it. It’s mine. And I’m not there.
“And here comes the man of the hour,” the reporter says, her voice dropping to a hushed, reverent tone. “Judge William Hale.”
I stop breathing.
My father steps out of a black town car.
He looks immaculate.
He’s wearing his bespoke tuxedo, the black lapels sharp against the crisp white shirt. His silver hair is perfectly coiffed. He stands tall, projecting an aura of absolute, unshakable authority.
He waves to the crowd, smiling.
It isn’t a tight, worried smile or the brave face of a grieving father. It’s his campaign smile. Warm. Benevolent. Charming.
He stops to shake hands with the Police Commissioner. He laughs at something the Mayor says, throwing his head back.
A cold, hollow ringing starts in my ears.
Why are you laughing? I scream in my head. I’m missing! I’ve been gone for three days! Why are you laughing?
“He’s acting,” I hiss. “He has to act normal to show he isn’t weak.”
The reporter pushes through the crowd, holding a microphone out.
“Judge Hale! Judge Hale! A moment for Channel 4?”
My father turns and engages the camera, looking directly into the lens. Directly at me.
“Good evening, Diane,” he says, his tone deep and smooth. “A wonderful turnout tonight, isn’t it?”
“It’s spectacular, Judge,” the reporter says. “The floral arrangements are breathtaking. Speaking of which, your daughter Iris isn’t by your side tonight. She usually orchestrates these events. Is she here?”
This is it.
I lean forward, gripping the arms of the chair until my nails dig into the fabric.
Tell them, I beg. Tell them I was taken. Tell them to find me.
My father’s expression softens. He puts on a mask of fond, paternal indulgence. He sighs, a small, weary sound that suggests the burdens of fatherhood.
“Ah, Iris,” he says, chuckling softly. “You know how young women are these days. The pressure of the season... it got to be a bit too much for her.”
The reporter tilts her head. “Oh?”
“Yes,” my father continues, his voice dripping with fake concern. “She’s a perfectionist, my Iris. She works herself to the bone. After the stress of the preparations, she decided she needed to disconnect. She’s taking a much-needed mental health break.”
Everything in me locks.
The sound in the room seems to suck out, leaving a vacuum.
“A break?” the reporter asks.
“In Bali,” my father lies. Smoothly. Effortlessly. “She flew out yesterday for a bit of a yoga retreat. No phones, no work, just some much-needed peace. I told her, ‘Sweetheart, you go find your center. The flowers can wait.’”
Yesterday.
He erased my entire existence with a single word.
He smiles again. A tight, conspiratorial smile.
“We all need to recharge, don’t we?”
“We certainly do,” the reporter laughs. “Well, send her our best. Now, Judge, about the Supreme Court rumors...”
The camera pans away.
I sit frozen.
My mind cannot process the input.
Bali. Yoga. Mental health break.
He lied.
He’s made me disappear with a smile.
Just like he did to Mom.
My mother used to plan these galas. She was the ideal political wife. She wore the designer dresses, smiled at the wealthy donors, and managed the Hale estate. She performed the routine for fifteen years.
Then she broke.
I was ten. I walked into the kitchen late at night and found her sitting on the cold tile floor in a silk evening gown. She held a bottle of my father’s scotch in one hand. She looked at me, but her eyes were vacant.
My father walked in seconds later. He stopped in the doorway, keeping his hands in his pockets. He looked down at her with disgust, turned his back, and made a single phone call.
By morning, black SUVs idled in the driveway. Men in suits escorted her out of the house.
A private psychiatric facility in upstate New York, he told the press. A mental health retreat. She faded into oblivion and died in that facility three years later.
I learned the lesson that morning. The Judge demands absolute perfection. You play the exact role he assigns you, or he removes you from the board.
Now, he is doing it to me.
“No,” I croak.
I slide off the chair, scrambling toward the screen as if I can claw the truth out of the pixels.
“Why did you say that?” I scream at the frozen image of my father. “Why did you say Bali?”
A shudder rips through my chest. I double over, clutching the console table, gasping for air that feels too thin.
For a second, the dark thought takes root: He chose the nomination. He cut me loose.
I shake my head. No. He wouldn’t. He loves me.
“It’s Cassian,” I whisper, grabbing onto the only other explanation. “It has to be Cassian.”
Cassian must have contacted him. He must have sent a demand: Tell the press she’s away, or I’ll kill her. My father isn’t abandoning me; he’s buying time. He’s playing the game to keep the kidnappers calm while he organizes the rescue.
He made you say it, I tell myself. He forced you.
The alternative is that he chose the nomination over the mess of me.
I can’t hold that thought for long without breaking, so I don’t. Not yet.
“You’re coming,” I tell the screen, my voice shaking, desperate to believe the lie I am constructing. “You’re playing along until you can strike.”
I glare at the locked door. Cassian. He’s manipulating everything. He thinks he can break me by making me doubt my father.
“I see what you’re doing,” I hiss into the silence, wiping the tears from my face with a trembling hand. “It won’t work.”
I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling. I won’t cry. I won’t give the monster the satisfaction of breaking me. My father is out there. He’s planning. And when he comes, he won’t just bring the police; he’ll bring hell.
I close my eyes, and I start counting again.
One. Two. Three.
I will count until he opens that door.