Chapter 3 – Eleanor
Consciousness returned like a slap to the face, dragging me up from the black depths of chemically induced sleep. My head felt like someone had filled it with cotton and broken glass, throbbing with each heartbeat. The taste in my mouth was metallic and wrong, like I’d been sucking on pennies.
I kept my eyes closed at first, trying to piece together what had happened. The stairwell. The footsteps. The deep, gravelly voice. The hand over my face and that sharp, sweet smell that had pulled me under.
Fuck.
I was in deep shit.
When I finally opened my eyes, the first thing I noticed was how elegant everything looked.
The room was decorated like something out of a high-end hotel, all cream-colored walls and expensive furniture.
A plush armchair sat in one corner, upholstered in what looked like genuine leather.
The bed I was lying on had sheets that probably cost more than my monthly rent, soft as silk against my skin.
But there were no windows. No natural light anywhere. The illumination came from recessed fixtures in the ceiling, casting everything in a warm but artificial glow. No clock on the nightstand, no way to tell what time it was or how long I’d been unconscious.
I was underground. Had to be. The air felt different, recycled and still in a way that spoke of being cut off from the outside world.
My heart started racing as the reality of my situation sank in. Kidnapped. I’d been fucking kidnapped, just like something out of a movie. Except this wasn’t entertainment, and there was no guarantee of a happy ending.
I sat up slowly, fighting off a wave of dizziness that made the elegant room spin around me.
My clothes were still intact, jeans and tank top exactly as I’d been wearing them in the studio.
That was something, at least. Whatever my captor wanted, it apparently didn’t involve immediate sexual assault.
Small fucking comfort.
I checked my wrists and ankles for restraints but found nothing. That was strange. Why go through the trouble of drugging and kidnapping someone just to leave them free to move around? Unless this room was escape-proof, which seemed likely given the lack of windows.
The door looked like solid, heavy wood with what seemed to be a high-quality lock. I tried the handle anyway, more out of desperate hope than real expectation.
Locked. Of course.
I pressed my ear against the wood, listening for any sounds from beyond. Footsteps, voices, anything that might give me a clue about where I was or who had taken me. But there was nothing except the faint hum of ventilation and my own ragged breathing.
Think, Eleanor. Think.
This wasn’t random. Random kidnappers didn’t drug you in a fashion building’s stairwell and then house you in rooms that looked like they belonged in a five-star resort. This was planned, professional, targeted.
But why me? I wasn’t wealthy enough to justify a ransom demand. My fashion company was successful but not hugely profitable. I didn’t have any enemies I knew of, and no ex-boyfriends crazy enough to do something like this.
Unless it wasn’t about me at all.
My father. William Beaumont, construction tycoon and grade-A asshole. He had enemies, that was for sure. The kind of man who built his empire by stepping on anyone who got in his way didn’t make it through life without collecting a few grudges.
The thought made my stomach twist with something that might have been fear or rage. If this was about Dad’s business dealings, if I’d been dragged into his mess because of blood I couldn’t help sharing, I was going to kill him myself if I ever got out of here.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway outside made me freeze. Heavy, measured, approaching with the kind of confidence that said whoever was coming knew exactly what they were doing.
A key turned in the lock.
I backed away from the door, my heart hammering against my ribs. Whatever was about to happen, I wasn’t going to face it cowering in a corner. I stood as straight as I could, chin up, trying to project a confidence I absolutely didn’t feel.
The door opened, and the man who entered was nothing like what I’d expected.
He was tall, probably around six feet, with the kind of lean build that suggested strength without bulk.
His hair was black and thick, pulled back in a neat bun that accentuated the sharp angles of his face.
But it was his eyes that caught my attention and held it.
Gray as storm clouds, cold and calculating in a way that made my skin crawl.
There was a scar beneath his right eye, a thin line of raised flesh that looked old but prominent. It gave his face a dangerous edge, like a blade that had been sharpened by violence.
He was wearing all black—expensive-looking pants and a button-down shirt that fit him perfectly. Everything about him screamed money and control, from his polished shoes to the way he carried himself like he owned every space he entered.
And despite everything, despite the fact that this man had obviously kidnapped me, my traitorous body responded to him in ways that made me hate myself.
My pulse quickened, not entirely from fear.
There was something magnetic about him, something that drew the eye and held it even when every rational thought in my head was screaming danger.
I wanted to slap myself for even noticing how attractive my captor was.
“You’re awake,” he said, his voice low and controlled. Russian accent, subtle but unmistakable. “Good. We need to talk.”
“Go fuck yourself,” I snapped, crossing my arms over my chest. If he was expecting some scared little girl who would cry and beg, he was about to be disappointed. “Who the hell are you, and what do you want?”
He closed the door behind him with a soft click that sounded as final as a coffin lid slamming shut. “My name is Maxim Voronov. What I want is answers from your father about something that happened six years ago in Prague.”
Prague. Arms deals. The pieces started falling into place, and I didn’t like the picture they were forming.
“You’re Bratva,” I said, and it wasn’t a question.
“Smart girl.” He moved further into the room, every step deliberate and controlled. “Your father orchestrated an ambush that left seven of my men dead and my partner bleeding out on a warehouse floor. I’ve spent six years tracking down the bastard responsible.”
The casual way he talked about death and violence made my skin crawl. This wasn’t some crime of passion or desperate grab for money. This was cold, calculated revenge, years in the making.
“So, you kidnapped his daughter.” My voice was steadier than I felt. “Real fucking original.”
“You’re leverage,” he said simply. “A way to get William Beaumont’s attention and make him pay for what he did.”
I laughed, the sound bitter and harsh in the elegant room. “You picked the wrong leverage, asshole. My father doesn’t give a shit about me.”
That seemed to give him pause. His gray eyes studied my face, looking for signs of deception. “You’re his only child.”
“So what? That doesn’t mean he cares.” The words tasted like ash in my mouth, but they were true. William Beaumont had never been what anyone would call a loving father. “When’s the last time you saw us together in public? Family dinners? Father-daughter bonding time?”
His expression didn’t change, but I could see him processing the information. Good. Maybe if I could convince him that his plan was fundamentally flawed, he’d let me go.
“He uses me for photo opportunities,” I continued, pressing my advantage. “Business events where having a successful daughter makes him look good. But we haven’t had an actual conversation in months. You want to hurt him? Kidnapping me isn’t going to do it.”
Maxim was quiet for a long moment, those storm-gray eyes never leaving my face. When he finally spoke, his voice was just as controlled as before.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.” Frustration boiled over, making my voice sharper. “Jesus Christ, do you think I’m making this up for fun? My father is a cold, calculating bastard who cares more about his construction empire than his own family. He probably hasn’t even noticed I’m missing yet.”
That was probably true, actually. Dad was off somewhere making deals and building his legacy, completely oblivious to the fact that his daughter had been drugged and kidnapped because of his past sins.
“He’ll notice when he gets my message,” Maxim said with chilling certainty.
“And then what? You think he’s going to rush in here like some knight in shining armor to save me?” I laughed again, the sound ugly and desperate. “He’ll probably write me off as an acceptable loss and move on with his life.”
Something flickered in Maxim’s eyes, so quick I almost missed it. Doubt, maybe. Or calculation. He was reassessing his plan, trying to figure out if I was telling the truth or just trying to manipulate him.
“You really hate him,” he observed.
“Hate’s too strong a word. I’m just realistic about who William Beaumont is and what he cares about. And trust me, his daughter isn’t high on that list.”
The truth was more complicated than that, but this Russian psychopath didn’t need to know about my daddy issues. The years of feeling invisible in my own home, of watching my father build relationships with business partners while treating his family like convenient accessories.
Maxim took another step closer, and I fought the urge to back away. There was something predatory about the way he moved, like a wolf circling wounded prey. But there was also something else, something that made my traitorous body respond in ways I absolutely did not want to acknowledge.
He was dangerous. Possibly a killer. Definitely a criminal. And some sick part of me was drawn to that danger like a moth to a flame.
I hated myself for it.
“You’re scared,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.