Chapter 14 Amara
AMARA
The penthouse feels much less erotic when I can’t leave.
Obviously, I try.
As soon as Ransome is out of sight, I rush to the door and try every code I can think of, past and present. Every time, the light blinks red and the automated voice shuts me down.
ACCESS DENIED.
ACCESS DENIED.
ACCESS DENIED.
“Fuck.” I run through my hair, then realize my wrists are sore. Bruised, actually. Normally, a bondage-induced bruise from Ransome would be a huge turn on. But not right now. Right now, I am in panic mode.
“Okay. Think. Think, Amara. You have no phone. No one knows you’re here…”
No one except…
I suddenly remember there was a guard standing outside the door when we came in.
I rush to the peephole and sure enough, he’s still there.
“Excuse me!” I pound on the door. His head turns one notch towards me, meaning he can in fact hear me. “Yes! Hi! I’m kind of stuck. I think Ransome locked the door from the outside by accident. Do you think you could help me out?”
He says nothing. Does nothing. His head moves back a notch to where it was.
Well. No help coming from that front. I take in a deep breath and reevaluate my situation.
My boss knows I’ve been stalking him. From web browsing to shirt-stealing to hiding in his closet while he masturbates on his desk… He has also very strongly implied that my suspicions are right and he is in fact more than just a CEO.
He’s someone else. Someone important. Someone with status…
Is he a felon? Is wanted for something?
I pace the floor, trying to make sense of it. Every step echoes my growing frustration. He tied me up. He brought me here against my will. And now he’s just… gone. Left me here to fucking rot.
The more I think about it, the angrier I get. All those months of perfect coffee, pressed suits, flawless schedules. All those late nights making sure his life ran smoothly. And this is how he repays my loyalty?
I've been nothing but devoted to him. Obsessed, yes, but devoted. I've anticipated his every need, protected his time, made his life easier in a thousand small ways.
I don’t deserve this.
Meanwhile, that whiskey he has is looking pretty tempting. I open the cabinet and help myself to the bottle, not bothering with a glass. No, this time, I am going to leave my lipstick right on the damn bottle.
Have fun getting that off, jerk.
After a couple swigs, I realize my stomach is empty and the booze is going to my head very fast. But I’m not hungry. I’m numb and angry and confused.
And I’m tired. I’m really, really tired.
I make my way to the couch—because I’m not about to sleep in the man’s bed, even though the door is left open. In fact, all the doors are left open. Except the office of course. Not that there was anything good to be found in there anyways.
My head is literally spinning, both from the whiskey and the day I just had. I flop down on the couch and take a deep breath. My eyes are heavy. My brain is a mess. And my internal monologue is all over the fucking place.
He knows.
I’m staying the night in his house.
He knows you’ve been stalking him.
You could sleep in his bed if you wanted to.
He’s dangerous.
You could sleep in his clothes if you wanted to.
He low-key threatened you. High-key threatened you, too. He’s holding you hostage. He tied up your wrists.
That’s kind of hot…?
Danger.
Danger.
Danger.
The voices hush and sleep takes me.
The next morning, it takes me a hot moment to figure out where I am. Of all the wild, unhinged fantasies I’ve had, that one definitely felt the most like a dream.
Except that it wasn’t a dream. It was very much real and I am very much at Ransome’s penthouse.
I wonder…
I rush to the door and yep, it’s still locked.
I look out the peephole and find what’s-his-dick still standing there, all Men In Black with stiff posture.
Then I pad over to the kitchen, still wearing my dress from the night before, which is not comfortable in the least, and check the coffee pot.
It’s a strange contraption that looks like it belongs on a spaceship.
It also looks like it’s never been used.
I do my best to figure it out, but it’s an absolute nightmare. I’m pretty sure this thing will transport me into the future if I hit the right combination of buttons. But after twenty minutes of trying, I’ve still got a bag of unground beans, no hot water, and no coffee.
Goddammit.
“I can figure this out. If I can figure out Ransome Rozanov, I can figure this thing out.”
But even my second wind fails and leaves me just as uncaffeinated as I was when I woke up. I slump to a seat on a barstool at the counter and let my forehead touch the marble.
What’s going to happen now? It’s clear that I’m not going to make my own way out of here. But what about help from the outside? People are going to be looking for me, right?
Electra, no doubt, will think I’ve been abducted. The last time I talked to her was when Ransome kidnapped me from the double date from hell, so honestly, the verbiage here isn’t wrong.
And then there are my siblings. My chin quivers as I think about the possibility of one of my siblings trying to get a hold of me and not being able to. It’s also payday, which means they are expecting a Venmo from me and I can’t do it because I don’t have my phone.
“Fuck!” I scream at the top of my lungs, then wonder if Agent Jackass out there can hear me. Not that he would care.
I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, trying to calm myself down.
When that doesn’t work, I open them again—and see the whiskey where I left it last night.
It’s dumb, it’s reckless, but if I don’t take the edge off my nerves, I’m going to freak the fuck out—so I grab the bottle and take a long pull.
And just like that, I start to feel grounded.
The burn is good. Cleansing. Like it’s washing away the humiliation of last night, and giving me lots of new ideas in the bright light of the morning.
The second pull lights a fire in my belly. How dare he lock me up?
I've been nothing but good to him. Sure, I may have stolen a shirt or two, but what's a little sleepwear in the grand scheme of things? I always put them back. Eventually.
And then there's all the little things. His perfect schedule and perfect coffee and perfect “Good morning, Mr. Rozanov.” Every goddamn day, I’ve been nothing but perfect for him. Because he expects nothing less and I wasn’t about to let him down. Ever.
And this is what I get?
I take another long drink and look around the pristine penthouse. Every surface gleaming. Every item in its perfect place. Just like his office. Just like his life. Everything controlled, everything ordered, everything exactly as Ransome Rozanov wants it. Exactly as I made it for him at work.
Well, maybe it's time Ransome Rozanov's perfect world got a little messy.
Because I'm done being the perfect assistant. If he wants to lock me up like I'm dangerous, maybe I should give him a reason to think that.
I head down the hallway and turn on the bathtub. For a moment, I try to imagine Ransome in this tub, his washboard abs glistening in the suds, his scent infusing the steam, filling the bathroom with his pheromones.
Of course, that’s a short-lived fantasy. Ransome doesn’t seem like the bubble bathing type. Still, no reason I can’t indulge.
While the tub fills, I go into the shower.
The soaps are fancy, with sleek, modern bottles bearing brand names I can’t pronounce.
I grab all of them and empty their contents into the running water, smirking diabolically while the bubbles climb to the brim.
It’s a bit overkill, but after what he did, I will gladly give myself a bladder infection just to prove a point.
While the tub continues to fill, I walk into his room. It is pristine, not a thread of the Persian rug out of place. So I jump on the bed. The mattress is pillow top but firm and it hardly budges. The frame, however, is pine and the support beams underneath make a creaking groan.
Did I break his bed that probably cost more than West Elm? Maybe. Do I care? Nope.
I go through his closet and rip every shirt from the hanger, letting them all fall to the floor.
I mismatch his shoes, tear apart his bookshelves, and then head to the kitchen.
My lips are still glossed in a layer of red lipstick from last night (“lasted through my kidnapping” is one hell of a testimonial for CoverGirl), so I pull every single glass from the cabinet, kissing the rim of each one.
I look around at the destruction and for a split second, I wonder if I went too far.
This is the man, after all, that I have spent the last several months of my life idolizing.
Not in a shrine-in-the-closet sort of way, but I have taken care of Ransome’s wants and needs.
Not a fiber of his suits is ever unpressed.
Not a drop of his coffee is too hot or too cold.
And how am I repaid? With crashed dates and baseless accusations.
So no, I don’t think I’ve gone too far. I think it’s all just right.
After talking myself down, I strip and hop into the bath that may or may not have sloshed onto the floor.
When he gets home, Ransome Rozanov can kiss my soapy ass.