18. FABRICATED
ariella
My eyes flutter open.
They feel so heavy, like I’ve woken up from a hibernation. I try to move my head, adjusting to the dim lights.
The ceiling above me isn’t my apartment’s.
It’s matte ivory, smooth, seamless, with recessed lighting hidden in narrow architectural slits. The air smells faintly of cedarwood and something expensive and clean.
My body registers itself slowly.
Soft sheets. A mattress that gives just enough beneath my spine. No restraints. That means at least I’m not abducted. So where am I?
I try to recall what happened beforehand, what led me here.
Me on my bike after class.
An unknown car follows after.
Taking the wrong turn.
Next… I’m thrown off my bike, and everything went black.
No fluorescent hum. No antiseptic sting clogging my throat. This is definitely not even close to a private clinic.
A flash of his face over mine. Or maybe I imagined that part.
I can’t remember anything else, no matter how hard I try. It’s as if I’m being materialized here in this unfamiliar bedroom out of nowhere.
Wait, shouldn’t I be in the hospital? But there’s no IV tugging at my arm. No hospital-like setup catches my attention. It’s more like a very expensive guest room in a mansion of some new-money sugar daddy.
I blink again. Once. Twice.
It couldn’t be… I inhale sharply and push myself up too fast.
Pain lances through my shoulder. I gasp, clutching at it instinctively, only to freeze.
It doesn’t feel broken. It feels… healed? Healed but stiff and weak, like I haven’t used it in weeks. Weeks?
My gaze drops to my hands. The scrapes that should’ve been raw and furious are faded into pale pink ghosts. The scars are healing and scarring.
I quickly shove the blanket off me and push up the hospital gown I’m wearing to check my legs. The bruises along my thigh are barely dark shadows.
Even the split on my lip is nothing more than a faint tenderness when I press it with my tongue. It’s not only that but… What the fuck?
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, slowly testing my limit. No dizziness.
No fresh stitches.
No sharp agony.
Just the dull, unfamiliar sensation of muscles re-learning themselves.
The room around me is too curated to be random. The furniture is minimalist but expensive. The curtains are automated and down.
There’s a floor-length mirror across the bed. I stand carefully and walk toward it, every step cautious, like I don’t trust gravity anymore.
I look normal. Better than normal.
My hair is clean and brushed off my forehead. My skin isn’t gaunt or dehydrated. Whoever kept me here didn’t just patch me up—they maintained me really well.
How long have I been out?
A week wouldn’t heal road rash like that. As far as I can remember, the hit was too severe to heal soon.
So two weeks wouldn’t either.
A month? The thought makes my stomach drop.
Asher. Mom. Dad… Oh my God. They’d tear the whole world apart.
CynoTech has private security divisions stronger than some governments. If I disappeared for even twenty-four hours, there would be searches. Press suppression. Internal investigations. I panic internally.
My pulse starts to race for an entirely different reason now when my eyes fall on the minimalist bedside tables. My backpack and phone lie on one of them, while the other has a glass and a jar full of water.
Suddenly, my throat is bone dry at the sight of water. I walk over to it first and inspect the jar. The water seems fresh, as if they’d been waiting for me to wake up every day, and so does the glass.
It doesn’t have any smell of drugs or chemicals, so in the name of the Almighty, I gulp it down, believing in my core that nothing will happen from drinking this liquid.
I pour myself another glass, feeling a slight pain in my shoulders from raising the jar.
Then, as I’m about to pour another glass of water, I undo the lid and start drinking directly from it.
A long burp proves I’ve successfully quenched my thirst. I’m both embarrassed and disgusted by the sound.
Next, I’m reaching for my phone and stare at the date. I try to make sense of it. What the fucking FUCK? This can’t be true.
This is borderline insane. I’ve been out for over a month, and not a single one freaked out about my sudden disappearance.
Unless there was no disappearance.
Unless someone told them something believable.
It feels so absurd, as if I had a sudden time jump into the future. But who has that kind of pull? Who has enough authority to keep the Keinstons calm?
My thumb hovers over my phone screen before I unlock it, only to be utterly surprised.
No avalanche of missed calls.
No emergency notifications.
No incoming panic.
No news alerts with my face attached to words like tragedy or disappearance.
Instead, there are messages from my family. The most bothersome part is that these are normal messages. I tap into our family group chat first.
Mom: Hope you’re finally resting well.
Mom: Take as much time as you need.
Mom: We’ve got you, sweetheart
Dad: Security briefed, my little princess.
Dad: Don’t stress about anything. Just focus on recovering.
Mom: Yes, your Daddy took care of everything, dearest.
Asher: First of all…
Asher: How the FUCK did you get into a bike accident??
Asher: The last time I was talking to her she was mentioning some academic bullshit.
Dad: Language, Asher.
Asher: Oh, now you’re taking her side?! Wow!
Asher: She better actually stay offline this time, or I’m gonna put her permanently off the line.
Dad removed Asher
Mom added Asher
Mom: You two stop, or I’m leaving the group.
I can’t focus on our family banter because of how my stomach is twisting from the truth they don’t know yet. And we’re Keinston.
I scroll up further. There are also a few well-wishing messages from Adrian as well.
Five weeks ago, there was a message sent from my number to the family group chat.
Me: Got into a minor bike accident. Nothing serious though. Doctor’s orders are full rest and zero screentime. Going off-grid for rehab and physiotherapy. Visitors aren’t allowed. But don’t overreact. I’ll keep y’all updated as much as I can. Love you <3
I don’t remember typing that.
And then there are short and sparse follow-up messages from my side.
Me: Shoulder worse than expected.
Me: Still healing.
Me: Signal bad here.
And also a few of my pictures, which look suspiciously like I took the selfies myself with my eyes closed to keep up with the aesthetics.
Not only are there my voice messages in my tone.
All sent from my phone.
I check the sent timestamps. They’re staggered and calculated. Enough to reassure my family believably.
Someone had access to my phone.
Someone who understood exactly how to calm the Keinstons without triggering escalation.
A slow, sick realization creeps in, not from the fear of my phone being tapped in the meantime but more from the understanding that this was a clean orchestration.
I need to change my phone as soon as possible.
My backpack sits exactly where it is. I don’t bother checking my backpack for now, and sling it over my good shoulder.
All I can think of is that this is someone’s home. And that someone has to be my captor, the one who staged this whole setup. I need to know who the piece of shit is.
With my phone still clutched in my hand, I carefully unlock the door and peek outside.
It’s eerily quiet and empty. Carefully, I push it open only as much space as I need to squeeze my body out, slowly stepping out of the bedroom.
The door opens into a mezzanine landing overlooking a mansion’s living space below. Floor-to-ceiling glass. Steel banisters. Clean architectural lines. Everything in monochromatic tone.
My feet walk over to the attached railing on their own and stare down at the living room.
Expensive art pieces hang on the wall in flawless order, rare indoor plants are placed on each corner, but none of them matter now.
“Goodness! You’re awake.”
I nearly jump out of my skin, even though the feminine voice is too sweet to ignore.
I turn.
A woman in her mid-twenties stands at the far end of the mezzanine hallway like she’s been there the entire time.
Tall. Composed. Dressed in an understated silk blouse and tailored flare pants. Her blonde hair falls neatly over one shoulder. No visible tension in her posture.
She smiles at me. It’s the kind of smile that doesn’t reach the eyes.
“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Keinston,” she greets me conversationally, as if we’re meeting over at a charity event.
My throat goes dry. “And who are you?”
She tilts her head slightly, studying me. That smile widens by a fraction. “I’m Mrs. Hertley.”
Wait what?! Hertley…? She’s his… his wife?
He brought me here. Not a hospital. Not some underground lab. His house. Why?
To keep me close? To monitor me? To finish what the headlights started? Can’t believe Alistair Hertley is my captor.
My heart pounds harder. The thought should terrify me.
Instead, something electric unfurls in my stomach. It’s sharp and reckless and impossible to suppress—all rational thoughts overridden by a million butterflies flapping their wings at the possibility.
Alistair. Oh my God. Oh my God. I’m at his place.
A hysterical laughter bubbles up my throat. I clap a hand over my mouth to silence it. This cannot be real. This cannot be happening. I must be dreaming.
I can’t focus on the fact that I’m standing in front of his wife. That he has a wife. I knew he did, so it’s not much of a big deal for me, but still…
The only thing occupying my mind is… I. Am. At. His. Place. Instead of fear, my mind keeps repeating one thing—I am in his space.
A soft clearing of the throat pulls me back. Right. We have an audience here.
I swallow, trying to steady my voice. “How long have I been here?”
She glances toward the sleek digital watch on her wrist, the one that matches exactly his. “One week.”
A pang of jealousy hits me. I bury it down and try to focus on the present.
The word lands heavily but not surprisingly. But according to the calendar, I’ve been out for five weeks. So if I’ve been here at his place for only a week, where did the rest of the four go?
“You were unconscious for most of it,” she continues smoothly. “He was very particular about your recovery.”
Very particular.
My fingers tighten around my phone. “Particular how?”
Her smile shifts almost imperceptibly. “He doesn’t tolerate inefficiency. Especially when something… unexpected enters his orbit.”
My heart beats harder from a strange feeling. “Uh—okay, so where’s he?”
“Working. He has been exceptionally occupied lately.”
Is it because I was a mistake he had to clean up?
She gestures toward the staircase with effortless grace. “You must be disoriented. We can discuss logistics downstairs over coffee. That is only if you drink coffee, unlike him,” she looks over her shoulder.
She’s too modest and elegant, acting as if she’s of royal blood. That’s strange. Royalties don’t need to perform like one.
“Thanks, but I’d like to leave.”
She doesn’t acknowledge me but walks ahead with her hips swaying. “Don’t worry, dear. You’re safe.”
My pulse spikes again, and I can’t help but follow after her. “What does that mean?”
She leads me downstairs.
Her demeanor doesn’t change when she speaks while walking down. “It means you were fortunate.”
So this was never really an accident. And I was never missing. I was being placed here strategically.
Who is he?
One thing I’m sure of now is he’s not just a senior professor but someone more than that. A cold dread feeling coils in my stomach at the sudden realization.
“Alistair wanted you to wait for him.”
The way she says it makes me feel like he was expecting me to wake up today, around this time.
Still, I calmly follow after her. “When will he be back?”
“He should be back at any moment now,” and walks down the stairs and waits for me to catch up. Her tone is light, but the way she speaks isn’t.
“Make yourself comfortable, Miss Keinston,” she motions towards the enormous couch in the center of the living room. “Let me know if you need something,” and walks away to God knows where.
My heart does something violent against my ribs at that. I look around the mansion again, seeing it differently now.
I’ve been kept in here for a week. A strange heat spreads through me that has nothing to do with fear.
He kept me here.
He didn’t let me wake.
He controlled the narrative.
And somehow I’m not sure if I should be terrified or thrilled at the idea of it.
I check the time on the wall console. 5:27 PM. He’ll be walking through that door any minute, just as she informed.
The most unsettling part for me now is I’ve no idea which version of him I’m about to meet—the respected Oxford scholar… or something far more sinister?