31. NOTHING
ariella
There are still people walking around.
I watch them do nothing but waste time—clusters of students gossiping, a few tangled in soft, meaningless flirtations, laughter carries too easily through the air to here on the fourth floor.
A frustrated growl slips out of me. I push off the window, stepping back too quickly.
My heel catches, and I stumble—falling hard onto my ass with a sharp grunt that punches the breath from my lungs.
With my hands still tied, it’s adding more to the hassle. I hiss in pain for not being able to rub the sore muscles.
For a moment, I don’t move. I stay there, sprawled against the floor, silent and still, staring ahead as the room slowly dims.
The sun dips lower, dragging shadows across the walls, stretching them long and thin until everything goes quieter and darker.
The automated lights flick on since there’s still a presence in the room—me.
I need to do something.
I can’t just sit here like a broken doll waiting for someone else to decide for me.
For that, I need to undo my bound wrists first.
The infinity knot sits firm against my skin, structured in a way that punishes impatience. If I pull wrong, it’ll only cinch tighter.
A slow breath fills my lungs, then leaves just as evenly while I stare blankly ahead.
I lower my gaze to my hands, rotating my wrists slightly—not pulling, just feeling. The strap roughly tugs against my skin.
There’s tension at the center—the twist. That’s where it locks.
Which means that’s where it can fail.
I angle my wrists inward instead of apart, testing the give. It doesn’t. A feral growl rips from me, echoing through the room.
My back slouches. I stay motionless for a second before an idea hits. I’m dipping my head, and I take the tip of the strap in my mouth just like he did.
A sharp realization crashes through me. Is this considered an indirect kiss? Like couples eating from the same spoon or him sipping wine from where she left her lipstick stain?
I immediately banish the thought from my head and focus on the task at hand. There are more questionable things we did to blush over this simple act.
My teeth bite onto it, and I pull hard.
The belt tightens instantly in response, digging deeper into my wrists. A sharp sting flares, but I don’t stop. I shift my angle again, easing into the pressure.
The prong finally pops out of the hole. I press my wrists together, folding my hands inward, creating space where the loop expects tension. The loop gives in—not fully, but enough for my hands to slip out.
And my hand slides free, vivid red adorning around my wrists like thick bracelets.
Pins and needles cover my arms at the sudden release. I drop my arm as blood rushes back into my fingers.
If he tried to cage me, I’d flee from the said cage.
If he thinks I’ll still be in this position when he comes back, he’s been underestimating me.
My muscles protest, but I force myself upright anyway.
With a sharp exhale, I push myself up, wincing from rubbing the sore spot of my butt. A hiss escape through my teeth at the sting from both my hands and ass.
Adrian. I reach for my phone and type quickly.
Me: Can I visit you tomorrow?
Back to deafening silence.
I start pacing immediately, restless energy coiling tight beneath my skin. My eyes flick to the screen every few seconds, thumb hovering as if I can force a reply out of it.
Five minutes later, three dots appear.
My breath stills from anticipation.
They disappear.
I narrow my eyes.
They show up again. Pause. Vanish.
What the hell is he doing? Irritation crawls up my spine along with the seconds dragging into minutes.
Finally, my phone pings.
Adrian: You don’t sound like someone coming for a visit.
I freeze, yet my fingers move in a frenzy.
Me: Since when do you analyze my tone?
The reply comes faster this time.
Adrian: Since the day you started asking for things you don’t explain.
My lips press together—he’s not wrong, though.
Me: Can I visit you or not?
Three dots.
Gone.
Back again.
Is he deciding how much to say, or how much to hold back?
Adrian: I’ll send you my private jet.
I wait for one… five… ten minutes.
That’s it?
I drop my hand with a loud exhale. Whatever he wanted to say, he’s clearly not saying it over text. Fine. I can work with that.
Though I could’ve booked an emergency flight myself, I don’t have it in me to go through all the hassle. So why not indulge myself in the life of old money privilege every once in a while?
Maybe I’ll book a return flight instead?
I toss my phone onto the couch with a quiet thud and turn, rolling my shoulders to refocus.
Time to make myself useful. Even if that means tearing his entire office apart.
My calculating gaze sweeps across the room. Either I find anything that would help me climb down that window… or I hack into his MacBook and make use of whatever I can find there, which he left behind in haste.
And Alistair never hastily leaves his things behind—that’s never him. Unless it’s another test to see what I’d do.
Nope. Not touching his damned device.
Neither do I waste my time searching each and every corner in his absence. I already know what lies around. After all, I’ve been coming in and out of this place for quite some time as his unofficial assistant.
I’ve searched his drawers, revealing nothing but neatly arranged files, expensive pens, and documents stacked with obsessive precision.
Bookshelves full of the engineering genre. All organized, categorized, and untouched by chaos.
Tried pulling a few out to check for hidden chambers that we see in movies.
I checked behind the couch or inside the cabinets—nothing, not even an accumulation of dust.
It’s his office after all. Stripped of anything that could be turned against what serves him.
My gaze drifts toward the window again.
I straighten slowly, exhaling through my nose as the realization settles in—I can’t escape. Not like this.
The idea of the curtains lingers at the back of my mind.
It can allow me a descent if I twist it right and knot it properly, that is… if it doesn’t tear halfway and send me crashing down like a dead weight.
It’s stupid and reckless. So is everything else I’ve done so far. I can take a chance with this.
My gaze drifts toward the window, my last resort.
If I’m getting out of here, I need to figure out how to climb down as soon as possible.
The decision settles in with lethal finality.
I’m already leaving my phone and striding towards it, and grab onto the curtains, testing it first.
Stronger and heavier than it seems from a distance—yet meant to block out light, not bear weight.
That doesn’t stop me. I tug harder. The channel creaks faintly where it’s fixed into the wall.
I drag a chair over, the legs scrape softly against the floor despite my effort to keep it quiet.
Climbing up, I reach higher, fingers working at the hooks one by one. The metal legs of the chair shift slightly beneath me. My balance tilts just enough to send a sharp jolt of alarm through me.
A foot slips an inch—heart lurching—but I catch myself at the last second, gripping the wall with one hand as the other yanks the curtain harder in the process.
The channel breaks loose from its hold with a muted snap. The sudden release throws my weight off again. I manage to steady myself and rip the curtains free, tossing the entire length down to the floor.
It comes down heavier than expected, nearly dragging me along with it. I drop back onto the floor with the fabric pooled around my feet.
This can work.
I do the same for the other windows—collecting as much fabric as I can.
Once done, I don’t rush to do the knots.
I gather all the curtains in one place and sit cross-legged on the floor.
Then I start with twisting the length of the thick fabric tightly by temporarily tying it with the makeshift bars, doubling it over itself, pulling it firm until my fingers ache from the tension.
I knot it once. Twice. Again—tight, tighter—testing each loop with a sharp tug, grunting. My jaw clenches as I check for any give.
No slack. Perfect.
I get back on my feet and look down at the courtyard below.
The building sits around a quad—typical, symmetrical, almost too pristine.
A few pathways cut through trimmed grass, old lampposts casting long shadows as evening deepens to nightfall.
It’s quieter now. Students have thinned out, replaced by that strange academic stillness that settles before night fully takes over.
The most crucial part is the guards.
One passes along the edge of the courtyard, and another appears minutes later from the opposite side, following a similar path.
I observe the pattern.
Minutes stretch as I track them—one round, then another.
Same route. Same timing.
Approximately five minutes between each pass since the windows sit on the backside of the campus.
People are always too serious to guard the front, never accepting that the deadliest of enemies always strike from the back.
My lips press together, doing the math. The gates are never left unguarded, not for a second, but this side of the campus is for five minutes. After all, everyone should’ve been left by now. And who’s going to be climbing down like this from a faculty room?
Five minutes isn’t a lot. Especially for someone like me who has never climbed down a window like this before.
Even so, I secure one end of the curtain tightly around the base of the radiator fixed beneath the window—one that’s embedded into the wall.
Next, I secure the other end around my waist. I pull hard for one last time, testing it again, my full weight leaning back until the fabric strains but holds.
A sharp ping of notification slices through the quietude.
My heart stutters. It could be either of my parents or Asher.
Did Adrian tell them about what I wanted him to do? My stomach drops at the thought. It can also be Alistair.
Nevertheless, I have to reach for both my bag and phone together because I’ll be descending in any minute now.
My grip tightens slightly as I glance down at my phone. It’s neither of the ones I was expecting, but a mail from Clara Marks, Adrian’s secretary.
A flicker of relief passes through me as I click on it.
Flight details. Oh. It almost slipped my mind.
My eyes move over the information again, slower this time, actually processing it.
Aircraft Dispatch Summary
Aircraft: Gulfstream G650
Call Sign: CXN-417 (CynoTech registered)
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Leg 1 — Positioning Flight (Completed)
Departure: 5 April — 08:40 AM (AEST) — Sydney, NSW, Australia
Coordinates (Departure): 33.8688° S, 151.2093° E
Arrival: 5 April — 03:10 PM (BST) — Oxford (Private Airfield Clearance), England, UK
Coordinates (Arrival): 51.7520° N, 1.2577° W
Flight Time: ~22 hours (1 fuel stop — Doha)
Status: Landed and on standby
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Leg 2 — Passenger Departure (Scheduled)
Departure: 6 April — 02:15 AM (BST) — Oxford, England, UK
Coordinates (Departure): 51.7520° N, 1.2577° W
Arrival: 6 April — 11:05 PM (AEST) — Sydney, NSW, Australia
Coordinates (Arrival): 33.8688° S, 151.2093° E
Estimated Flight Time: ~21 hours (fuel stop included)
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Crew: Confirmed (Pilot, Co-pilot, Flight Attendant)
Flight Plan: Filed — Oxford → Doha (Fuel Stop) → Sydney
Clearance: Priority international clearance granted
Boarding: Immediate upon arrival
Passenger: Ariella Keinston
I stare at the time on my phone for a second longer, anticipation settling heavy beneath my ribs.
He’s actually sent his private jet, and it’s already on board.
Starting now, five hours is all I have.