Chapter 12
RILEY
The clothes Vaughn got me fit well enough, except for the sweatpants. Everything else fits as if I’d ordered it myself. This man clearly knows everything about me, while I didn't even know his damn last name before an Elvis impersonator married me to him.
I sit at the kitchen table, resting my hands on the scratched wooden surface, waiting to finally find out what the hell is going on. For the past few hours, I’ve gone through every possible explanation, but none of them made sense.
This wasn't a spontaneous move. On the contrary, it seems to have been planned for a long time. But why? Ransom? I believe Vaughn when he says money doesn't mean much to him. That’s always easy to say when you have more than enough, and apparently, he does.
But why am I sitting here as a prisoner in the middle of nowhere?
Vaughn sits opposite me, watching me with an expression I can't read. It’s not the arrogant superiority from last night, nor the cold resolve from the car. It’s something in between. Something that remotely resembles respect.
“Talk,” I say.
He leans back. “Where should I start?”
“At the beginning. Who are you? What do you want? And why am I sitting in a house in the middle of the desert instead of lying in my own bed?”
He nods slowly, as if he expected those exact questions. Of course he did. He’s likely rehearsed the answers, played out variations, prepared counterarguments. This man seems to prepare for everything.
“My name is Vaughn Mercer,” he begins. “You already know that. I’m forty-six years old. I grew up in a small town in Nevada, in a house that belonged to my parents.”
“Belonged,” I repeat.
“Belonged.” He swirls the cup between his fingers.
“My father’s name was Arthur Mercer. He was an engineer.
He started a company—nothing huge, but it did well.
Security technology for medium-sized businesses.
Alarm systems, access controls, video surveillance.
He designed the systems himself, and my mother handled the books. ”
He speaks slowly. Every sentence is deliberate, as if he’s choosing words he doesn't normally use. I can tell he doesn't talk about this often.
“The company grew, and eventually my father needed capital to expand. The banks said no. Too small, too risky, not enough collateral. And then a man approached him, offering everything the banks had refused. A loan. With terms that sounded too good to be true.”
I say nothing, keeping my face expressionless.
“The loan had clauses my father didn't understand.
He was an engineer, not a lawyer. The interest rates were variable, tied to conditions hidden in the fine print.
After two years, the rates exploded. My father couldn't pay anymore.
He tried to negotiate, but the man who had given him the loan wasn't interested in negotiations.”
Vaughn pauses. His jaw muscles tighten. Under the white T-shirt, I see his shoulders harden.
“Then came the sabotage. Orders suddenly canceled. Suppliers ending partnerships without explanation. Customers backing out because someone told them Mercer’s security systems delivered faulty products. Within six months, my father didn't have a single customer left.”
“That’s a sad story, but I still don't see what it has to do with me.”
“The house was foreclosed,” Vaughn continues, ignoring my comment.
“The company was auctioned off. Everything my parents had built over twenty years was gone within a year. My father wrote letters—to lawyers, to regulatory agencies, to journalists. No one listened. The man who had given him the loan was too powerful. He had connections to the right people. Judges, politicians, police. My father stood alone.”
Vaughn looks up. His brown eyes are dark, but not angry. They’re empty, as if he’s mentally preparing himself for what he’s about to say next.
“I was sixteen. I came home from school, and the front door was unlocked. The curtains were drawn. There were no lights on in the living room.”
He stops, his voice faltering.
“I found them in the bedroom,” he says then, so devoid of emotion it sends a chill down my spine.
Like a news anchor reading a report that has nothing to do with him.
“Side by side. On the bed. They were wearing their best clothes. My father in his Sunday suit. My mother in the blue dress she always wore for birthdays.”
He takes a sip of water. His hand is perfectly steady.
“They had left a letter. Two pages. It said they saw no other way out. That the shame was too great. That they didn't want me to watch them end up on the street. They thought they were doing me a favor.”
I don't know what to say, so I say nothing at first, trying to endure the uncomfortable silence filling the room. After a while, I notice the ticking of a clock I can't see, somewhere in the house. And my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.
“I’m sorry,” I say finally, because I can't think of anything better. What else do you say to a man who just told you he found his parents dead?
Vaughn nods. Not as an acknowledgment of my sympathy, but as a signal that he’s continuing.
“The man who gave my parents that loan. The man who destroyed their company, drove them to ruin, and took their last shred of dignity.”
He looks me straight in the eye.
“His name is Richard Blackstone.”
My brain refuses to process this information. It’s like someone telling me the sun will rise in the west tomorrow. The information doesn't fit my worldview, so my mind rejects it.
“No.” The word comes out fast and hard. “No. That’s not true.”
Vaughn doesn't react.
“My father is many things,” I say, my voice rising. “He’s strict. He’s controlling. He’s sometimes… difficult. But he’s not a murderer. He doesn't destroy lives. He—”
“Did he ever tell you how he started?” Vaughn interrupts with his news-anchor voice.
“He worked his way up. He built the Onyx Grand from the ground—”
“Did he tell you how he got the startup capital? Did he show you the ledgers? The early contracts? The names of the people who were there before you?”
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. For the simple reason that I don't know the answer. I know the story my father tells: a man from humble beginnings who became a casino mogul through hard work and discipline. I know the version in the magazines. I know the speeches he gives at galas.
But I don't know any business reports, any tax ledgers. No early contracts. No names.
“My father protects me,” I say, and my voice sounds thinner than I want. “He does everything to protect me.”
“From what?” Vaughn leans forward. “What exactly is he protecting you from, Riley? From the world out there? From bad people? From men?” He pauses. “Or from the truth?”
“Stop it.” I stand up. The chair scrapes across the tiles. “You tell me a sad story, and I’m supposed to believe my father is a monster? Just because you say so? You lied to me. You manipulated me. You dragged me to this hole. Why should I believe anything you say?”
“You don't have to believe me.” Vaughn stays seated. He doesn't even raise his voice. “I’m not asking you to believe me. I’m asking you to think.”
“I’m thinking the whole damn time!” My voice echoes off the walls. “Since I sat in that car, I’ve been thinking. And do you know what conclusion I’ve reached? That you’re a psychopath using me to hurt my father. That everything—the evening, the drinks, the chapel, the bed—was one sick plan.”
Vaughn says nothing, but he meets my gaze. There is no contradiction in his eyes, no indignation, no defense.
“The bed,” I whisper. “Was that part of the plan too? Fucking me like a goddamn whore so you could win my trust?”
He doesn't answer immediately, instead taking a deep breath.
“The plan was to marry you,” he says finally.
I don't know if that’s the truth. I don't know if this man is even capable of telling the truth. But the way he took that breath—that one second where his mask slipped—that was real. He seemed to have felt something.
Or maybe not. What do I know? I’ve spent my whole life in a server room and think a hoodie is an evening gown.
“I’m going to my room,” I say. My voice is hoarse. “And tomorrow morning, I want proof. No stories, no hints, no sad looks. Proof. If you have any, show me. If not, then find a way to take me home.”
I turn and walk down the hall. My bare feet slap against the cold tiles. Behind me, I hear nothing. No chair moving, no footsteps, not a word.
I close my bedroom door and lean against it from the inside. My heart is racing. My hands are shaking.
Richard Blackstone.
My father.
The man who calls me every year on my birthday and sings, even though he can't sing. The man who taught me to code when I was ten. The man who held me when I cried because the other kids at school teased me about my red hair.
The man who never lets me go out. Who drives away every suitor. Who monitors my phone, reads my emails, and fills my apartment with cameras. The man who loves me by more or less locking me up.
I lie down on the narrow bed. The mattress is hard. The blanket is thin. Through the window, I see the desert night sky.
What exactly is he protecting you from, Riley?
The question hangs in the darkness above me.