Chapter 24
Stella
Consciousness returned in fragments, my thoughts disjointed. Darkness pressed against my eyes—so complete, so absolute, that for a moment I wasn’t sure if my eyes were open or closed.
I blinked. Blinked again. Nothing changed.
My head throbbed with a dull, heavy ache, like a bad hangover. I tried to piece together how I’d gotten here, wherever here was, but my memories didn’t cooperate.
Where am I?
I tried to stretch, to orient myself, and fear spiked through me when my arms and legs wouldn’t move. My wrists were bound behind my back, something coarse biting into my skin. My ankles were tied too, pressed together, immobile. And there was a strip of tape over my mouth, sealing my lips shut.
No. No, no, no.
Trying not to hyperventilate with panic, I twisted, testing the space around me. My shoulder hit something solid. My knees knocked against a low ceiling barely inches above me. The space was tight, confined, pressing in from all sides.
Think.
I forced myself to breathe through my nose, fighting the rising tide of hysteria. What was the last thing I remembered? Bridget picking me up. The drive to the club. Getting in and having a drink.
After that—nothing. A void where memories should be.
Where was Oliver? Was Bridget okay?
I rolled onto my side, my hip digging into something hard beneath me. And then I caught the smell—rubber, exhaust, motor oil.
A trunk. I’m in the trunk of a car.
I’d been taken.
Memories gradually surfaced through the haze. Someone helping me when I felt so lethargic. Putting me into the trunk. A smirking mouth, mocking me, delighting in my helplessness.
Bridget.
I twisted frantically, searching for anything—a release latch, a weapon, some way out. My bound hands scraped against the trunk’s carpeted interior, finding nothing useful. I kicked out, but the space was too cramped for any real force.
And then I saw it. A tiny red light, blinking steadily in the darkness above my head.
A camera. Someone had mounted a camera in here. Someone was watching me—recording my fear, my helplessness, my desperate struggle against my restraints.
This wasn’t just a kidnapping. This was meant to be a form of torture.
The scream tore out of me before I could stop it—muffled and raw against the tape, my throat burning with the force of it. I thrashed wildly, slamming my body against the walls of my prison, not caring about the pain, not caring about anything except escape.
But the trunk held fast.
And the little red light kept blinking.
Watching.
Waiting.