Chapter 26 Chloe
Chloe
The voice on the other end of the call is polite, measured, and utterly useless.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Ashford,” the man says again, for what feels like the hundredth time. “Without your father’s explicit authorization, or a court order granting you access, there’s simply nothing we can do.”
I pace across the length of my apartment, bare feet against cool wooden floorboards, the phone pressed tight to my ear. The blinds are drawn halfway, stripes of afternoon light cutting through the dust and landing on the stack of unopened bills on my table.
“He’s in prison,” I say, trying not to sound as desperate as I feel. “I can’t exactly get his authorization.”
“Yes, but the trust was designed with his oversight in mind. You’ll need to wait until the trial concludes, or until the next of kin is legally reassigned as—”
“Next of kin,” I interrupt. “He doesn’t have anyone else. It’s just me.”
There’s a pause, and then the same rehearsed sympathy. “I’m sorry, Miss Ashford. I truly am.”
I hang up before he can finish the rest.
The silence afterward is heavy. The kind that sinks into your bones. I drop the phone onto the couch and drag both hands through my hair. It’s the same conversation, every damn time, the same wall of polite refusal, the same tone of bureaucratic indifference.
I should have known this would happen. I should have expected the rejections. But knowing doesn’t make it any easier to breathe.
My chest feels tight.
This was supposed to be my reset. A small apartment, a quiet school, a chance to just exist without the chaos of my father’s name following me. But now I’m back where I started. I’m broke, cornered, and running out of people to call.
I sink onto the couch, elbows on my knees. The window hums softly with traffic noise from the street below. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails.
And then there’s a knock on my door.
Three short taps.
My pulse jumps.
For a second, I just sit there, frozen. Nobody ever comes here. Not without texting first. My first thought is Miles.
Seeing that man outside Marano’s office really messed with me.
Another knock.
I swallow hard and cross the room. My fingers tremble when I reach for the handle, but when I pull the door open, it’s not either of them.
It’s Jamie.
Relief rushes through me so fast I almost lose balance. “Oh my God,” I whisper.
Before I can stop myself, I step forward and throw my arms around him. He’s solid and warm, smelling faintly of smoke and leather. For a second, I just stay there, pressed against him, my body shaking with all the adrenaline that’s been coiled tight inside me for hours.
“Hey,” he says softly, his arms coming around me. “What’s wrong?”
I step back, brushing a hand under my nose. “It’s… it’s a long story.”
He studies me and there’s something different in his eyes.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I’ve been better,” I say, trying to force a smile. “Do you happen to know a good lawyer?”
He doesn’t answer. His gaze flickers over my face, down to my hair. When his fingers brush through it, I wince without meaning to. It’s instinctive—the same spot my father had grabbed, pulling hard enough to make my scalp sting. I pull back fast, embarrassed.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
He frowns. “Are you hurt?”
“Just a headache,” I lie. Then, to change the subject: “You didn’t answer my question. Know a lawyer?”
But he’s not listening. His jaw tightens, his blue eyes restless.
“Jamie?”
He looks at me then, like he’s made some decision he hates. “Chloe, I need you to trust me.”
I blink. “Okay…”
He takes a deep breath. “You need to pack a bag and leave the country. Tonight.”
I laugh, because it’s the only response that makes sense. “I––I can’t just—”
“I’m serious. I’m just trying to help.”
“I can see that.” I step around him and grab a pen from the counter. “You want to help? Great. Here.” I scribble a few names—the ones of lawyers who’d already said no—and hold the list out to him. “Help me find someone who’ll actually pick up the phone.”
He doesn’t take it.
Instead, he sets the paper down on the table and says quietly, “Chloe. Listen to me. You need to pack. And you need to leave with me.”
My laugh dies.
“What?”
“Please,” he says, voice breaking a little. “Just—trust me.”
“Jamie, what the hell is going on?”
He starts pacing long, tight strides that make the air in the room feel smaller. “I can’t explain everything. You just have to listen to me, alright?”
“No,” I snap. “You show up here, out of nowhere, looking like you know something I don’t, and you’re telling me to flee the country? You don’t get to say ‘trust me’ and expect me to follow.”
He runs a hand through his hair, muttering something under his breath. Then he stops in front of me, breathing hard. “Please, Chloe. Just pack a damn bag.”
I shake my head. “No. You’re scaring me.”
“I’m trying to protect you.”
“By what? Kidnapping me? I’m not getting kidnapped. Not again.”
His head jerks up. That hits something. He steps closer, and suddenly his hands are on my shoulders. “Don’t say that.”
“Then tell me what’s going on!”
“I can’t!”
He moves faster than I expect. He grabs my wrist when I try to pull away, pushes me back against the wall. The air leaves my lungs in a sharp gasp.
“Jamie—”
“Stop fighting me,” he says through gritted teeth. “This is for your own good.”
My heart kicks hard, panic rising like fire in my throat. “You’re hurting me!”
“Just listen!”
His fingers dig in. I can’t breathe. My mind flashes back to the blindfold, the rough hands, the dark smell of that room, and suddenly I’m not here anymore. I’m back there, terrified and powerless.
“Please,” I gasp. “Let me go.”
“Listen, baby,” he says, softer now but no less desperate. “I want to keep you safe. We need to keep you safe.”
“We?” My voice cracks. “Who the fuck is we?”
And then I see a flicker of guilt in his eyes. The hesitation. The name hits me before he can answer.
“Miles,” I whisper.
“Look—”
He swallows, steps back, but it’s too late. The realization crashes over me and with it, a burst of adrenaline so sharp it hurts.
I drive my knee up, hard. He doubles over with a strangled sound.
I don’t think. I grab the nearest thing––the ceramic mug from the counter, still half full of cold coffee and swing. It connects with a sickening crack.
Jamie staggers, blood already running down from his nose, his face twisted in shock and pain.
“God, I’m sorry,” I gasp, backing away. “I didn’t mean—are you—”
His roar cuts through the room.
Before I can reach the door, he’s on me.
His arm snakes around my throat, and everything goes white.
“Why,” he grits out, voice shaking, “is this so damn hard?”
My fingers claw at his arm, the edges of my vision tunneling. I try to scream, but nothing comes out.
The last thing I feel is the warmth of his blood on my hand, the sound of my own pulse roaring in my ears—
And then, nothing.
Something drips.
It’s slow, rhythmic. A quiet pat against tile or maybe wood and for a long moment, that’s all I can focus on. That sound, and the heavy, pulsing ache behind my eyes.
When I try to move, something tugs hard at my leg.
My eyes snap open.
I’m staring at a ceiling I don’t recognize. Smooth white paint, a faint shadow of a ceiling fan spinning slow circles overhead. The air smells faintly like cedar and laundry detergent. It’s warm. Too warm.
I try to sit up, but my ankle catches again. My gaze jerks down and my stomach flips. A bedsheet that’s torn down the middle, knotted tight is looped around my ankle and tied to the leg of the bed.
My brain can’t process it.
Then everything hits at once—the apartment, the argument, Jamie’s voice in my ear, the sharp pain at my throat. The mug shattering. His blood.
Panic explodes in my chest.
I push myself upright, ignoring the dizziness that slams into me. My throat feels raw, tender when I swallow.
The room around me is almost… nice. Too nice. A wide bed, clean sheets, pale oak furniture, a soft rug underfoot. There’s a bookshelf, a desk near the window, even a small couch pushed up against the far wall. It looks lived in. Comfortable. Not like somewhere you’d expect to wake up after being—
“Kidnapped,” I whisper.
A low voice answers from the corner. “You’re awake.”
I twist fast—too fast—and the room tilts for a second.
Jamie’s sitting on the couch, an ice pack pressed to his nose. His face is swollen and bruised, dried blood along his upper lip. He looks exhausted. Regretful.
Next to him, sitting in the armchair with one leg slung over the other, is Miles.
He’s reading something.
It takes me a second to recognize the cover—the worn leather, the gold-edged pages. My stomach drops when I realize what it is.
My journal.
“Hey,” Miles says softly when he notices me move. He sets the journal down, stands up quick, crosses the room in three long strides.
“Don’t,” I rasp out, backing as far as the knotted sheet allows.
He crouches in front of me anyway, hands up in surrender. “Easy. You’re okay.”
“Okay?” My voice cracks. “It kind of feels like I’m not.”
He glances over his shoulder at Jamie. “You said she’d be out longer.”
Jamie groans, dropping the ice pack. “She hit me with a mug, man. Forgive me for misjudging her recovery time.”
Miles’s attention snaps back to me. His eyes that pale gray I used to think looked kind are unreadable now.
“Chloe,” he says, his tone careful. “He didn’t mean to hurt you.”
I bark out a laugh. “Oh, well, that makes it so much better.”
“Please,” he says, lowering his voice. “You’re safe now.”
“Safe?” I tug at the bedsheet around my ankle, then hold up my other hand—the one handcuffed to the metal frame. The cuff bites against my skin when I move. “Does this look safe to you?”
He winces. “We had to—”
“Don’t. Don’t even start with that.”
For a moment, neither of them speaks. The silence stretches until I can hear my own pulse pounding in my ears.
Then Miles exhales and moves closer. “You’re dehydrated,” he says. “Let me get you some water.”
“I don’t want your water.”
“Chloe—”
“No!” My voice breaks. I pull again, the cuff cutting deeper into my wrist. “What the hell is this? Some kind of kink thing? Because if it is, I’m not into it, okay? Whatever sick game you’re playing, I’m not part of it anymore. Now untie me!”
Jamie makes a sound that could be a laugh or a groan. “Jesus, Chloe.”
Miles turns on him. “You’re not helping.”
I can’t look at either of them. My head is spinning too fast. My throat burns. There’s a weird, metallic taste in my mouth and I can’t stop shaking.
Miles crouches again. His hoodie rides up when he bends, and I see a dark line of ink curling over his forearm.
It’s familiar. Why the fuck haven’t I noticed it before?
The tattoo. The same one from…
For a heartbeat, the world narrows.
It’s faint, just the edge of something familiar, but I’ve seen that pattern before. Months ago. A flash of it when the man who’d dragged me through the warehouse reached for the blindfold.
A shiver tears through me.
No.
No.
No fucking way!
But the memory won’t let go—the smell of leather and sweat, the same voice whispering, Don’t fight.
It’s him.
It’s Miles.
My breath catches.
“Chloe?” Miles’s voice is gentle, but I can hear the worry in it.
I shake my head, staring at that mark like it’s burned into my vision. “Just… how hard did he choke me?”
He frowns. “What?”
“I must be hallucinating,” I whisper. “Because I could swear—”
“No,” he says quietly.
My chest tightens. I try to stand, but the cuff yanks me back down. “What the hell is this, Miles?”
He runs a hand down his face. “It’s complicated.”
“Why am I tied up!”
Jamie shifts on the couch, muttering something under his breath. Miles ignores him.
“Calm down first,” Miles says. “Then we’ll explain.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down!” I snap. “You kidnapped me! You’re reading my journal! And you want me to—”
He grabs my wrist before I can finish, not roughly, but firm enough to stop me from thrashing. His voice drops low. “If you don’t calm down, you’re going to hurt yourself.”
I stare at him, breathing hard. His face is too close. His eyes are steady, searching mine for something.
But I see straight through it. There’s a flicker of guilt he tries to hide.
He knows. He knows what this is.
My stomach drops.
This isn’t a misunderstanding. It’s not a prank or a mistake or some desperate attempt to protect me like he’s pretending. This is a choice.
They brought me here.
And tied me down.
My hands go cold.
“What are you planning to do to me?”
Miles hesitates. “Nothing. We’re not going to hurt you.”
“You already did.”
He looks away first.
That tells me everything.
The silence stretches again, the weight of it pressing against my ribs. Somewhere in the house a clock ticks.
I pull my knees to my chest, as much as the sheet and cuff will allow. The room feels smaller by the second.
Miles stays crouched, hands open like he wants to help but doesn’t dare touch me. Jamie sits in silence, staring at the floor, the ice pack forgotten beside him.
I can taste fear at the back of my throat. Metallic and bitter.
Something deep in me—the part that’s survived worse—whispers that whatever comes next, I need to be ready. Because whatever this is, it isn’t over.
It’s just beginning.