Chapter 11 #2
"They think we're already involved with each other," he says. "You gave them just enough. A glance. A silhouette. They filled in the blanks. And they filled them with a romance."
"And your solution is what, exactly? Let them keep fantasizing.
Or, better yet, let me go so I can tell the world what a psycho you are.
" I move closer, matching his intensity.
"Because, newsflash, the internet would eat that up.
Kidnapped influencer exposes mysterious mobster. That's another million views, minimum."
He lifts his eyes to mine, and there's a flicker there, something I can't quite decipher. Annoyance, maybe. Or just extreme boredom with my existence.
"No. My solution is to give them something less interesting.
We stage a fake relationship. We give them staged candids, curated captions, strategic appearances.
We flood them with romance to the point they can't stand us as a couple anymore.
Then we let the fantasy die on its own. We give them so much of what they think they want, they'll get bored.
Eventually, they'll move on to something else because they always do. "
My jaw actually drops this time. It feels like a cartoon moment, but it's real.
My mouth is open, hanging there. "You want me to make lovey-dovey romantic content with you?
Like a psycho couples collab. Are you serious right now?
Is this a joke? Because if it is, it's not funny.
And you should know, I've always hated collabs.
Always. Because I'm always the one who does all the work and carries the load, while the other person doesn't do a damn thing. "
He shrugs, a tiny movement that somehow conveys maximum indifference.
"People lose interest in what's familiar.
If I'm your rich, overexposed boyfriend, I stop being interesting and become a punchline.
Your followers will forget about the handoff.
They'll forget about the danger. They'll only see the tired, predictable influencer couple.
It won't take long before they'll be begging you to hook up with someone new. "
"Oh my god," I whisper, the realization hitting me. "You want to de-mystify yourself. You want to make yourself… boring." The idea is so utterly ridiculous, so profoundly not what I would ever do for my brand, that it almost makes me laugh.
"Yes," he says, his gaze unwavering. "Exactly."
"With me," I push, just to hear him say it again, to confirm this is actually happening.
"Yes."
I sit back, suddenly tired. "You want me to sell a lie to my followers, every single day, for who knows how long. And smile while I'm doing it."
"No, what we're asking you to do is survive," he says.
His words cut through all my sarcasm. They strip away the performance. That's all this is about now. Not thriving. Not winning. Just surviving. It's a bitter pill to swallow. All that hustle, all that ambition in my life, reduced to staying alive.
"You're insane. You're actually, truly, certifiably insane. This is the most idiotic plan I've ever heard. Do you know how much work goes into a fake relationship, especially one for the public eye? Do you know how much acting I would have to do? I'm an influencer, not an actress."
"I'm not insane, I'm practical," he replies. "There's a difference. And you, my dear, are a very good actress. Your entire career's based on a performance. A curated performance for your millions of loyal fans."
This cannot be my life. "And if I say no?"
He takes a step closer. Not threatening, not quite. But close enough that I feel the heat roll off him, a dangerous warmth that prickles my skin. His scent, something clean and masculine, fills my nose. It's both intoxicating and disorienting.
"Then I release you back into the wild," he says, his tone soft, almost a caress, but the words are pure ice.
"Which, for you, will end exactly how you think it will.
Your friends, your family, your followers.
They won't be looking for a missing person.
They'll be looking for a ghost. A forgotten hashtag.
You'll vanish, and no one'll ever know what happened. "
"What about my parents? Will you let them think I just died?
Or abandoned them?" I spit the words out, the bravado barely covering the knot of fear in my stomach.
The thought of my mom, frantic with worry, freaks me out.
I can't let her go through that. She's done too much for me in my life to deal with this crap.
He fixes me with that cold stare until I glance away. "Let's talk about your parents, now that you've brought them up. They're a wealthy couple from Silicon Valley, right? Where you grew up in a private school for rich kids? The kind of life where you travel to Europe every summer, just for fun?"
Damn it, he knows. The bastard knows the truth and he's threatening to expose my lies to my followers.
My carefully constructed facade, the one I'd spent years building, shattered in an instant. The story about my 'wealthy parents' was a cornerstone of my influencer persona, a glittering lie I told to give me a boost.
In reality, it was only me and my mom, Penny, who worked herself to the bone with three jobs in a suffocating Florida trailer park, trying to save every spare dime to help me get started with ring lights and cameras. She believed in me and I promised not to let her down.
And I never have, until now.
My income allows her to live comfortably in a suburb near Orlando.
She's a long-distance lifeline, sending me care packages with her homemade cookies and calling just to make sure I'm eating.
The thought of her finding out about any of this makes me physically ill.
Whatever happens, I can't let her get drawn into this too.
"What are you?" I ask. "A bonafide stalker now? What else do you know about me?"
"Everything."
"What's in it for me?" I ask. "I need something tangible beyond, you know, breathing."
He actually smirks this time, a full-blown, arrogant curve of his lips.
It's annoying. And, yet annoyingly, attractive.
"You get to live. You get to post. You get your audience back.
You get freedom curated through a very expensive lens, of course.
No more cheap travel vlogs. We're talking private jets, designer clothes, five-star resorts every other week.
Your feed will be the envy of every influencer out there.
You'll be living the dream, on my terms. The next few weeks will be the biggest party of your life.
If all goes well, you'll eventually get your freedom. "
"Freedom," I echo. It's a bitter joke. Freedom to exist under the watchful eye of a man who abducted me. Some freedom that is.
"And what happens if I mess up?" I ask. "Accidentally or not? What if I slip? What if I say the wrong thing, or do the wrong thing? Accidents happen, you know."
"Then we enact option two. Permanently. There'll be no second chances. No appeals. You'll simply disappear and no one'll ever find you."
The threat is absolute.
And I believe every word.
"You're not subtle," I mutter.
"I know,” he replies. “Subtle doesn’t keep people alive.”
I exhale slowly, a long, shuddering breath. Well, this is it. The end of my old life and the beginning of whatever this new, twisted thing is going to be. "Okay then. If this is the way it must be, then let's do this. Let's build a lie that feels more real than the truth.
“I'm glad you've come around to my way of thinking," he says. "You should be smiling. You landed the most exclusive brand deal of your life. And trust me, you're going to kill it. If it doesn't kill you first, that is."
He turns to go, already moving on to the next phase of his insane plan.
After he leaves, Enzo steps into the room with a file clutched in one hand. What is it with these people and their file folders?
"I'm here to brief you on the operational details. Rafe wants us to get started as soon as you're ready." He walks over to the table and spreads out a few glossy printouts. There are itineraries, contact lists, and what looks like a social media content calendar. My content calendar.
"You will be given a new phone," Enzo explains, pointing to a sleek, dark device on the table.
"It will have limited access. Only approved applications.
All communications will be monitored. You will be given a list of approved contacts.
Any attempts to contact unauthorized individuals will be blocked.
" He pauses, his gaze meeting mine. "And will have immediate consequences. Take my warning and don't try it."
"Consequences," I repeat flatly. "Like what. Will you delete my video drafts?" I force a laugh.
“It means we notify Rafe. And Rafe doesn’t do warnings.
This is not a game. You are in a precarious situation.
Rafe is offering you a path to safety. You would be wise to follow it without unnecessary drama.
" He picks up one of the printouts, a timeline. "Your first public appearance with Rafe is scheduled for tomorrow evening. A private dinner at a restaurant in Rome. We’ve leaked a tip to one of Rafe’s media assets.
They’ll make sure the right cameras are in place, and the coverage will be flattering and controlled. ”
"You paid off the media? Wow…you mobsters will do anything to get a good shot."
"They will be there," Enzo says, ignoring my sarcasm. "You will arrive with Rafe. You will maintain a certain demeanor. Affectionate, but not overly so. Engaged, but with a hint of mystery. The internet expects a certain dynamic from you. You will provide it."
I feel a surge of anger, hot and sharp. "I get it!
I'm just a prop. Nothing more than a human accessory for Rafe's little clean-up operation.
Is that it? I don't get a say in my own public image now?
The one I built. The one I worked for." My voice cracks on the last word, and I immediately hate myself for it.
I promised myself I wouldn't show them weakness.
Enzo's eyes soften, just for a fleeting moment "You get to live.
You get to continue your life, in a modified form.
Many people in your position would not be so fortunate.
" He walks closer, his tone dropping to a whisper.
"You have no idea the kind of people Rafe deals with.
The danger you brought to his doorstep. He could have chosen a very different path for you.
This is the lesser of two evils. You'll regret it if you screw this up, I promise you. Don't try anything."
The words silence me. The casualness of his threat, the chilling implication of what my other options are.
I think about the isolation, the complete lack of control I felt when I was first taken. This fake relationship, as insane as it is, is still better than whatever Rafe has in mind for me if I refuse.
"Let's say I go along and pretend to be madly in love with this psycho. And then what? When the attention dies down, do we ride off into the sunset of fake social media posts?"
He actually sighs, a weary sound. "You will establish the narrative you need them to believe.
Slowly, carefully. You will post images, videos.
You will be seen together, in public and in carefully staged 'private' moments.
The goal is to make it mundane. To make Rafe seem like just another celebrity boyfriend.
The longer you maintain the illusion, the more effective it will be.
" He gestures to the tablet. "Rafe has already prepared some initial concepts.
You will review them. Your input will be considered, within reason. "
"My input will be considered," I scoff. "How generous. I'm been promoted to creative director of my own horror movie."
"Think of it as a collaboration," Enzo adds, not realizing that's about the worst thing he can say. "You are very good at what you do. Rafe recognizes that. Your ability to create a compelling narrative, to draw an audience in, it will be useful."
Useful. That's all I am. A tool. A means to an end.
The thought makes me want to smash something, anything.
Instead, I just stare at the screen and read Rafe's "concept ideas.
" They're surprisingly good for a mobster.
The ideas include candid shots of us laughing at a cafe, holding hands in a park, looking glamorous at an event.
All the things a real couple would do, but filtered.
A complete total lie I'm supposed to sell.
"Fine," I agree. "Let's get this over with. What's the first pose? Do I gaze adoringly into his cold, dead eyes, or do I pretend to trip and fall into his arms for a candid moment?" I try to make it sound sarcastic, but it just comes out sounding defeated.
"Rafe will be back shortly. We have a lot of work to do and little time to get ready."
He leaves me with the tablet, and the sickening reality of my new life. A social media star, playing the role of a girlfriend to a mobster, all to save my own skin. What a plot twist. Even my most dramatic fan fiction couldn't come up with this.
I pick up the new phone and stare at my reflection in the black screen. The influencer they remember is gone. But I can bring her back. On my terms, in disguise.
They want a show? I’ll give them the performance of a lifetime.
And when the curtain finally falls, I’ll be the one writing the ending.