Chapter Five - Annie
The moment my apartment door clicks shut behind me, I press my forehead to the wood and let out a breath I’ve been holding since the gallery. It’s too shallow, too fast, and I force another one, then another, like I can push the night out of my lungs if I just exhale hard enough.
My key still dangles from the lock; I fumble it free and drop it in the bowl by the door. The apartment is dim, quiet, filled with the faint lemony scent of the candle I forgot to blow out this morning. Home. Safe.
I keep repeating that word in my head as I slide the deadbolt, then the chain. Safe.
The word feels flimsy, like tissue paper trying to stand up to a storm.
The city hums outside my windows, traffic blaring in uneven bursts, voices rising and fading on the sidewalk below. Usually, it grounds me, reminds me that I’m just one person in millions. Tonight, it feels too close, like the world’s pressing its ear to the glass, listening for secrets.
I peel out of the black dress that’s clung to me since morning and toss it over a chair.
The straps leave faint red lines in my shoulders.
My heels hit the floor with two sharp thuds that echo too loud in the little apartment.
I catch myself glancing at the door again, as though the locks might’ve undone themselves.
I need to move. I need to do something that isn’t replaying the sound of a gunshot inside my head.
So I clean.
I scoop empty mugs from the coffee table, load them into the sink, run hot water until steam curls in the air.
I wipe the counters, though they’re not dirty, then sweep the floor for crumbs that don’t exist. My body keeps going, arms moving, legs pacing, as though if I stop, the images will catch me.
The kneeling man’s face. Dimitri’s voice, calm as winter. The split second when his eyes found mine in the doorway.
The rag slips in my hand, damp cloth streaking water across the counter.
I toss it aside, grab my phone, and open my inbox like work can drown it out.
A couple clients want updates on shipments.
Dana’s already emailed the auction totals, a giddy subject line with more exclamation points than necessary.
My fingers type responses automatically, polite, efficient, professional. If anyone looked at me right now, they’d see a gallery assistant winding down after a long night. Nothing strange. Nothing suspicious.
My phone buzzes again, this time with a text from Mia: Takeout or you dead?
I don’t answer. She knows where I live, and ten minutes later she’s at my door, knocking in her usual rhythm.
When I let her in, she’s juggling a paper bag and two bottles of soda. Her blunt blonde bob is damp from the rain, cheeks pink from the wind. She dumps everything onto my coffee table and collapses on the couch like she owns it. “Tell me you’re starving.”
“I’m starving,” I echo, even though my stomach is in knots.
She grins, hands me a container of noodles, and digs into her own. We eat in the glow of my small lamp, steam curling from the cartons.
Mia launches into a story about her latest project, some client’s firewall that was child’s play to crack. She’s all spark and bravado, flicking her wrist like the code bent just because she told it to. I nod, laugh in the right places, let her words wash over me.
Eventually, she shifts the conversation. “So. The big auction. How’d it go? You dazzle the old money crowd with your clipboard routine?”
I snort, forcing a laugh that feels brittle. “Same chaos as always. A caterer quit, half the flowers showed up late, but we pulled it off. Guests were happy, donors opened their wallets. The usual.”
“The usual,” she repeats, narrowing her eyes. “That’s your I’m lying, but I don’t want you to know voice.”
“I’m not lying.” My chopsticks hover in midair. I make myself smile. “It was fine. Nothing exciting. I’m just tired.”
She studies me for a beat longer, but then her grin softens.
“You need more fun in your life, Annie. You’re twenty-one, not sixty.
One of these nights, I’m dragging you out.
You’ll thank me when you meet someone who doesn’t know the difference between Monet and Manet and you realize that’s better for your sanity. ”
“Sure,” I say, voice light. “One of these nights.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t press. We finish the food, cartons stacked neatly on the table. She hugs me before she leaves, the scent of her leather jacket sharp against my nose. “Sleep, okay? Don’t spend all night answering emails. I’ll know.”
When the door shuts, the silence caves in on me.
I lock it twice. Check the chain. Draw the curtains.
The apartment feels smaller than it did this morning, the shadows heavier.
I tell myself I’m being ridiculous. There’s no reason anyone would care that I happened to be in the wrong hallway at the wrong time.
No one even noticed me slip away from the main hall.
I’m a gallery assistant, not a threat. People like Dimitri Sharov don’t look at women like me twice.
Except he did.
The memory of his eyes finds me in the dark, sharp as glass. I sink onto the couch, arms wrapping around my middle. My pulse hasn’t settled since the gun went off.
I whisper it into the quiet, the lie I need to believe. “There’s no reason anyone would care.”
My hands won’t stop trembling.
***
Sleep doesn’t come easy. I toss under the thin blanket, thoughts scratching at me like restless birds.
Every time I close my eyes, I see the same image: a man crumpling forward on concrete, the muzzle flash burning into my vision, Dimitri’s head snapping toward the door.
I squeeze my eyes tighter, tell myself I imagined half of it, that my brain exaggerated the edges.
The sound of that shot—it doesn’t leave.
Eventually, exhaustion drags me under, but it’s a shallow kind of sleep, brittle and thin.
Something pulls me out of it.
At first, I tell myself it’s the storm. The wind has teeth tonight, scraping against the glass, and the pipes in this building like to groan when the temperature shifts.
As I blink into the dark, the hair on my arms lifts.
The noise is too clean. Too intentional.
A faint scuff, a weight against the floorboards outside my door.
My hand flails for my phone on the nightstand, but I don’t make it.
The door bursts open in a violent crack of wood and metal.
I jolt upright, a scream punching up my throat, but it never makes it out. Figures flood the room—masked, dressed in black, moving with a speed that steals all the oxygen from my chest. Hands grab my arms, pinning me back before I can kick or twist.
Another figure blocks the doorway. My body reacts before my brain can, legs thrashing, shoulder wrenching against the grip that holds me.
The scream tears free this time, raw and wild, but it’s swallowed before it can reach the hallway.
A gloved hand clamps over my mouth, hot air seeping in through fabric.
I bite down, hard, teeth sinking into leather, but another hand shoves my head sideways, and something cold presses against my nose and lips.
A chemical sweetness invades my mouth, cloying and heavy.
I choke against it, lungs rebelling, but the world narrows too quickly.
My heartbeat is everywhere—throbbing in my temples, hammering in my chest, vibrating through my fingertips.
My last sight before the black swallows me is that gloved hand and the endless, suffocating dark behind it.
When consciousness slams back, it comes in pieces.
The first is smell. Cedar. Expensive cologne. Richer than anything that’s ever existed in my little apartment, so thick it clings to the back of my throat.
The second is texture. Sheets softer than silk, cool against bare skin. A mattress that doesn’t creak when I shift.
The third is weight. My own limbs feel heavy, like I’m moving underwater. My head swims, thoughts slow to assemble themselves.
I open my eyes to a ceiling lost in shadow, tall enough to make the room feel endless. When I push up onto my elbows, the blanket slides down my shoulders, heavy and plush, the kind of fabric that doesn’t exist outside luxury hotels and dreams.
Panic spikes.
I shove the blanket away and stagger upright, legs unsteady. The bedroom is vast, walls paneled in dark wood, curtains drawn over windows so tall I could stand on the sill and still not reach the top. A fireplace sits unlit across from the bed, the mantel carved with intricate detail.
Everything gleams. Polished wood, gilded trim, a rug so thick my toes sink into it.
It’s not comfort. It’s a cage with better furniture.
I stumble to the nearest window, yank the curtains open with shaking hands.
Cold moonlight washes in, silvering the walls.
Outside, there’s no city skyline. No neon.
I see high stone walls and the black sprawl of an estate that stretches further than I can see.
Trees rise at the edges, their branches clawing at the sky. The air is too still, too isolated.
My chest squeezes.
I tug at the latch. It doesn’t budge. The glass doesn’t even rattle when I slam my palm against it. A prison disguised as a mansion.
I back away, one step, then another, until the backs of my knees hit the bed. I sink down hard, clutching the blanket around my shoulders like it’s the only thing tethering me. My breath comes ragged.
I try to piece together how far I’ve been taken, how many hours passed between the gloved hand and this moment. My phone’s gone. My bag, my keys—gone.
Did anyone even see them take me?
A hollow laugh slips out, thin and bitter. Of course not. In this city, people look away. No one asks questions.
I pull the blanket tighter, digging my fingers into the fabric until my knuckles ache. My mind runs circles, chasing the same useless thoughts. Who sent them? Why me? Did someone know what I saw?
The memory of his voice threads through the panic, low and even: “Stay where you are.”
My stomach drops.
It has to be him. Dimitri Sharov.
I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, try to shove the image of him away, but it clings. The way he looked at me when the door swung wider. Calm. Calculating. Dangerous.
A sound cuts through my spiraling. Footsteps.
The kind of steps that don’t need to rush, because whoever’s making them already owns the space.
They draw closer, each one a nail hammered into my chest. I freeze on the bed, blanket bunched around me, staring at the door as if I can will it to stay shut.
The knob shifts.
Whatever comes next, there’s no pretending I imagined any of it.
I catch a hint of him before I see the whole figure: the scent, sharp and familiar, cedar layered over something darker. My stomach knots.
When he finally steps through, there’s no mistaking him. Dimitri Sharov. He’s tall and tailored, his presence heavy enough to make the walls feel closer. His eyes sweep the room once, then land on me, and they don’t move.
I shrink back against the headboard, clutching the blanket like armor. My mouth is dry, but words push up anyway, ragged and desperate. “Why am I here?”