Secret Desire

Chapter 1

LIESL

The afternoon sun glints off a glass building just ahead of me on Fifth Avenue, causing me to momentarily pause in the flow of the crowd’s traffic as I adjust my sunglasses.

A man bumps into me and then continues on without apologizing, and I laugh softly under my breath as I keep walking.

Never change, New York, I think to myself as I turn left toward the street that will take me to the new juice bar where I’m supposed to meet my friend, Isabelle, for a post-workout drink.

She just got out of spin class, and I’m on my way from Pilates.

This place is supposedly outrageously expensive for juice, but I'm the one who spent two hundred dollars on a yoga class package last week, so I don't exactly have room to talk about overpriced wellness trends.

I reach up, patting a gleam of sweat from my forehead as I walk.

Summer in New York is stifling and hot, but honestly, I’d take it over any other season.

I love the bright sun, the fun clothing, the people milling about outside in the park and on rooftop bars as the evenings stretch out endlessly, the daylight hanging on as long as it can.

My playlist shuffles to an up-tempo song, and I bounce my head as I walk, a smile spreading across my face.

I turn the volume up a bit to drown out the sounds of the city all around me, ensconced in my own little bubble.

My phone buzzes in my bag, and I reach for it as I sidestep a woman with a stroller and a man in a suit who's walking too fast and staring at his phone.

It’s a dance I’m very familiar with by now.

I moved here as soon as I left boarding school, taking a job as a buyer for some of the top brands using, admittedly, some of my father’s connections.

But that’s better, I think, than the alternative—just going to exercise classes and out to lunch and dinner and coffee and endlessly spending my days in nothing but hedonistic pursuits while I live off of my father’s money until I inherit the rest of it.

At least I’m working, unlike a lot of my classmates now.

I don’t really want to brunch as a lifestyle…

I like meeting new people, talking about fashion and trends, and being responsible for some of the beautiful displays in the well-known stores of this city.

At least my upbringing feels like it means something…

a shallow something, maybe, but at least I’m contributing to beauty.

My life is good. Privileged, yes, but good. I'm aware of how lucky I am.

The light ahead turns red, and I stop at the crosswalk, pulling out my phone to check Isabelle's message. Three texts. She wants to know if I’m almost there, because she’s running a few minutes late, and also, did I see that her ex posted a photo with someone new?

I'm typing a response, something sarcastic about her ex's terrible taste in both women and Instagram filters, when I feel a sudden, prickling awareness at the back of my neck.

It’s that kind of awareness that I think all women know, to a certain extent.

In a city like this, especially where there are people everywhere, there’s a specific feeling that comes with knowing someone is watching you.

It feels like someone is too close behind me, and I turn instinctively, my phone still clutched in my hand as I sweep the crowd parting around me.

And then a hand clamps over my mouth.

The shock of it freezes me for a split second—just long enough for another arm to wrap around my waist, iron-strong and lifting me off my feet. My phone drops as I reach up to grab the hand on my face. I hear it clatter on the concrete, and then I'm being dragged backward.

All around me, people are ignoring whatever is happening—or maybe it’s just happening faster than it feels.

I’m being dragged back toward an alley, I realize, in the instant before I’m in the alley, and the light turns dim all around me.

I can smell the stench of garbage and pee and who knows what else.

I try to scream, but the hand is pressed so tightly against my face that I can barely breathe. I kick wildly as I try to struggle, and my heel connects with something solid… the man’s leg, I think, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care.

I’m twisted around as I scratch at the hand and try to bite at it, and I see what’s waiting at the other end of the alley, parked in the service drive there.

A van. There's a van with its side door open, the interior dark, and they're shoving me toward it.

No. No no no—

I thrash harder, wild with panic, trying to bite the hand over my mouth, trying to wrench myself free, but they're professionals.

They know what they're doing. One of them has my wrists now, and he twists them behind my back with enough force that pain shoots up my arms, and I gasp against the palm pressed to my lips.

Never go to a second location. Women are always told that, but no one ever mentions how impossible it is not to go once someone bigger and stronger has you in their grasp. No matter how hard I writhe or kick or struggle, I can’t get free. It’s like thrashing against iron bars.

“Be easier if we drugged her,” I hear a voice say, and cold fear turns me numb for a brief second, rendering my struggling even more useless.

“Boss wants her in good shape. Doesn’t want to risk a reaction to drugs. You think we can’t handle one scrawny girl?”

Scrawny? I try to spit out a response to that, because I work hard for the muscle tone I have, but everything just comes out as a series of babbles behind the palm pressed to my lips. The man behind me chuckles, and then I’m shoved forward, into the darkness.

The van swallows me whole.

I fall to the floor, and I feel metal ridges digging into my hip and shoulder.

Before I can even process what's happening, something plastic bites into my wrists. Zip ties, I realize. They're zip-tying my hands behind my back, pulling them tight enough that I can’t get much movement in my hands, although they don’t cut off the circulation.

“Careful with those,” that one voice says again. “Remember, no damage.”

What the fuck is happening? “Please—” I start to gasp, but then something is yanked over my head, cutting off my vision completely and briefly stealing my breath away with the shock of it.

It’s a soft material, but I feel it being tied off at the back of my neck, leaving just enough room for some air but not enough for me to shake it off.

I’m effectively blind now. The van door slams shut, and the engine is already running.

I feel the van start to move, and I let out a scream.

I can’t help it. Terror lashes through every part of me, making it impossible for me to think clearly about what might be happening.

All I know is one moment I was going about my normal day, going to meet a friend, enjoying the heat and the soreness in my muscles from my workout, and then…

Then I was… kidnapped?

The word doesn’t feel real. But what else could be happening? I’m hooded. I can’t move my hands. I’m in a strange van with strange men…

I can feel my lungs seizing, desperate for air. Breathe. Breathe, Liesl. You need to breathe.

But I can't. The hood is making it worse, the fabric pulling against my mouth every time I try to inhale, and the panic is rising in my throat like bile. I'm going to suffocate. I'm going to pass out. I'm going to—

"Breathe through your nose," a voice says. It’s clearly male, with an American accent, flat and professional. "You're hyperventilating. Breathe through your nose, or you'll pass out."

I don't want to listen to him. I don't want to do anything he says. But my body overrides my defiance, because he's right. I'm on the edge of passing out, black spots dancing behind my closed eyelids, and if I lose consciousness, I lose any chance of figuring out what the fuck is happening.

I force myself to slow down. In through my nose. Out through my mouth. In. Out. In. Out. My heart rate doesn't slow, but at least I'm not drowning in my own panic anymore.

I’m pulled upright, into a seat. As the van takes a turn, I slide, and a strong hand closes over my arm. It’s clear they want to keep me from being banged up too much. Think. You need to think.

But thinking is almost worse than panicking because when I think, I come up empty.

I don't have enemies. I'm careful about who I let into my life, careful about who I trust, but I'm not important enough to have enemies.

I'm not involved in anything dangerous. I don't know any secrets.

I'm just… me. Liesl Baumann, twenty-two years old, living a quiet life that happens to come with a trust fund.

The trust fund. My father.

Is this about him?

My mind races through what I know about my father's business. He made his fortune in real estate and tech companies, and some other things he talks about at dinners, which I don’t fully listen to.

It’s all investments that are boring and legitimate…

and thoroughly vetted by armies of lawyers.

He's not involved in anything shady. He's not the kind of man who makes enemies—or at least, not the kind who would resort to kidnapping someone's daughter.

But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe there's a side to his business I don't know about. Maybe someone thinks he wronged them, or owes them, or—

Or maybe this isn't about him at all. Maybe this is about me.

But that makes even less sense. I don't have the kind of money that makes kidnapping worthwhile, not in my own name. Everything's in trusts and investments I can't touch without lawyers and signatures. I get an allowance from it every month, and when I turn twenty-five, more of it will be unlocked for me. I’ve never lacked for anything, and if I want something, my father almost always lets me access enough to get it, because I’ve never been reckless or irresponsible with my inheritance. But I can’t just give it over to anyone.