Chapter 4
FOUR
Chantal
For a five-star resort, Velaa has got to do better with its bed accommodations.
Metal springs dig into my back as consciousness returns. My head’s pounding as my eyes flutter open and I struggle to see straight.
Everything’s blurry at first.
…which honestly tracks considering how many glasses of Billecart-Salmon I had. I must’ve chugged more during dinner with Greg.
But that’s no excuse for this atrocious mattress. As I wake up and gradually my vision clears, the coil springs only dig deeper into my back with zero chill.
I’ve never in my life slept on anything less than a Tempur-Pedic and wasn’t planning to start now. Definitely not at one of the lushest resorts in the world.
I struggle to push myself up as the bed creaks and the throbbing in my head worsens.
Okay… so I definitely overdid it on the rosé.
That also explains why I’m so sensitive to pungent smells right now. My nose scrunches up as I inhale the musty odor in the air and mutter, “Ew,” under my breath.
Just wait ’til I tell Greg and we lodge a complaint. The resort’ll be kissing our asses to keep us from pulling our black card—
My vision finally clears, and a cold, paralyzing wave washes over me.
This isn’t the resort on Velaa Private Island.
This… I’m not even sure what the hell this is.
I’m in a room I’ve never been in before—peeling damask wallpaper and iron bars on grime-caked windows.
The furniture in the room is clunky and dated like out of a Victorian novel, draped in dust so thick it looks like fabric.
I’m immediately shocked and confused, brows pushing close.
Then it comes back at once.
I had been getting ready for dinner with Greg. Someone knocked on the door but covered the peephole, preventing me from seeing who it was.
It only got worse from there.
Six of the creepiest men I’ve ever seen flooded the room wearing ski masks with the face of a skeleton. I freaked the fuck out. Not that it mattered—they had the audacity to put their hands on me!
…and then Greg showed up.
A small squeak leaves me as the memory materializes and his cold stare and colder words come back to me.
Apologies, Chantal. This was never my intention, but an offer came up. The price on your pretty little head was just too good to ignore. You know how it is. I’m a money man at the end of the day. Isn’t that what you love about me?
My hand flies up to my mouth as the rest clicks into place.
He sold me!
He trafficked me!
Now I’m… here. Somewhere I don’t know, in the custody of who knows who.
A million questions follow, like how could he possibly do this to me? Am I still in the Maldives or have I been transported elsewhere? How the hell am I going to escape when I’m more of a rest-in-my-femininity girly and not a get-my-hands-dirty-and-throw-down type?
I don’t even like breaking a nail, and now I’m faced with finding my way out of this dirty place, squaring off against creepy masked men?
I push myself off the creaky old bed, head still throbbing and panic spreading through the rest of me.
“Okay, calm down,” I mutter to myself. “I’m Chantal Renée Banks. Daughter of a freaking United States senator. I’ve eaten dinner at the White House… twice! I’m absolutely not going down like this. I’ll figure this out. I just have to… stay… calm…”
I scurry forward to the first door within reach, wrenching it open to discover it’s a closet and nothing more.
…except lying on the floor inside said closet is a dead mouse caught in a mouse trap. I shriek and jump back before fumbling for the knob and slamming the door shut.
“EW!” I scream. “Get me out of here!”
I rush at the next door only a few feet away from the first.
It opens to a bathroom that’s so riddled with scum and limescale it makes me gag and slam that door shut too.
There’s only one door left. The one on the opposite side of the room.
I dart toward it, frantic and desperate, wrapping both hands on the brass knob to twist and jerk at it. No matter how hard I tug, it doesn’t budge.
It’s locked from the outside.
Meaning whoever trapped me in here expected I’d try to escape. But they obviously want me stuck here.
I’m their captive.
I back away from the door as dread unloads on me. It’s heavy and crushing enough that my legs buckle, and I stumble backward onto the old, creaky bed. I can’t even bring myself to sit upright as my body plops down and the weak, springy mattress squeals and sags.
What am I going to do?!
Back in panic mode once again, it doesn’t register at first that the knob in the door is turning. There’s a click as someone on the other side has used a key to unlock it.
The door sweeps open in the next second, and a man strides through as if totally unsurprised by the panicked young woman he finds collapsed on the bed.
My eyes widen as I realize I’ve suddenly found myself facing my kidnapper for the first time since the villa—or one of them anyway.
But I immediately recognize which one he is.
He was the last one I’d seen before everything went black. I’d slashed the hell out of one of them and then this huge body builder type of fool was trying to accost me.
Then this guy stepped up as calm and cool as can be and told me…
He told me…
My memory strains to remember the rest of the moment, his words trickling in.
Yes, you little brat. We know exactly who the fuck you are. We just don’t care.
He called me a brat. He jammed me with the needle he pulled out.
It was obvious he was in charge and that the other jerks deferred to him in some way. Now he’s come to see me.
No surprise he’s masked again.
The same skeletal ski mask conceals his identity, only his eyes visible.
A shade of green so dark they’re almost closer to onyx than emerald. It matches the rest of him—from the mask to the all-black clothes he wears, donning a plain crewneck T-shirt and utility workwear style pants with boots.
The attire honestly fits the I’m-a-monstrous-piece-of-shit-who-kidnaps-women-on-vacation vibes he gives off.
He’s tall, which I clocked in the villa but is even more intimidating now that he’s looming over the bed. Definitely over six feet, though not the biggest in terms of overall build.
More long and lean than anything, with definition to his arms as he crosses them over his chest and peers down at me, but nothing like the huge masked meathead from the villa.
As my gaze flicks up to meet his, I’m almost distracted—and lowkey horrified—by the number of tattoos he has. Even more than I originally noticed before.
With only his arms and neck visible, I can still tell he must have dozens.
The ink travels all across his arms and biceps and creeps past the neckline of his shirt, ending where the ski mask begins. If he took it off, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had more tattoos.
Face tattoos, an immediate no every time.
But as a tense second passes and we peer at each other in stony silence, I’m much more concerned with the danger I’m in.
What if he really is trafficking me? What if this is the start of some horrible sex trafficking film?
My fear must reflect on my face because he cocks his head partially to the side as if studying me. As if me and my terror fascinate him.
His eyes rove over me, slow and assessing, but freakiest of all, dead.
Practically soulless, like he’s not even human anymore.
I squash down the whimper threatening to slip out. I’d probably pee myself if I wasn’t wearing designer that costs more than everything in this room and then some.
So instead I do what only a girl like me can do in a situation like this: muster up all the boldness I can. My fearful stare turns into a hardened glare as I give him attitude and project confidence.
“You need to let me go right now,” I demand.
I push myself up off the bed and ignore how my legs still quake.
“My father, the New York Senator, will realize I’m missing any second.
Once he does, he’s going to use every federal resource he has to find me.
He’s going to make your ass wish you never even thought to mess with me!
So unless you want to wind up in prison for the rest of your life—if they don’t bust a cap in your ass first—I suggest you quit playing games and let me go! ”
My threats are met with long, eerie, unsettling silence.
The masked man simply peers down at me with his dead, dark eyes and gives no discernible reaction he’s even heard me.
He’s not intimidated or threatened in the least bit.
He thinks I’m playing.
“Did you hear me?” I snap impatiently, taking a bold step toward him. “Keith Banks, Senate Foreign Relations Committee, direct line to the President of the United States—does any of that mean anything to you? Because it should if you’re not trying to spend twenty to life behind bars!”
When he still doesn’t dignify my threats with an answer, my temper rushes in.
For a brief, maybe foolish moment, I forget I’m supposed to be scared for my life right now.
I step around him and start for the door he came through. His reflexes are quick; his hand flying out to grab me and pull me back.
But I’m quick too—I wrench my arm out of his grip and really lose it.
“DON’T TOUCH ME!” I scream. I jump back and snatch the first thing I can use as a weapon.
My fingers grip the brass ashtray resting on the dresser a few feet away. I fling it at his head, hoping for once my aim is good enough to hit my intended target.
He easily ducks the object, once again proving how agile he is. The brass crashes against the headboard and then clangs as it drops to the floor.
That’s cool. I’m only warming up.
I spin toward the ceramic lamp on the dresser, desperate to wrench the cord from the socket, but suddenly I’m the one being yanked.
A hand snaps shut on my wrist and drags me back so fast my feet almost leave the ground. I’m spun around as my arm’s twisted behind my back, and I’m dizzy, now pressed up against the masked guy’s chest. He holds me in place with little to no effort on his part, barely requiring any exertion at all.
Startled by how abruptly and forcefully he’s handled me, I can only blink in shock.
“Enough,” he growls.
One word that communicates so much; one word that renders me speechless and chases away any rebuttal I’d possibly have.
It’s a command that sends a vibration deep through me like a sonic wave.
Yet he’s not done. He goes on, tightening his grip on my wrist until I’m wincing and he’s bowed his head so that his lips come down by my ear.
“There’s no escape from here, so don’t even bother,” he says cruelly. “You’re an asset—a purchased one—and you won’t see the outside of this house until you’ve served your purpose.”
“W-what… what purpose?” I stutter, still dazed.
“You’re a bargaining chip. Which means you get to find out how much your loved ones will sacrifice for you. Let’s hope they cave before we have to take any fingers.”
A sharp gasp leaves me.
My mind reels trying to process what he’s said as he finally releases me. I’m freed from his crushing grip but not before he shoves me away. I’m pushed roughly onto the bed, falling forward without warning.
He’s already at the door by the time I scramble to sit up for a glance over at him. If I was hoping for a just kidding, that hope dies as he strides out of the room and the door slams shut.
The knob jiggles as the lock is twisted into place, then his heavy footsteps thud down the hall outside the door.
I don’t even move for seconds to come. I’m that shocked, breathing erratically in my wrinkled Retrofête dress that cost thousands of dollars and that’s dirty thanks to this disgusting, depressing room I’m being held in.
It’s sinking in that this is my reality now. I’ve really been kidnapped and am being used for ransom.
What did I do in the past to deserve this kind of fucked up karma?
My gaze drops to my hand where one of my acrylics has cracked in half.
A small, warbling cry leaves me.
As if my life could get any worse.