Chapter 25 – Ashley
The hum of the office is a symphony I’ve missed. For the last few days, my life has been a blur of armored SUVs, clandestine ceremonies, and the suffocating, heavy air of the penthouse.
Here, sitting behind my desk, the world feels manageable. I have my spreadsheets, my emails, and the familiar, grounding clutter of my professional life. It is an illusion, perhaps, but it is one I desperately need to keep me from spiraling.
I am deep in the middle of finalizing a draft when Maya knocks, her head popping through the doorway.
“Ashley? You have a visitor. He says it’s a surprise, but he seemed…professional.”
I frown, checking my watch. I have no meetings on the books. Before I can ask for clarification, a familiar silhouette appears in the frame of the door.
My heart stutters, but it’s not from fear—it’s from genuine recognition.
“Daniel?”
He grins, leaning casually against the doorframe.
He looks exactly as he did two years ago: effortlessly stylish, his hair perfectly tousled, wearing a soft gray sweater that highlights his lean, athletic build.
Daniel was one of the first models I worked with in my early days in the industry, when I was just a freelancer trying to make a name for myself.
“Surprise,” he says, his voice as smooth and charming as I remember.
He walks into the office, his presence immediately lightening the tense, clinical atmosphere I’ve been living in. He holds up a familiar branded coffee cup from the café downstairs. “I heard you were back and had to stop by. I hope I’m not interrupting a major deadline.”
“Daniel, honestly, you’re interrupting a major state of confusion,” I laugh, the sound feeling surprisingly natural. I stand up and meet him halfway, accepting the coffee with a genuine smile. “I didn’t even know you were still in the country. How did you know where to find me?”
“I keep tabs on the best names in the game,” he says with a wink, pulling up a chair as if he’s been here a hundred times. “I saw your latest project rollout on social media. It’s brilliant, Ashley. Truly. I’ve been telling everyone that the industry is lucky to have you.”
We fall into a rhythm as easy as breathing.
He asks about my recent work, shares a hilarious story about a disastrous runway show he did in Milan, and tells me about his move into photography.
The conversation is refreshingly shallow, centered on creative projects and mutual acquaintances.
It feels like a lifeline to the person I was before motherhood, and everything else consumed my reality.
For twenty minutes, I forget about the stalker. I forget about the chilling text message burning a hole in my phone. I forget about the guards stationed in the lobby downstairs.
“You look good, Ashley,” he says, leaning back, his expression turning thoughtful. “A little tired, maybe, but you’ve got that fire back. I always told you, you were destined for something bigger than just local commissions.”
“I’ve had a busy week,” I offer, giving him a guarded, polite smile.
“Clearly.” He stands up, his movements fluid. “You know, I’d love for us to hang out. Like old times,” he says, his voice casual. “I know a place just a few blocks over. It’s quiet, perfect for catching up. You’ve been working too hard, Ashley; you deserve an hour of sunlight.”
I hesitate, my hand gripping my bag. The rules—Samuel’s rules—echo in the back of my mind.
Stay within the perimeter. Trust no one outside the circle.
But Daniel isn’t a threat. He’s a friend.
He’s the person I was before the terror began, and the idea of sitting in a crowded, brightly lit bistro for an hour feels like reclaiming a piece of my stolen life.
“Just an hour,” I concede, forcing a bright, professional smile. “I really do have a mountain of work to get back to.”
“An hour is all I need,” he promises.
The walk to the parking garage is uneventful. The city sounds are standard—the roar of traffic, the distant wail of a siren, the rhythmic pulse of downtown. But as we descend into the concrete bowels of the garage, the atmosphere shifts. The air is stagnant.
I keep my pace steady, but a prickle of unease begins to crawl up the back of my neck. It’s a sensory mismatch: the way Daniel walks, a little too close, a little too synchronized with my own gait.
“My car is just over here,” he says, gesturing toward a sleek, black sedan tucked into a shadowed corner of the level.
“I can drive myself,” I say, stopping abruptly. My heart does a strange, stuttering flip against my ribs. “You know what, Daniel, it was great to see you, but maybe—”
“Don’t be like that, Ashley. It’s just lunch.” He steps toward me, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. It’s too static, too practiced.
Suddenly, the world tilts. The concrete floor seems to lose its solidity beneath my heels.
I reach out to steady myself against a nearby pillar, but my hand misses, sliding uselessly against the rough stone.
My vision smears, the stark white lights of the garage bleeding into long, sickly streaks of yellow.
The coffee.
The realization hits me with the force of a physical blow. The cup he brought, the way he timed the visit, the ease of the conversation—it was all a setup. The notebook on the desk wasn’t a mistake; it was a taunt.
I try to pull air into my lungs, but my chest feels heavy, as if someone has placed a lead weight over my sternum. My knees buckle, and I go down, the cold concrete biting into my palms.
Daniel doesn’t rush. He doesn’t panic. He walks over with the slow, deliberate grace of a man who knows he has already won. He kneels down, his face hovering inches from mine, his expression a chilling, blank mask of satisfaction.
“You really should’ve stayed in your cage, my love,” he whispers, his voice devoid of the warmth he projected in my office. It’s cold, possessive, and terrifyingly familiar.
The pieces click into place with agonizing clarity. The obsession, the monitoring, the threats—it wasn’t some faceless shadow. It was him. It was the man I once trusted to stand beside me on a stage, now standing over me in the dark, ready to drag me into his own version of hell.
“Samuel…” I try to scream, but the word is just a pathetic, garbled whisper.
My eyelids grow heavy, the weight of the sedatives pulling me down into a thick, suffocating darkness. The last thing I feel is Daniel’s hand—firm, possessive, and cold—closing around my arm as he pulls me toward the car, and the last thing I hear is the final, mocking echo of his voice.
“You’re finally coming home with me.”
Everything fades into black.