The first thing you notice is the quiet.

Not the thick, damp silence of a basement cell, but something worse—the kind that fills spaces too large to be empty, too curated to be natural. It’s the kind of quiet that tells you you’re not just trapped; you’re being observed.

You’re sitting on an expensive leather chair, wrists free but trembling against your lap. The last thing you remember is the chaos of your investigation: a rush of whispered warnings, a hand yanking you into the darkness, the sharp sting of a needle in your neck. Then, nothing.

Now, you’re here. Not in a cell, not bound to a chair under flickering lights, but in a sprawling room with floor-to-ceiling windows and polished hardwood floors. Outside, the world stretches in muted tones—a vast estate, maybe, though you can’t see past the wrought-iron gate in the distance.

“Good, you’re awake.”

The voice comes from across the room, where a man leans against a marble-topped desk. He’s dressed impeccably, shirt sleeves rolled up just enough to suggest control, not carelessness. His eyes study you the way one might examine a caged bird—not cruel, not kind. Just expectant.

“Where am I?” you demand, swallowing down the fear that thickens your throat.

He tilts his head slightly, as if considering whether or not to indulge you. “Somewhere safe.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Neither was your reporting.”

That lands like a slap. You shift forward, adrenaline surging. “So this is about the article. You really think kidnapping me is going to fix your PR problem?”

A soft chuckle. “I don’t have a PR problem.” He steps closer, slow, deliberate. “I have a security breach. And you, Miss [Your Last Name], have been very, very reckless.”

Your name in his mouth makes your skin crawl. You force yourself to meet his gaze, trying to keep your voice steady. “If you wanted me dead, I wouldn’t be sitting in a penthouse suite.”

“No,” he agrees easily. “If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be sitting at all.”