You don’t mean to get kidnapped. But in your defense, you were having a very off day, and the guys with the guns were deeply misinformed.

They shove you into a folding chair like you’re some fragile little heiress, hands zip-tied, mascara slightly smudged from the very inconvenient smoke grenade they used to drag you out of Steele Tower. Classy.

One of them—lead goon, probably—grabs the satellite phone and dials.

You smirk, already imagining your dad’s face when he picks up. God, this is going to be so embarrassing for them.

The call connects.

“Mr. Steele. We have your daughter,” the voice says, trying very hard to sound menacing.

There’s a pause.

Then: “Which one?” Adrian’s voice is almost bored.

“...What?” the terrorist blinks.

“Which daughter?” Adrian repeats. “Blonde with a law degree and rage issues? The one who built a robot in her dorm? Or—wait—does she have a smart mouth, nice hair, tired eyes, and a thing for Griffin Cross?”

Your captor stares at you like you just sprouted wings. You grin sweetly.

The kidnapper on the phone clears his throat. “Uh… yes. That one.”

Adrian’s sigh is audible even through the static. “Yeah, okay. So you don’t have her.”

“Excuse me?”

“You think you have her,” Adrian corrects, almost amused now. “But trust me—she has you. Give it twenty minutes, one broken chair leg, and possibly a grenade. And please, for your sake, don’t say anything about Griffin That’s just asking to get stabbed.”

Your zip ties fall off.

Right on cue.

You stretch your wrists, crack your neck, and give the terrorist in front of you your best Steele Industries Customer Service smile.

“Okay,” you chirp. “Let’s do this the fun way.”