CHAPTER 17 - “THE WALK” (part 1)

Clair’s Pov

I shouldn’t have been nervous to see Ryan. But I was. I always was.

There was something dangerous about him — something magnetic and cruel, something I should never have touched, never allowed, never lingered in… especially considering he wasn’t supposed to want me.

He was married to my daughter.

But that didn’t stop him. And God help me — it didn’t stop me.

The sky was fading into the kind of evening where the air feels heavy with unfinished conversations. I held my phone tight in my hand, staring at Ryan’s last message.

“Come alone. We need to talk.”

No location emoji.

No explanation.

Just a command.

A chill worked its way down my spine — the familiar mixture of anticipation and dread that I hated admitting I felt.

I shoved the phone into my bag and walked faster.

Ryan and I… we never meant for it to happen. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t plotted. It wasn’t some sick fantasy I nurtured — at least, that’s what I tell myself when guilt claws at me.

It just happened.

Like a spark on dry grass.

Like lightning finding metal.

Like sin waiting for a willing body.

But now? Now there was distance.

Tension.

Anger.

He had been ignoring me for days. Which wasn’t like him. If anything, Ryan obsessed. He always needed control, needed answers, needed reassurance that no one else had what he believed belonged to him.

Even I wasn’t immune to that illusion.

I turned down the street, heels tapping on the pavement. I kept replaying memories I shouldn’t. His hands on my waist, the harshness of his breath in my ear, the way he spoke my name — not like a man addressing a lover…

…but like a man claiming something forbidden.

Claire.

He could make the name sound like worship — or ownership.

Tonight, though, I wasn’t sure which awaited me.

As I passed the dim-lit side of the street, I began to notice a prickle at my neck — that odd sixth sense that someone was watching. It wasn’t a totally new sensation. For months I’d occasionally felt that same twinge — almost like invisible eyes were following me.

I always brushed it off as paranoia — the psychological price of carrying secrets I wasn’t meant to have.

I clutched my purse tighter.

I told myself it was nothing.

Just nerves.

Then I heard footsteps behind me.

Quick.

Heavy.

Gaining.

I turned — but it was too late.

A hand clamped over my mouth.

I screamed — or tried to — but it came out as a muffled gasp.

“What—?!” I struggled violently, heart hammering in my throat.

Another pair of hands seized my arms. I kicked — wildly — but my heel hit only empty air.

I thrashed, but I was overpowered — two men, maybe three — their faces obscured by dark caps and scarves. I was dragged backward into the shadow between buildings. My phone tumbled out of my purse and clattered onto the pavement.

“Don’t make this harder,” one of them growled in a low voice, pressing something sharp — a knife? — against my side.

I froze.

My breath was shallow and erratic.

My mind raced — rape? robbery? ransom?

Or—

Did Ryan send them?

A terrifying thought flashed like lightning.

No… no, that wasn’t his style.

He wanted control — but not through proxies. He liked to inflict things himself. To look someone in the eyes while doing it.

I was shoved into the back of a dark van. The door slammed. The engine roared to life.

My mouth was uncovered — but before I could scream, a bag was forced over my head.

Time lost meaning.

Minutes, maybe half an hour.

The vehicle swayed.

My stomach twisted.

One of the men spoke quietly into the phone somewhere near me.

“Yeah. We have her.”

My pulse seized.

I recognized that tone — the kind of tone men use when speaking to someone powerful, someone feared.

I was breathing too fast. I tried to slow it — but panic had its claws deep in me.

Then the van slowed.

Stopped.

The doors flung open and hands yanked me out. Gravel crunched beneath my heels. My ankle twisted awkwardly but they didn’t let me fall.

A door opened — metal, heavy — like a warehouse or industrial building.

I was marched inside.

The bag was ripped off my head.

And for a moment, I couldn’t speak.

Because I knew the man in front of me.

My former boss.

Mr. Andrew Calloway.

My blood turned cold.

He was older, yes, but still imposing. Broad-shouldered. Grey at the temples. A face that always seemed carved from stone.

I worked for him two years ago — briefly — at a marketing firm. He had always looked at me too long, stood too close, offered those lingering smiles that never reached his eyes.

I left abruptly.

And never looked back.

Until now.

“Claire,” he said, voice smooth like oil on glass. “It’s been far too long.”

My throat clenched. “What the hell is happening? You—you kidnapped me? Are you insane?!”

He chuckled — a slow, cold, measured sound.

“Such a dramatic word. Let’s just say… I arranged for you to be retrieved.”

I stumbled back — but the men boxed me in.

“Why?” I demanded. “What do you want from me?”

His eyes darkened.

“What I always wanted.”

Something vile slid into my stomach. A memory hit — like a slap — of his hand grazing too low on my back during a company dinner, of his proposition whispered with bourbon-stained breath:

“You’d be smart to consider pleasing me, Claire. It could mean a promotion… or protection.”

I rejected him.

And left the job within the week.

Now I understood something I thought was my imagination — the feeling of being watched for months… the sense that something hovered behind me unseen…

He smirked as if reading my thoughts.

“You always wondered why you felt… observed, didn’t you?”

I couldn’t breathe.

My eyes widened.

“No…”

“Oh yes,” he said softly. “I had people keep tabs on you. For quite a while.”

Rage and terror collided violently inside me.

“You’re disgusting,” I hissed. “You’re sick.”

He stepped closer.

“And you’re still beautiful. Still stubborn. And still making terrible decisions about which men to get involved with.”

My heart skipped.

He knew about Ryan.

“How—?”

He waved a dismissive hand.

“I know everything, Claire. I’ve seen you meet him in secret places, exchange messages, avoid public contact. Did you really think your affair would remain hidden?”

Shame shredded through me.

“You have no right—”

“I have every right,” he snapped. Then softer — “You owe me.”

“I owe you NOTHING.”

His eyes blazed.

“You denied me,” he growled. “You refused me. You humiliated me. And you think the world won’t teach you consequences?”

Fear electrified my voice.

“You’re insane. Let me go!”

He closed the distance between us in two strides.

His hand gripped my chin.

Hard.

“You should have given me what I asked for back then,” he whispered. “But don’t worry… I’m a patient man.”

He began unbuttoning his shirt.

Pure panic detonated in me.

“No—NO—stop—” I shoved him back — but he seized my wrist and slammed me against the wall.

I cried out — more in rage than fear.

His fingers clawed at the neckline of my blouse.

“Stop!” I screamed. “HELP!”

The guards didn’t move.

No one interfered.

No one cared.

His breath was hot and foul in my ear.

He grabbed my waist, pressing his body against mine — and something inside me shifted from terror to survival.

With sheer desperation, I reached upward —

— and found the heavy metal tray lying on a nearby table.

I didn’t even think.

I swung it.

Hard.

It connected with a sickening crack against his temple.

He screamed — more from shock than pain — and collapsed to one knee.

I didn’t wait.

I ran.

I tore across the warehouse floor — heart in riot — lungs on fire.

Behind me I heard him shouting —

“GET HER! SHE’S MINE!”

But I was already at the door.

Already outside.

Already in the dark.

Already running for my life.