Chapter Thirteen

She arrived at Aria’s apartment, a small, vibrant space filled with books and art, a stark contrast to the elegant, controlled order of James’s house.

Aria greeted her with a warm hug, her eyes, sharp and perceptive, instantly scanning Ella’s face.

“Hey, El! You look… tired.” Aria pulled her into the living room, gesturing to the overflowing coffee table.

“I made your favorite.”

Ella managed a weak smile, sitting carefully on the edge of the sofa. “Thanks. Long week.” She kept her head slightly averted, hoping the soft lighting and her careful makeup would hide the discoloration.

Aria poured them both coffee, her movements fluid and graceful.

“Tell me about it. Classes are insane. But you know, I was thinking about what we talked about last time…”

“Oh, Aria,” Ella interrupted quickly, trying to steer the conversation away. “It’s fine. Everything’s fine. James has just been busy with work.”

Aria paused, her coffee cup halfway to her lips. Her gaze sharpened, focusing on Ella’s left cheek.

The foundation, perhaps not as thick as she thought, or perhaps catching the light just so, betrayed the faint yellowing beneath.

“Ella,” Aria said, her voice dropping, a sudden seriousness replacing her usual lightheartedness.

“What is that?” She leaned forward, her eyes narrowed in concern. “On your cheek.”

Ella’s heart leaped into her throat. She instinctively touched the spot, feigning nonchalance.

“Oh, that? Just… I bumped into a door. Clumsy, I know.” She forced a laugh, a hollow, unconvincing sound.

Aria’s expression didn’t soften. She reached out, her fingers gently touching the discolored skin.

“A door? Ella, that looks like a bruise. A bad one.”

Her thumb rubbed lightly, her brow furrowed. “And it’s fading, which means it’s been there for a few days.”

Ella pulled back slightly, her face flushing. “It’s really nothing, Aria. I swear. Just a stupid accident.” She tried to sound convincing, but her voice trembled slightly.

Aria’s eyes, filled with a deep, unwavering concern, searched Ella’s face. “Accident? A door? Are you sure, El?” Her voice was soft, laced with a knowing undertone. “Because that looks an awful lot like… like someone hit you.”

Panic seized Ella. She couldn’t tell her. She couldn’t let Aria see the ugly truth, the dark secret that now bound her to James in a terrifying, confusing way. It was too shameful, too horrifying

.

“No!” Ella blurted out, too quickly, too vehemently. “No, of course not! Who would ,who would do that? It was just a really bad bump.

In the dark.” She swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet Aria’s gaze, to project an air of indignant denial. “You’re imagining things. Everything is fine. Really.”

Aria studied her for a long moment, her eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and frustration.

She saw the fear in Ella’s eyes, the way she flinched, the forced smile.

She didn’t press further, didn’t challenge the flimsy lie. But the knowing look in her eyes, the silent understanding, spoke volumes.

“Okay, El,” Aria finally said, her voice barely above a whisper, her hand still resting gently on Ella’s arm.

“If you say so.” But her grip tightened, a silent promise of support, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken.

The coffee grew cold between them, the comfortable silence shattered, replaced by the heavy weight of a secret Ella couldn’t bear to share.

The world was indeed beginning to notice, and Ella felt the carefully constructed façade of her life crack just a little more.

The streetlights bled sickly yellow onto the pavement as Ella stepped out of Aria’s apartment building. The air, crisp with the promise of autumn, did little to soothe the tremor in her hands.

Aria’s knowing gaze still pricked at her, a silent accusation. She wished she could confide in her friend, truly confide, but the words, the truth, remained trapped behind a wall of shame and fear.

The memory of James’s hand, swift and unyielding, still ghosted on her cheek.

A black sedan, sleek and anonymous, idled across the street. Its windows, tinted to an opaque obsidian, reflected the distorted city lights like malevolent eyes.

Ella dismissed it, a common sight in this upscale neighborhood. Her own car, a modest sedan, waited a block down, tucked into a sliver of available parking. She pulled her jacket tighter, the chill seeping into her bones.

A figure detached itself from the shadows between two parked cars. Tall, broad-shouldered, a silhouette against the faint glow of a distant neon sign.

He moved with an unsettling fluidity, closing the distance before Ella registered him as a threat. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of alarm.

“Ella?” The voice, deep and gravelly, sliced through the night. Not a question, but a statement of recognition.

She instinctively recoiled, her gaze darting for an escape route, but another figure materialized from the sedan’s passenger side, blocking her path. Panic clawed at her throat, a dry, suffocating sensation.

“Who… who are you?” Her voice, a reedy whisper, sounded alien to her own ears.

The first man, now closer, loomed over her. His face remained obscured by the low brim of a baseball cap, but the glint of something metallic in his hand sent a fresh wave of terror through her.

A cloth, thick and dark, pressed against her mouth and nose before she could scream. The scent, cloying and sweet, invaded her senses, burning at the back of her throat.

Darkness bloomed at the edges of her vision, a rapid, encroaching tide. Her limbs grew heavy, her struggles weakening, until the world dissolved into a soft, velvet void.

A dull ache throbbed behind Ella’s eyes when she surfaced. The air tasted stale, metallic, and a persistent chill permeated the space. Her wrists chafed against rough bindings, and a blindfold, coarse and unforgiving, pressed against her eyes.

Every muscle screamed in protest, stiff and unused. The muffled sounds of distant traffic, a low hum, suggested she wasn’t entirely isolated, but the immediate surroundings felt claustrophobic, oppressive.

“She’s stirring.” A voice, gruff and unfamiliar, rumbled close by.

Another, higher-pitched, responded, “Good. The boss wants to know if she's comfortable.” The word ‘comfortable’ dripped with a sarcasm that sent shivers down her spine.

Ella tried to move, to test her restraints, but the effort only intensified the throbbing in her head. A wave of nausea washed over her.

“Where am I?” Her voice cracked, dry and weak.