CHAPTER 005

LYRA

Forty-eight agonizing hours have bled together since the blue-eyed man showed me the security footage of a woman with my face robbing his office.

My brain has been spinning in circles trying to wrap around it, but there is no logical explanation.

That night, I was sitting on my cheap sofa, watching a movie with Declan after he carelessly canceled our date night. I remember glaring at the TV, pissed off, and spending the entire two hours asking myself why I was wasting my life with a man who refuses to put a single ounce of effort into our relationship.

But here's 4K video evidence of me stealing from this man at the exact same time.

The only possibility is that I am being framed. Someone digitally ripped my face and pasted it onto the real thief. With today’s technology, a ten-year-old with a laptop could pull it off.

That has to be it. Because if it isn’t a deepfake, I have to confront the only other terrifying possibility. That someone out there is walking around with my exact face. A twin.

I’ve always known I was adopted. My parents never kept that a secret from me, but surely they would have mentioned a sister. They wouldn't have hidden something of that magnitude from me.

As for the devilishly handsome scary man, he hasn't set foot here since he showed me the footage. He stood there, watched me completely spiral into a panic attack for a full hour, before turning his back and disappearing through the hidden door.

I am still tied to this wooden chair. I am hungry, freezing, and completely out of tears. These bastards don't care if I starve.

The one time I begged for water, one of the guards forced a plastic bottle so deeply past my lips that I nearly choked on it. When my bladder was about to burst, and I pleaded for a bathroom, another walked in, untied my bleeding wrists, and dragged me by my upper arm to a sterile concrete bathroom down the hall. He stood right outside the door, listening to my every move, then dragged me back and strapped me to this chair.

I thought about escaping, but the thought died the second I saw the hallway. This place is a fortress. I wouldn't make it ten feet before someone put a bullet in me like a stray dog.

But dying in this basement isn't even the thought that has kept me from closing my eyes.

Two days have passed. That means I only have five days left to get the ten million dollars for Dom. If this man keeps me locked up in here, I am dead. And they will find Declan and kill him too.

I squeeze my eyes shut, and a pathetic, broken sound I’ve never heard before escapes the back of my throat.

This cannot be my life. A tiny, desperate part of my brain still tries to convince me this is a nightmare, that I will wake up in my own bed at any moment. But when I look down at the dark, clotted scabs on my wrists and smell the stench of my own sweat and fear, I know it doesn't get any more real than this.

The heavy click of a lock echoes through the room, and I force my heavy head up, my spine snapping straight. I am met with those cold, ice-blue eyes.

He looks even taller today, somehow taking up all the oxygen in the room. He wears a crisp white dress shirt with sleeves rolled to his forearms, tailored navy-blue trousers, and polished Italian leather boots. If I thought he looked intimidating two days ago, today is infinitely worse.

His expression is a mask of cold, unreadable stone as he glides to a stop right in front of me, one of the guards silently placing a metal chair behind his knees and disappears back through the door.

I try to swallow the lump of terror in my throat, but the dryness makes me choke, pulling a harsh, raspy cough from my lungs.

“You look like shit,” he says, his tone flat, dry, and entirely devoid of human empathy.

My chest constricts, the remaining air vanishing from my lungs. I've realized that happens every single time he opens his mouth.

He sits down smoothly, effortlessly crossing one long leg over his knee. “Now that I’ve given you all the time to think, are you ready to talk... Lyra Wells?”

He knows my name. Fuck.

I watch his lips curve up at my shock, but the amusement never reaches his eyes.

“I… uhhh…” I stammer, shock dropping a heavy curtain over my mind, prompting me to pull my neck down into my shoulders and try to make myself as small as possible.

“Lyra Wells, Fifth-grade teacher at St. Celia Catholic School. Degree in Education... specialty in child psychology. Graduated first of her class.” He pauses, tilting his head slightly, and for a fleeting second, a dark glint of twisted amusement radiates from him. Like he’s impressed. “Dating history: not much. Just a deadbeat boyfriend who lost his job what… nine, ten months ago.”

He has completely dismantled my entire existence and memorized it. He leans back in his chair.

I bite hard on the inside of my cheek, tasting copper, waiting for him to continue. But he doesn't. He just sits there and stares.

Under the weight of his gaze, I feel completely exposed, sliced open on an operating table. It feels like he can read my thoughts, like he knows exactly what makes me tick and exactly what to say to ruin me.

God, I fucking hate this man.

“I have to say, Ms. Wells,” he finally continues, the amusement vanishing as his jaw clenches tight, “that’s quite a cover you’ve got there.”

My heart sinks. He still thinks I am the thief. He still thinks I am the girl in that footage.

“It’s not a cover,” my voice trembles. “I did not…”

With a deafening screech of metal against concrete, he violently drags his chair forward and leans in, his knees brushing against mine. The sudden heat radiating off his large body hits me like a physical wave even before his large hand shoots out, clamping around the back of my neck. 

I squeeze my eyes shut, my body trembling.

His breath is hot against my face, smelling of expensive vodka and dark coffee. I am absolutely certain I just peed myself a little.

“Don’t fucking lie to me,” he snarls, his voice dropping into a lethal, vibrating whisper. “I have been lenient with you. Perhaps it’s time I come up with creative ways to make you talk.”

Against every survival instinct I possess, I force my eyes open and meet those terrifying eyes that burn against mine, challenging me to look away, but I force myself not to blink.

“I am not lying,” I breathe out, my chest heaving. “I did not steal anything from you.”

His gaze locks onto mine for a long, agonizing moment before he slowly drops to my trembling lips, lingers there for a beat, and drags back up to my eyes. A dangerous, knowing smirk touches his mouth.

He yanks his hand away, the sudden release nearly sending me slumping forward. Four distinct points of fire burn at the base of my skull where his nails broke the skin. I swallow hard against the metallic taste of panic, but as the chair scrapes back, a strange new feeling settles in the pit of my stomach.

Pride.

He brushes an invisible lint off his navy trousers, and a low rumble radiates from his chest.

“Two days ago, you were attacked in your apartment. Apparently, you owe some very dangerous people money.” He looks away for a moment before dropping his eyes back to me.

Of course he found out. I couldn't keep my mouth shut during those first few hours in here. I practically screamed it at him.

He smirks, and this time, there is a sharp, calculating glint in his eyes. Like I am a piece on a chessboard, and he just figured out how to play me. It’s a game to him, it seems.

I swallow hard, channeling that tiny spark of courage from a few seconds ago. “Yes, I do. What does that have to do with anything?”

The smirk disappears, leaving behind a cold, hard line.

“Since you have been wasting my time for two days now, this is how this is going to go down.” He leans back, crossing his tattooed arms over his chest. “Knowing exactly who those people are and what they are capable of...”

The ropes bite into my raw wrists as I strain forward. “I am going to…”

“Shut up.” The command cracks like a whip. “No, you are not. You have no money or any means to pay them.” He pauses, letting the silence hang heavy. “But here is the interesting part of this sad little situation of yours. I am willing to wire them the money right now.”

I blink and shift in my seat, my heart rate spiking so hard it physically hurts my chest.

“Why? Why would you do that? Didn’t you just accuse me of stealing from you?”

“Accuse you?” he scoffs, and my blood runs cold.

“You can continue playing this pathetic little amnesia game for now.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Back to what I was saying. Don't interrupt me again. I pay the ten million dollars, and in return, I’ll own your debt. Meaning, I’ll own you, and everything you have.”

My lips part, my heart beating so fast I can hear the blood roaring in my ears. “What do you mean, you’ll own me?”

He hesitates, and I can map the exact trajectory of his thoughts by the way his mouth twitches.

“You will become my wife.”

My eyes widen and a sharp, incredulous scoff rips from my throat. “What?”

“You heard me. You will be my wife,” he continues smoothly. “In public only, that is. And it shall remain that way until I say otherwise. But you are free to tell me where you hid my property right now, and maybe I’ll reconsider the arrangement.”

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The sheer audacity, the absolute insanity of this man sitting in front of me, pushes me over the edge. I pull my head back, gathering every ounce of moisture left in my dry mouth, and spit. It lands beside his boot.

“You are fucking insane,” I seethe, glaring at him through my tears. “I would rather die than marry a monster like you.”

He doesn't flinch, nor does he raise a hand to strike me. He simply looks down at the saliva on the floor, and a low, dark chuckle rumbles in his chest before he looks back up at me, his eyes practically glowing with malice.

“Do you know who those people are and who they work for? Because I can promise you this, Lyra. You are not leaving this room until I get what I want from you. Which means the deadline those men gave you is going to expire.”

He leans forward, his voice dropping an octave.

“And when they can't find you, they will assume you ran. So they are going to pay your little family down in the suburbs a visit. They are going to take their sweet time torturing your mother and father, and they are going to kill them slowly. Next, they are going to do the exact same thing to that stupid boyfriend of yours.” He chuckles again, the first real laugh I’ve heard from him since I woke up in this nightmare. “It's your choice.”

He drags his chair back and rises effortlessly, his broad back turning to me as he steps toward the door. He pauses, glancing at me over his shoulder. “Oh, and that offer dies the minute I leave this room.”

Thud. Thud.

This cannot be happening. I dig my nails into my palms beneath the bloody ropes, trying to digest the absolute horror of what he just said. My parents. Declan.

He resumes his pace without looking back, and his long fingers reach out, wrapping around the heavy metal door handle.

“Wait!” 

He stops, but he doesn't turn. He isn't giving me time to process any of this, meaning this asshole is not bluffing.

“I’ll do it.” My voice trembles so violently the words barely form as hot tears stream freely down my bruised cheeks. “Pay them.”

Slowly, he turns to face me, his expression unreadable, stone. I stare up at him, hyperventilating, completely broken. And without another word, he turns on his heel and walks out the door.

My chest heaves as I stare at the empty doorway, and seconds later, two massive men in tactical gear storm in, heading straight for my chair.

One pulls a sharp hunting knife, while the other holds a thick white cloth in his fist. Before I can scream, he grips the back of my head and forcefully presses the cloth over my nose and mouth.

The sickening, sweet chemical smell of chloroform floods my lungs, and my eyes roll back as the basement plunges into darkness.