All Chapters of ONE WILD NIGHT : Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

Maya’s POVThe sedan drove for a long time thirty minutes, maybe more — before it finally slowed down and turned through tall black gates. The sound of metal grinding shut behind us sent a chill down my spine. The walls around the property were high, the kind meant to keep people out… or in. Security cameras blinked red from the corners, and I could see guards in dark uniforms standing near the trees.We weren’t anywhere near the city anymore. The streets had faded to dirt roads, and thick forest surrounded us on all sides. No cars. No lights. No one who could hear me scream.The car rolled to a stop in front of a huge modern house all glass and marble, glowing faintly in the night. It looked beautiful in a cold, empty way, like one of those pictures you see in magazines where everything is perfect and lifeless.The older man in the passenger seat turned to me. “Out,” he said, his voice flat.I hesitated, then opened the door. The cool night air hit my skin, and pain shot through my r

Maya’s POVSunlight streamed through the curtains when I opened my eyes. For a moment, I forgot everything,the fear, the pain, the threats. Then it all came rushing back like a nightmare I couldn’t wake from. The treehouse. The kidnapping. Richard Stone’s ultimatum.It was morning.My body ached all over. The bruises that had started as faint marks yesterday had deepened into dark purple and yellow patches across my skin. My ribs hurt when I breathed. But I was still alive.And then I felt it the soft flutter in my stomach. My baby was still there, still moving, still fighting.A knock sounded at the door. I tensed, my heartbeat quickening. The same woman from last night walked in, holding a breakfast tray.“Good morning,” she said calmly, setting the tray on the small table near the bed.“Good morning,” I answered, though the words felt heavy in my mouth.“How are you feeling?” she asked, her voice polite but distant.“Like a prisoner,” I said quietly.She didn’t respond. Maybe she w

Margaret Stone — POVThe envelope lay open before me, its contents scattered across the cold, polished surface of the federal prosecutor’s conference table.Twenty years of watching.Twenty years of knowing things I couldn’t prove.Twenty years of being too afraid to speak.Not anymore.Across from me sat Rebecca Walsh, Assistant Federal Prosecutor—her expression professional but curious. To her right, Agent Martinez observed silently, his eyes sharp and unreadable.“Mrs. Stone,” Walsh began, setting a recorder on the table. “Everything you say here will be documented and may be used in court. Do you understand?”“I understand.”“And you’re waiving your right to have your attorney present?”“My attorney has already advised me,” I said, folding my trembling hands tightly in my lap. “I know what I’m doing. I’m ready.”Walsh pressed the record button. “Please state your name for the record.”“Margaret Anne Stone. Sister to Richard Stone. Aunt to Alexander Stone.”“And you’re here volunta

Alex – POVThe FBI field office smelled like stale coffee and the faint hum of overworked air conditioning. Agent Martinez led us through a maze of cubicles, where agents spoke in low tones over phones, faces illuminated by computer screens. The air felt heavy, charged — like a storm about to break.She opened a door to a small conference room. Inside, evidence was laid out across a long metal table like relics from a forgotten world. Three stuffed animals sat in the center — a worn teddy bear, a floppy-eared dog, and a lion with a missing eye. Beside them were stacks of documents sealed in clear evidence bags. Photographs. Shipping manifests. Financial statements printed on paper that had begun to yellow with age.Fifteen years of truth, hidden in children’s toys.“We’ve catalogued everything,” Martinez said, her voice steady but reverent. “Michael Collins was meticulous. Every document is dated, sourced, and cross-referenced.” She lifted one of the bags. “This is bigger than we thou

Alex’s POVThe FBI conference room felt smaller with every passing minute.The walls seemed to close in on us—stale air, fluorescent lights, and the low hum of computers humming like insects. Martinez had maps spread across the table, red pins marking the last known locations of the four escaped family heads. Walsh paced behind him, phone pressed to her ear, her jaw tight with frustration and exhaustion. The clock on the wall ticked too loud, a reminder that every second that passed, those people got further away.“How does this happen?” I demanded, my voice sharper than I meant. “How do four billionaires just vanish off the grid in less than twenty-four hours?”“Money,” Martinez said simply, not even looking up. “Money and power. Private jets filed under fake shell companies. False flight plans. By the time we realized they were moving, they were already in international airspace.”“Where did they go?”Martinez pointed to the board with his pen, the map filled with scattered dots and