HARVEY.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, the upload button on the publisher's portal staring back at me like a dare. One click, and this story will go live on the site's front page.

I sat back in my ergonomic chair and stared at the glowing screen of my laptop. The cursor blinked at the end of the document, mocking me with its finality.

Atlas Empire Built on Blood.

The title alone sent a shiver down my spine, not from fear, but from the rush of knowing I'd nailed the piece. Months of actively digging through leads, endless late nights fueled by all types of coffee and takeout, while piecing together the fragments I had gotten from anonymous tips and leaked documents, not to mention the gala and forced roleplaying of a charming reporter to perfection. Yet two people gave me cold feet about jumping at claiming the deserving reward for my hard work. Audrey Movitch and Noah Bennette.

I had carefully ripped off the Band-Aid that Zane Calloway and his brothers... Damian, Ethan, Noah, and Liam had painted a picture of Atlas to the world. My piece was going to give them all they needed to know that these men weren't just savvy business people running a high-stakes investment firm. But that Atlas Empire was a meticulously crafted facade, a front for their cartel operations. Drugs, shipments, money laundering, and brutal killings of their rivals. Then I would proudly get my crown yet... I hesitated. In Audrey, I had made a friend even though I was using her. She would have a hard time defending the brothers against the PR battle that would follow my story. Or she may lose her job. And Noah... God, Noah.

My bills were piling up and the exposé could be my breakout, enough to give me a huge safety from the financial noose tightening around my neck. But Noah... Would he see it as betrayal? Did I care?

Of course, I cared. That was why my stomach twisted into knots.

Shaking my head, I minimized the window and glanced at the TV in the corner of my living room, the news ticker scrolling silently. I needed a distraction, just for a minute, before I hit send. Grabbing the remote, I unmuted it, the anchor's voice filling the room mid-sentence: "...breaking news out of Los Angeles. Club Eden, the upscale nightclub in the heart of the city, is engulfed in flames. Fire crews are on the scene, but sources indicate it may be arson. No casualties are reported yet, but the blaze has destroyed much of the venue..."

Club Eden. Damian Pierce. Atlas Brothers.

My heart stuttered. That club was where it all began with Noah. As I processed my memory of the first night I met Noah, Images of him filled my head, and it was surreal. I could almost feel his hand on my lower back, guiding me through the throng. He had been frequenting Eden since Damian owned it and all I could think of at that moment was his safety.

Was he there when it happened? Had he been caught in it?

The thought hit me like a punch, my breath catching. I reached for my phone instinctively, thumbing through contacts to his name. My finger hovered over the call button. I needed to just check if he was okay. I did owe him that much.

Damn it, Harvey, you do care about this man. More than you should.

But no, I shouldn't. He was a case. A story. Caring about him blurred lines, and blurred lines get journalists killed or even worse, I could get discredited. And that would mean vacating this comfortable apartment and office. Never!

I set the phone down, the screen going dark as if echoing my resolve. The fire was probably cartel-related anyway, another thread on the web I had unraveled. If Noah was involved, he and his brothers would handle it. They always do.

Shrugging off the unease, I maximized the portal window again. "Darn the consequences."

The story was my ticket out of mediocrity. With a deep breath, I clicked upload. The progress bar filled agonizingly slowly, and I started to tap the desk with my fingers while I waited. Then, after what seemed like forever, the pop-up prompt displayed the words that told me I had successfully aired my story.

"Published. Live on site."

A wave of adrenaline crashed over me. It was done. The world would know Atlas's secrets, Zane Calloway's empire exposed as a cartel stronghold. Noah would hate me for it. Hell, he might come after me. But bills don't pay themselves, and the thirst for my survival trumped sentiment towards Noah, a one-night stand.

I pushed away from the desk, my legs shaky as I stood. A hot shower would wash away the guilt, or at least numb it for a while. Peeling off my sweatshirt and yoga pants, I padded to the bathroom, but something caught my eye through the parted window drape in the street below.

My apartment was on the second floor, overlooking a quiet residential block that had its private garage for its owners, but t hat night, a black sedan idled across the street, the engine had been turned off, but there was someone in the driver's seat. The driver's head was turned towards my window yet unmoving.

Paranoia prickled my skin as I recalled Noah's warning about being careful in my search. I had been careful, using only anonymous sources and encrypted files, but in this game, caution wasn't always enough. Clearly.

Grabbing my binoculars from the shelf, which was a leftover from bird-watching days that now served for surveillance when needed, I crouched by the window, adjusting the focus until I had the car's plate in view. It was a California tag. I jotted the sequences down on a notepad, noting that the driver had shifted in his seat to light a cigarette, the flare illuminating his face. I saw the earpiece and wondered who he was. A Security detail? Clearly, he wasn't a cop because he was a bit too discreet to be one.

I fired up my laptop again, logging into a database I had been granted hacked access to years ago through a contact at the DMV. I entered the plate number and waited for the results to load.

When it did, I went through the profiles until I found the match. The number was registered to Sentinel Solutions, a private security firm. I did a quick web search on them to find out it was a high-end protection service whose clientele included corporate execs and...

"wait a sec," I said, wondering why the name seemed to ring a bell. I had seen that name somewhere and recently, too.

I checked through my referencing with my Atlas notes, and after a few minutes of turning pages, I found it. A footnote on payments from Atlas Group to Sentinel for consulting signed under Noah Bennette's name.

It didn't take me another hour to figure out that the man out there wasn't there to harm me, but to protect me. He had sent someone to watch over me, probably after whatever threats he had hinted at.

And there I was, having just detonated a bomb under his world. The story would hit the wires soon, trending by morning. Reporters would swarm Atlas HQ Feds might get involved if my evidence held up. Noah, with his fierce loyalty to his brothers, would be wrecked and betrayed by the woman he'd let in.

I sank onto the edge of the bed. Why did it hurt so much? I'd known from the start this was risky, that getting close to him was a means to an end.

Tears pricked my eyes, but I blinked them back. No time for weakness. If Noah had protection for me, it meant danger was real, maybe from his enemies. Now mine too. I needed to move, pack a go-bag, and find a safe spot until the dust settled. But first, the shower.

I hurriedly got off the bed, peeled off my clothes and headed to the shower. Hot water poured over me, causing fog to form steam the mirror, but it did little to cleanse the regret ripping through my veins. As I lathered soap, all I felt was Noah's possessive yet tender hands on me, his breath hot against my neck as he murmured my name.

"No!" I hastily got out of the shower, wrapped my wet body with a towel before walking over to check my phone. There were notifications of emails from my editor waiting

"Harvey! You have done it again. Your story's blowing up! Great work!"

Other notifications of shares, comments, and others were there too. Like I had expected, the viral spiral was beginning. But there was no call from Noah. Yet.

He probably hadn't seen it. Or maybe he had, and silence was his response.

Pacing the room, I dressed quickly, choosing jeans, a hoodie, and sneakers for easy movement. The watcher outside hadn't budged as I peeked again, to confirm. Part of me wanted to confront him and demand answers, but that was suicidal.

Instead, I brewed some creamy coffee, the bitter aroma grounding me as I plotted next steps. Hole up in a motel? Call my old contact in San Francisco for a couch? Or... reach out to Noah to explain? No. That ship had sailed with the upload.

Men like Noah die for each other and now, I had thrust a knife into that bond.

My guilt gnawed deeper. What if the fire at Club Eden was retaliation? What if Noah had been there, hurt or worse?

I grabbed my phone again, typing a quick text.

"Heard about the fire. Are you okay?" But I deleted it.

Caring made me vulnerable, and vulnerability got one killed in his world.

Sipping my coffee, I scrolled through early reactions to the story. Noticing that Mainstream sites had picked it up and my byline was trending. Pride swelled, but so did fear. If Atlas retaliated, that watcher outside my building might not be protection but my killer.

It was time to run. I bolted the door, grabbed my keys. But as I slung a bag over my shoulder, my phone buzzed. Unknown number. I answered it anyway. "Who is this?"

A pause, then "Harvey. What the fuck have you done?" Noah's voice yelled into my ears; he was furious. He had seen the story.

"Noah... I-"

"Save it. You used me. And you must believe that your goddamn story is way more important than your life?"

"No! It started that way, but..."

"But nothing. You just painted a target on yourself. I can no longer protect you, Harvey." His tone shifted from anger laced with concern. "Get out of there. Now. My guy's outside..."

"Your guy? Yeah, I noticed. Protection or surveillance?"

"Both. Damn it, Harvey, I cared about you. Still do, fool that I am."

He hung up. I stared at the phone, heart torn between running for my life or going to him and explaining? The story was out, and the consequences were starting to barrel down.

But Noah... maybe there was a way to salvage us amid the wreckage.

Grabbing my bag, I slipped out the back, evading the watcher. As I hailed a cab, my mind was racing. What had I unleashed? And could I live with it?

DAMIAN.

The metallic tang of blood still clung to my clothes as I stepped out of the SUV, the Woodley night air doing little to wash away the adrenaline buzzing in my veins. Vanessa's lifeless eyes stared back at me in my mind. It was satisfying, but not enough. Killing her was like swatting a fly; the swarm was still out there. Maybe others are sniffing around Atlas's edges. And Ava... God, Ava. She was the real storm brewing in my chest.

I wiped my hands on my pants, the faint smear of red a reminder of the chaos. Noah was silent beside me, his jaw set like he was chewing on his own demons. "That was too clean," I muttered, scanning the dark streets. "Vanessa didn't act alone. Someone's pulling strings." He nodded, eyes flicking to his phone.

"Rico's digging. But we need to lock down the crew. No loose ends."

We piled into the jet, the hum of the engines a temporary lull. My thoughts drifted to Ava, her scent still on my skin from last night, her whispers echoing in my ear. But I wasn't walking away again. Not this time.

As the plane lifted off, my phone buzzed. A text from Ava

"Heard about Woodley. Are you okay? Come over. We need to talk."

My grip tightened. Talk? Or more? Either way, danger was closing in, and she was right in the crosshairs.

I leaned back in the leather seat, the vibration of the engines thrumming through my bones, but it did nothing to dull the edge in my mind. Vanessa's death replayed in my mind, the way her head snapped back, the spray of blood misting the air, the thud of her body hitting the floor. It should have felt like closure, a clean-cut severing of one more threat from the tangled web around Atlas. But satisfaction eluded me. Her eyes, wide and glassy in that final moment, mocked me. She was a pawn, elevated by her own greed, but pawns don't move without a hand guiding them. Who was the real player? Some upstart smells weakness in our ranks after the Club Eden fire?

I glanced at Noah across the aisle. He stared out the window into the black void, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm on his knee. His recent distractions and the way he had snapped orders during the hit made me curious.

"Are you good?" I asked, my voice low enough not to carry to Rico and the others dozing in the back.

He turned, his eyes shadowed. "As good as it gets after torching a club and dropping bodies. You?"

I snorted, "Alive. That's the bar these days."

Before I could respond, my phone buzzed again in my pocket. It was from the crew updating me about the fire at the club. When I turned back to face Noah, he had shut his eyes and was snoring softly. Though I wanted to address his situation, yet I ignored it for now.

The flight dragged, and I closed my eyes without sleeping until the jet touched down in LA with a jolt, the runway lights streaking.

We hopped off the jet in silence, and Noah clapped my shoulder. "Get some rest. Tomorrow,"

"Yeah," I muttered, but the rest was the last thing on my mind. I slid into my black Audi, the engine purring to life as I peeled out toward Ava's penthouse. The fire at Eden replayed in my head. I had watched the flames devouring the structure of my investments as it went up in smoke. We may have contained it and paid off the right officials, but the hit stung. It was a message that we had a mark on Atlas. And now, with Vanessa's blood on my hands, I wondered if I had escalated too far.

I drove into Ava's building, a sleek home, and I valet-parked, nodding to the security guard who knew me by sight. The elevator ride up felt eternal until the soft chime at the penthouse level echoed my unease. I rapped on her door; the sound rang through the quiet hallway.

No answer. I knocked again, louder. Silence.

"Ava?" I called, pressing my ear to the wood. Nothing. My gut twisted into a familiar knot, the kind that signaled trouble. I tried the handle and realized it was locked. Fishing out the spare key she had given me that morning, I hesitated. Then I decided I had no choice. I turned the key, and the lock clicked open.

The penthouse greeted me with her floral perfume mixed with the faint citrus of her favorite candles, but it felt abandoned.

"Ava?" I called again, stepping inside, my boots thudding on the marble floor. The living room sprawled before me, the floor-to-ceiling windows framing the glittering skyline, plush couches where we had spent tangled nights, a half-empty wine glass on the coffee table. There was no sign of her.

I checked the kitchen, Nothing, then I walked to the bedroom, the bed was made, and the closets were undisturbed. Everything was neatly placed. I started to feel panic flicker, but I tamped it down. She was probably out, I told myself. Maybe she had gone to a late fitting or a meeting with her agents.

But her text had said, "Come over." I pulled out my phone to dial her number. It rang once, twice, then straight to voicemail. "The number you have reached is not in service."

What the hell?

Disconnected? Ava lived on her phone for contracts, agents, and endless networking. She wouldn't cut it off without reason. I redialed it, and the result was the same. My uneasiness bloomed into full alarm.

Something was wrong. I paced back to the living room, my eyes scanning for clues. That was when I saw it. A note on the coffee table, propped against the wine glass.

Damian,

Heading to Paris early for the gala. I needed space to think. Don't worry, I'll call when I land. We can talk then.

Love, Ava

Space? From what? The previous night, she had clung to me like I was her anchor.

"There's something I need to tell you," she'd said in her text earlier. Now this? The note felt off. It was too abrupt. Paris was on her itinerary, sure, but early? And disconnecting her line? That screamed evasion, or worse, coercion.

I crumpled the paper and in my fist, Vanessa's death should have bought us time, but what if it triggered something else? What if someone got to her first? Using her as leverage against Zane, against me?

I sank onto the couch, the leather creaking under my weight. Standing abruptly, I pocketed the note and strode to the window, staring at the city below. I needed answers. Zane.

He would be aware of her schedule and contingencies. But calling him meant igniting his protectiveness and our history. Screw it. Ava was worth the explosion.

I dialed his phone, the line ringing as I paced. Zane answered on the third, his voice clipped. "Damian. If this is about that damn story..."

Story? "What story?" I cut in confusion, sharpening my tone.

A pause, then Zane's voice came up, "You haven't seen it? Some hack journalist dropped a bomb online on Atlas. Ties us to the cartel. It's blowing up, and our stocks are dipping. Sienna's handling damage control with the feds, but if you're calling to bitch about exposure..."

"Shut up about the story," I snapped, my pulse spiking. A leak? Now? But that could wait. "This isn't about that. Ava's missing."

Zane's voice went up a notch, "What the fuck do you mean, missing?"

I relayed it to him, informing him about her text, the note, the disconnected line, the empty penthouse. "She texted me after Woodley, said come over, we need to talk. I get here, and she's gone. Paris? Bullshit. She was spooked earlier, like she had something big to spill."

Zane's breathing rasped over the line. "You went to her again? After I told you..."

"Save the lecture," I growled, my free hand balling into a fist. "This isn't about us. Someone's after her."

"You think I don't know the risks?" Zane roared, "She's my sister, Damian! I built this empire to protect her, and you drag her into the dirt with your bullshit romance. If she's gone because of you..."

"Because of me?" Fury ignited, hot and blinding. I slammed my palm against the window, the glass vibrating. "I've been the one shielding her while you're off playing kingpin with Sienna! You think locking her away keeps her safe? She's out there building her life, and threats follow because of Atlas, our Atlas!"

Zane's retort came like a whip. "Don't twist this. You crossed the line years ago, and I let it slide because you're family. But if Ava's hurt, if this is payback for Vanessa or that fire..."

"The fire was a hit on us all!" I shouted back, pacing faster, the room closing in. "Eden burned because someone's testing our edges. Vanessa was part of it, but killing her doesn't end it. Ava knew something she tried to tell me. If you had listened instead of swinging fists "

"Listened? To you screwing my sister behind my back?" Zane thundered, "You're supposed to be my brother, Damian. Loyal. But you chose her over the code!"

I stopped dead, my chest heaving. "The code? That's your excuse? I chose the brotherhood once and walked away from her for you. You know what, Zane? I regretted it every day. She's not a prize, Zane and if you can't see that, if you let your ego blind you."

"Ego?" He laughed, cutting me off. "This is survival. Atlas stands because we don't let personal shit fracture us. You want her? Fine. But not at the cost of everything we've built. Get your head straight, or you're out."

The threat hung, a blade poised. My rage pulsed in my temples. "Out? After all I've bled for this? You'd throw me away like trash?"

"If it comes to that, yes." Zane's tone hardened, unyielding. "Now, focus. We find Ava. Ask Rico to pull strings at the airport. If she's in Paris, we will confirm. If not..."

"We tear the city apart," I finished, my voice was steady despite the storm inside. With Ava gone, the aftermath of raining down fire and spilling blood had just begun.

The call ended with a click, leaving me in silence. I stared at the phone as Zane's annoying words echoed through my ears. I fired off texts to Rico to track Ava Sinclair's Paris flight manifests, phone pings, everything. Emphasizing how urgent it was. Then I grabbed my keys, slamming the penthouse door behind me. Whatever came next, I would face it...for her.

AVA.

I woke up to a throbbing ache that pulsed through my skull, each throb sending shards of pain radiating down my neck. The world was pitch black, forced by something tight and unyielding wrapped around my eyes.

It was a rough fabric and scratchy as it bit into my skin where it pressed against my temples. My mouth felt dry, and when I tried to swallow, I tasted a metallic tang on my tongue. Blood, maybe, from biting my lip or cheek during whatever had happened.

Panic flickered at the edges of my mind, but I shoved it down, forcing myself to breathe steadily. Through my nose, I smelt stale air, laced with dust and rusty paint or chemicals.

I shifted, or tried to, and that was when reality hit me. My wrists were bound behind my back, thick ropes digging into my skin with every twitch; the fibers were coarse. My ankles were similarly restrained, tied to what felt like the legs of a chair, wooden and splintered under my probing heels. The chair itself was hard, probably metal or old wood, creaking faintly as I tested my bonds.

How did I get here?

The question clawed at me, demanding answers. I pieced it together slowly, fragments of my memory surfacing through the haze of pain. I had been in my penthouse waiting for Damian. My heart had raced at the thought of seeing him again.

I had paced the living room, wine glass in hand, the rich cabernet doing little to calm my nerves when I heard the knock. I had assumed it was him, early as always when it mattered. I had smoothed my dress, having chosen the sleek black one that hugged my curves, and opened the door with a smile ready on my lips.

But it wasn't Damian. And everything happened fast, a gloved hand swinging something heavy at me, was it a pipe? A baton? It hit against the side of my head. Stars exploded behind my eyes, and then I blacked out.

Now, there I was. Tied, blindfolded, vulnerable.

My breath quickened despite my efforts, and I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my spine, soaking into the fabric of my dress. The room was cold; it gave me the kind of chill that seeped into my bones. There were no windows, either, so I could sense its faint glow seeping through the blindfold. Was I underground, maybe? Or in a basement or warehouse? The air had that musty undertone, making me feel it was more like forgotten storage. The faint echoes of the seat bounced when I shifted, suggesting high ceilings or empty space around me.

I tugged at the ropes again, subtly, testing for give. None. It had been professionally knitted tightly, but not cutting through my blood circulation yet. Whoever had done this knew what they were doing. Not some amateur grudge from the fashion world, more tied to the Atlas.

Then I heard heavy footsteps, echoing from somewhere to my left. My heart slammed against my ribs, but I forced my face to remain neutral, lifting my chin even in blindness. Show no fear. I was a Calloway-Sinclair; strength ran in our veins. Zane had taught me that, drilling it into me since the aftermath of our parents' deaths. And Damian... he would come. He always did.

The footsteps stopped close, too close. I could smell his sweat with a hint of cologne and the heat radiating from his body, making the air thicker.

"You're awake," he said in a muffled voice, distorted by what sounded like a mask. His voice was deep and gravelly, with an edge that sent a shiver racing down my arms. It was filtered electronically to hide his identity. Smart.

I didn't respond immediately, letting the silence stretch while I gathered my thoughts. Curiosity burned in me, sharper than the fear of my state. Who was he? What did he want? Where were we? Knowing the details could be my weapon, to be used as leverage for my escape.

He chuckled, a low rumble that echoed oddly in the space. "Playing tough? Good. Makes this more interesting."

His fingers brushed my face roughly. It was gloved giving me a scratch and I flinched despite myself. He untied the blindfold with deliberate slowness, as if savoring my anticipation. When the fabric fell away, I blinked against the sudden dim light.

It was not pitch black after all; there was a single bulb hung overhead, swaying faintly, casting our reflection across the cracked concrete walls. The room was gray, stained with rusted pipes running along the ceiling. There was a metal door opposite me with a small, barred window high up. There was no furniture except my chair and a rickety table in the corner, holding a few tools, duct tape, zip ties, and a phone. Warehouse, definitely. Abandoned, by the dust motes dancing in the light. The air hummed with distant traffic, suggesting we were on the outskirts of the city, maybe an industrial district.

My eyes locked on him. He was tall, broad-shouldered, clad in black tactical pants, a jacket and boots that screamed military gear. The mask covered his entire face, black fabric with mesh over the eyes and a voice modulator built in, distorting his words into something mechanical, inhuman. The gloves hid his hands, leaving no skin visible.

Anonymous and Professional.

"Who are you?" I asked, as my pulse raced with curiosity. I needed to know, to probe for weaknesses.

He tilted his head, the mask's blank stare unnerving. "Doesn't matter who I am. What matters is what I want."

I leaned forward as much as the ropes allowed, ignoring the bite into my wrists. "Humor me. You went through the trouble of kidnapping me, it must be personal. Old grudge? Someone from Zane's past?"

He paused, then let out another chuckle, this one laced with amusement. He pulled up a folding chair, the metal scraping against the floor, and sat across from me, legs spread wide, letting his arms rest on his knees. He was close enough that I could see the faint reflection of the bulb in the mesh eyes.

"Curious little thing, aren't you? Fine. Call me... Echo. Fitting, don't you think? My voice bounces back, hides the truth."

Echo. Theatrical. He wanted to play games. I could use that.

"Echo, then. Where are we? This place looks like it's seen better days. Old factory? Storage unit?"

He leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight. "You've got sharp eyes for a model. This is an abandoned warehouse on the edge of LA. Used to store auto parts back in the day. Now? Perfect for conversations like this. Quiet. Isolated. No one hears screams."

He had added the threat intentionally, but I didn't flinch. Instead, I scanned the room again, noting details of a faint drip from a pipe in the corner, the water pooling on the floor, the scuff marks near the door, a small vent high on the wall, too narrow to crawl through but maybe for sound.

"Screams? You don't strike me as the type to get your hands dirty without reason. What's the endgame, Echo? Money?"

He stood abruptly, pacing a slow circle around me, his boots thudding rhythmically. I twisted my head to follow, refusing to let him out of sight. "Smart girl. It's simple. Your brother, Zane's got something I want. Power to control this territory. The Atlas empire's got fingers in every shipment and investment. I want a piece. A big piece. He trades it for you, or..."

"Or what?" I pressed. Fear coiled in my gut, but I masked it with a raised eyebrow and a tilt of my head. "You will kill me? Come on, give me details. I'm curious to know how a guy like you ends up playing kidnapper? Was this hired or a personal stake?"

He stopped behind me, his gloved hand landing on my shoulder, squeezing just enough to make me tense. "Personal stake? Maybe. Zane's stepped on a lot of toes building that throne. Mine included. As for you... Let's say you're the leverage. Pretty face, losing you would break him."

"I see"

"And if he doesn't play ball?" His fingers tightened, sending pain shooting through my shoulder. "I'll make sure you regret being born a Calloway. We will start with the fingers, maybe. Or that flawless skin. Scars on a model's body don't photograph well on runways, right?"

I swallowed hard, the image of my hands mangled flashed through my head, which would leave my career in ruins. But I pushed back with words, "Fingers and skin ugh? Sounds quite messy. You're too clean for that. I See the tactical gear and modulator meaning you have a military background or are ex-special forces. Or are you just a wannabe playing dress-up?"

He released my shoulder with a shove, circling back to face me. The mask hid his expression, but his posture stiffened. Had I hit a nerve? "Wannabe? Cute. I have seen more action than your brother's cartel dreams. I have served in places that would make you puke. Now? I work freelance because it pays better. Why? Think you can talk your way out?"

I met his mesh gaze, unblinking. "Maybe. Or maybe I just like knowing my enemies. This warehouse, how long have you had it? Did you scout my penthouse too? That knock was precise. You knew I had opened for Damian."

He crossed his arms, leaning against the table. "Damian Pierce. Your knight in shining armor. Yeah, I know about him. That was sloppy of you, letting him get close. But useful since it keeps Zane off-balance. As for scouting... just a few days. Your routines are predictable, model girl. Fittings, photoshoots, that fancy car. Easy."

Days. The word chilled me. I had felt watched and had dismissed it as paranoia from the threats. "Who hired you? Vanessa's dead, I assume, after Woodley. Spill it, Echo. I'm tied up, what's the harm?"

He laughed, genuinely this time, the modulator warping it into something eerie. "Vanessa? That bitch was small-time. Stirred the pot, sure, but she's out. This? Bigger fish. Let's just say your brother's empire has cracks, and I'm the wedge. No, this is fresh blood. New player wanting in on LA's game."

New player.

I leaned forward, ropes chafing. "Fresh blood. Intriguing. What's their angle?"

He pushed off the table, closing the distance until his mask was inches from my face. I could smell the synthetic fabric, feel his breath through the mesh. "Personal because Zane took the territory from them. Doesn't matter. They want payback. And you were just the sweet famous bait."

I held his gaze, "And if Zane pays? You would let me walk? Or is this a setup to kill me anyway and frame someone else?"

He straightened, pacing again. "If he pays, you walk. I'm a professional, not a psycho. But if he stalls..." He trailed off, gesturing to the tools on the table. "We improvise."

"Professional. So, what's your story, Echo? How does a soldier end up kidnapping models?"

He stopped, turning sharply. "You talk too much." But there was a crack in his voice, the modulator failing to hide it fully. "Now I take jobs that pay. Simple."

I softened my tone, probing gently. "Lost someone close?"

"Shut up." He slammed a fist on the table, the tools rattling. But he didn't move away. "You don't get to psychoanalyze me."

"Why not? We're stuck here. Might as well chat. Are there any cameras in this room? Escape routes? Or are you flying solo?"

"Solo. No cams. Door's bolted, reinforced. No windows. You're not going anywhere, pretty face."

Solo. Perfect.

I filed it away. "Impressive setup. How long do you plan to keep me? Days? Weeks?"

"Long as it takes. Zane gets the demand soon. I will make the phone call. He trades, or..."

I nodded, feigning calm. "Or I suffer. Got it. But why me? Why not hit Zane directly?"

"You're softer and famous. The media frenzy that would follow if you vanished would pressure him."

"Fair. One more, why use the mask? Afraid I will recognize you?"

He chuckled darkly. "Smart. But no, the mask is insurance. Faces mean complications."

Finally, he stood. "Enough. Rest. Demands go out soon."

As he redid the blindfold, I whispered, "Echo? Thanks for the chat."

He paused, then tied it tightly. His footsteps retreated after slamming the door.

I was alone again. I exhaled shakily. Was I scared? Yes. But armed with knowledge. And hope that my brother and lover would rescue me before it was too late.