Chapter 7 Kidnapped?
CASSIAN
The morning had begun with the pristine, predictable silence I always demanded. Sunlight cut across my desk in sharp angles, illuminating the day’s agenda typed neatly on a single sheet of paper. It was a schedule built on control. Then, reality intruded.
Felix stood before me, his posture ramrod straight, a living embodiment of efficiency. “Your board meeting with Crown Atlantic is at eight, sir. President Harrington is flying in personally. He’s eager to finalize the merger. Following that, you have—”
“Cancel everything,” I said, my voice flat, not looking up from the financial report I was no longer reading.
A beat of silence. Felix was the only man in my employ who possessed the nerve—or the foolishness—to question me. “Sir? The Crown Atlantic deal is our top priority this quarter. The logistics of rescheduling Harrington…”
This time, I lifted my gaze. It was a slow, deliberate motion, and I let the full weight of my impatience show in my eyes. It was a language Felix understood fluently. “Did I stutter?”
He didn’t flinch, but a muscle in his jaw tightened. “No, sir. Of course not. I’ll have the cars brought around immediately. The standard convoy?”
“The Maybach. And add the new Porsche. The pink one.”
This finally broke his professional composure. His eyebrows shot up. “The… the pink Porsche, sir? Forgive me, but who exactly are we picking up that warrants that particular vehicle?”
The endless questions were a fraying wire against my patience. “Felix,” I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous, icy calm. “Your role is to execute my orders. Not to psychoanalyze them. Do it. Now.”
“At once, Mr. Vale.” He gave a sharp, curt nod and turned on his heel, his pace measured and steady as he left the study.
I watched him go. His mouth ran like a faulty tap, but his competence was unmatched. Trained in seven forms of combat, a strategic mind sharper than most CEOs I knew, and a loyalty that had been tested in fire. He was the closest thing to a friend I permitted myself. And currently, he was an irritant.
My phone vibrated, skittering on the polished mahogany. Victoria. I swiped to answer, already holding the device away from my ear.
“Cassian!” Her voice was a shrill dagger. “Diana just called me. In tears! She’s been sitting in a private lounge at JFK for an hour. An hour, Cassy! This is unacceptable!”
“I’m leaving now, Mother,” I replied, my tone deliberately chilled to counteract her heat.
“You’re 'leaving now'? It’s past ten! I told you her flight landed at nine. This is not how a gentleman behaves! You are being utterly impossible, my boy.”
I took a slow breath, envisioning the calm of my empty garage. “The meeting ran long. I’m en route. I’ll bring her directly to the estate. Goodbye, Mother.”
I ended the call before she could launch another volley.
Dressed in a tailored white tuxedo that felt more like armor than clothing, I descended to the underground garage—a cavernous, clinically clean space of concrete and steel, a personal design of mine. Low visibility was a preference, but some occasions demanded a show of force. A convoy was precisely that: a mobile fortress and a statement of power.
Felix, dependable as ever, had arranged the vehicles with precision. The black Maybach at the center, two Range Rovers flanking it front and back. And sitting apart, gleaming under the halogen lights like a giant piece of gaudy candy, was the pink Porsche 911.
I ignored it and slid into the back of the Maybach. “The airport. No delays.”
The drive was a silent, ten-minute parade through the canyons of the city. We arrived at the private terminal with a hushed efficiency that parted the crowds without a sound. I had barely stepped onto the curb when a voice, high and familiar, cut through the hum of engines.
“CASSIAN!”
She was a streak of emerald silk and desperation, launching herself across the tarmac before my security could even react. She crashed into me, arms locking around my neck with a force that was more panic than affection.
“I missed you so much,” she whispered, her voice trembling, and I felt the warm, unmistakable dampness of tears against my skin.
I tolerated it for a three-count before gently but firmly extricating myself. “Diana.” I held her at arm’s length, taking her in. The emerald gown was couture, the Louis Vuitton bag brand new, the heels impossibly high. She was the picture of curated luxury. The oversized sunglasses and the silk scarf wrapped around the lower half of her face, however, were a bizarre contradiction.
“Why the full incognito?” I asked, my tone dry. “Planning a heist?”
She let out a wet laugh, swiping at her eyes beneath the glasses. “You know why. You hate a scene. And my face… it tends to cause them. I can take it off if it’s embarrassing you.”
Before I could formulate a refusal—the growing attention from passersby was already a risk—she had already tugged the scarf down and pushed the glasses onto her head. The effect was instantaneous.
A gasp from a woman waiting by a town car. “Oh my God… is that…?”
“Diana! Diana Moreau!” a man shouted, fumbling for his phone.
“I love your movies! Can I get a picture?”
The whispers coalesced into a wave of recognition. Thankfully, Felix had already ensured the area was clear of paparazzi. Dealing with the public was a nuisance; dealing with professional vultures with cameras was a war.
“We’re leaving. Now,” I said, my voice leaving no room for argument. My security team closed ranks, forming a moving wall as we ushered her toward the Porsche.
Her eyes widened as she saw it. She clapped her hands together, the earlier tears forgotten, replaced by pure, unadulterated glee. “The ‘Blush Pink’ limited edition! It was bought by an anonymous bidder at the Geneva auction! Cassian, you didn’t! Is it for me? Oh, it’s perfect!”
She threw her arms around me again. This time, I offered a pat on the back, a perfunctory gesture. “I recalled you mentioning it. I’m glad it meets your approval.”
Diana Moreau. A family friend since we were children, the little sister I never had. Now, one of the most famous actresses on the planet. The chaos she trailed behind her was a constant, exhausting phenomenon.
The drive back toward the city was the opposite of the serene journey out. Diana’s energy filled the Porsche’s soundproof cabin, a relentless stream of chatter.
“You look more severe than ever, Cassian. And so handsome. Don’t you dare let any other woman see you like this. I have so much to tell you! The tour was insane, you wouldn’t believe the drama with my backup dancer…”
“You just endured a nine-hour flight,” I interjected, massing my temples. “After a sixty-city world tour. Where do you find this energy? Rest. We’re going to the estate. You can regale Mother with your stories.”
She pouted, a practiced, theatrical expression. “But I want to talk to you. You never take time off! This is my holiday, and I demand your attention!” She folded her arms and turned to stare pointedly out the window, the picture of offended royalty.
It was then my private phone buzzed. Assuming it was my mother checking on our progress, I answered without looking. “Mother, we’re on the FDR drive. We'll be there in the next twenty minutes.”
The voice that answered was not Victoria’s polished clip. It was a fractured, breathless sob, choked with a panic that sent an immediate jolt through me.
“It’s… it’s Elara… She… they… I just got a call… they said…”
“Lysandra?” I sat bolt upright, my blood going cold. “Slow down. What about Elara? What happened?”
But she was incoherent, lost in a tidal wave of fear. The words ‘attack,’ ‘critical,’ and ‘now’ were all I could discern through her tears.
That was enough.
Every other priority—Diana, my mother, the damned pink car—evaporated.
I grabbed the car’s intercom. “Stop the convoy. Now.”
The car pulled over smoothly onto the shoulder. Diana spun around, her pout replaced by confusion. “What’s going on? Why are we stopping?”
“A matter requires my immediate attention,” I said, my voice tight as I opened the door. “Felix will take you the rest of the way to the estate.”
“What? Cassian, you can’t just leave me on the side of the highway!”
I was already out. “The rest of you, follow the Porsche to my mother’s,” I barked into the walkie-talkie before sliding into the front car of the backup detail—a black Audi sedan. “My apartment. Now. And drive like hell.”
The driver, a man in the standard black suit and cap, nodded and pulled away from the curb with a squeal of tires, cutting across lanes to make a U-turn while the rest of the convoy continued north.
I was already pulling out my phone to call the hospital director, my mind racing through contingencies, when I noticed the city skyline was not aligning with our route.
“You missed the turn,” I said, my voice low. “Take the next left and double back.”
The driver didn’t respond. He just pressed harder on the accelerator, the engine roaring as we sped away from the city center.
A cold knot of suspicion tightened in my gut. This was no mistake. “Hey!” I snapped, my authority slicing through the air. “Are you deaf? I gave you an order. Turn this car around now!”
The driver finally chuckled—a low, distorted sound that was wrong. He slowed the car slightly and turned to look at me.
That was when I saw it. Beneath the peak of his cap, he wore a grotesque, full-face respirator mask, the kind used for chemical hazards. His eyes were invisible behind the tinted lenses.
“No need to shout, Mr. Vale,” a voice rasped through the mask’s modulator, chillingly calm and cold. “The itinerary has changed. Consider yourself on a… detour.”
He raised a small, metallic device in his hand. There was a faint hiss from the air vents. A cloying, sweet scent filled the cabin.
My hand flew to the door handle. Locked. My vision began to swim, the world tilting on its axis. I lashed out, but my limbs were already heavy, useless.
The masked man’s distorted voice was the last thing I heard. “Sweet dreams, sir. The boss is very eager to meet you.”
The world folded in on itself, and everything went black.
