2. Chapter Two

Rylan West stepped through the door of his penthouse condo, the intoxicating high from his latest fashion show success still coursing through him.

At least, it should have been.

The memory of applause and adoration rang in his head, but instead of pride it left him with an echoing emptiness. He drifted into his condo, his slender fingers absentmindedly brushing against the rich, damask upholstery as he dropped his coat over the back of an armchair.

"Welcome home," he whispered to himself. The sound of his voice was soft in his own ear, and he knew from recordings of himself that it was even softer and thinner in reality. Perhaps his voice was why people didn't take him seriously. Or perhaps it was something else, he thought ruefully, something innate about him that undermined him in the eyes of the world.

He surveyed his home, feeling restless and incomplete. All his carefully chosen furniture. The tasteful statuary, the monochrome abstracts on the walls. All tokens of the life he had curated for himself.

The condo was beautiful, exquisite, and completely lifeless. He was alone in it, again. He felt hollowed out.

Sure, his show had gone well. People had murmured the correct things, but did any of it mean anything? Did he really have any talent at all, or were his fans simply tasteless sycophants? How would he even know?

Was he, at the grand old age of twenty-five, washed up?

As he moved across the room, he caught a glimpse of himself in one of the enormous, gilded mirrors that were so necessary to his life. So pale. Insipid. A ghost in his own life. He stared at himself for a moment before turning away.

His phone began to ring. It was Hamilton West. He must have remembered the show, Rylan thought, his heart lifting as he answered the call.

"Hi, Dad," he said, trying not to sound too eager. "I didn't expect you to call. I only just got home."

"Got home?" Hamilton West sounded somewhat taken aback. "It's almost eleven o'clock at night."

"There was a party after the show. You know, for my Spring collection? I sent you an invitation."

"Oh, that," Hamilton said dismissively.

Rylan felt his heart sink. Of course that wasn't why he was calling. Hamilton had called about the wedding.

"I need you to talk some sense into the designer. Your stepmother is having hysterics over the flowers."

She's not my stepmother yet,Rylan thought, but he didn't say it. This would be his father's fourth wedding, and apparently each of them had to be more lavish than the last. Rylan wondered how he could stand it.

But he agreed to speak to the wedding designer in the morning, and hung up, still feeling wistful and hollow.

Rylan poured himself a glass of wine, his thoughts circling this wretched wedding like water in a drain. Another wife. Another public display. And for what?

The idea of pledging your life to another in a grand ceremony only to end up divorced a handful of years later and moving onto the next spouse as though nothing had happened seemed so empty and unfulfilling.

Is that really what life is?he mused drearily. Marrying again and again, never truly finding happiness?

His father's marriages had always been more like transactions than romances. Hamilton West got a pretty wife who looked good in press photos; his wives got a generous settlement at the inevitable end of it all. It left Rylan cold. He wanted to believe there was something more than this out there for him, but he feared he was destined to follow in his father's footsteps. Worse, he felt certain he had more in common with the wives in this scenario, and the only future he could look forward to was to eventually be abandoned by a man who had never truly loved him at all.

Rylan set his glass down on the coffee table and gazed into it. You have wealth, you have connections, you have your health. Millions would give anything for your life. Billions, even.

And yet there was a deep longing within him for something more. Something real. I want to feel something.

God, he felt so insipid. "I'm being foolish," he whispered to the empty room. Maybe what he needed was a second opinion.

Katja would be awake. His best friend was a party girl and wouldn't go to bed until dawn. He called her, willing her to pick up the phone.

She answered on the third ring. "Darling, you left! I miss you!"

Rylan sighed heavily. "Do you think I'm boring?"

"What are you talking about?" Katja's tone was light but concerned. "Are you thinking about Robert again? Because he's not good enough for you, I swear to God!"

"No, to hell with Robert," Rylan said irritably. Robert had been almost a year ago and yes, he'd cried into Katja's designer collar over him, but it was ancient history now. "I just can't help but wonder if there's something more out there for me."

"More than what?"

Rylan waved a hand irritably. "More than whatever I'm doing right now. Something...important."

There was silence on the line. "Did your father call you?"

There was no use in denying it. "Yes. He wants me to talk to the interior designer for the wedding about carpet."

"Oh God, of course he does."

"I don't see why he's so worked up about this wedding. You'd think he'd have got the memo by now—he's not marriage material!" If he had been, then maybe one of his previous wives would have stuck around.

"Maybe he enjoys the spectacle," Katja said with some asperity.

"I want more than that," Rylan sighed, running a finger around the rim of his glass. "I want something...passionate. Real. Something meaningful. Someone to sweep me off my feet and mean something."

"Darling," Katja said kindly. "You know I love you, but you're being a dingus. Focus on your career right now, it's the most important thing. Love will find its way to you when it's meant to be," she added, like a sage and not someone who was probably high.

"How profound," he said, lingering dissatisfaction gnawing at him. "My hero."

"Do you need me to come over?"

"No," he told her. Though, secretly, he wished she would.

"Then get some sleep. Call me in the afternoon, we'll do afternoon brunch."

"It's called tea when it's in the afternoon," Rylan said, fondly, but she'd already hung up.

Rylan set his phone down, unable to shake the feeling that there had to be more to life than this. Something—or someone—to fill the void within him.

Well, if he couldn't have what he wanted, he could at least find temporary solace. He needed a distraction, a way to lose himself, if only for a night.

He grabbed his coat and headed out. On impulse, he chose not to call for his driver, and stepped onto a streetcar instead. The crush of strangers was oddly isolating. You are never more alone than in a crowd, he thought. But there was something comforting in their nearness, each of them in their own private bubble.

It reminded him of the early years of college, when he'd slummed around with the other fashion school undergrads drinking hipster cocktails and thinking themselves the coolest people in the world. He'd been so confident then, so sure he was moments from finding the love of his life.

But there had only been a string of disappointing boyfriends and hookups. Every one of them had been missing something, some spark, some base, raw attraction that could consume him. I listen to too many pop songs, he thought ruefully, stepping off the streetcar and into the night, letting his feet decide for him.

They led him to Fiesta, a nightclub he'd been to often enough that the bouncers knew him on sight. There was a line out the front, but Rylan had never bothered with anything as plebeian as waiting for anything. He strode up to the front, hardly registering the sour looks of the waiting patrons as he was let in immediately.

The pulsating beat of the music vibrated through him as he entered, and for a moment, he allowed himself to be swept up in the chaotic energy of the dance floor. Overhead the lights flashed and flickered in a rainbow of colors, illuminating the faces of eager dancers. Beautiful bodies gyrated to the hypnotic beats of the music. Bass reverberated off the walls, creating a relentless cacophony of thumping and crashing. Bright laughter and shrill screams of joy echoed in the neon lit space. The air was filled with the sweetness of cologne, spilled cocktails, and masculine sweat

Rylan scanned the room, searching for something to distract him from himself. The bass thumped in his chest, and the neon lights cast an eerie glow on the writhing bodies of those lost in the music. His gaze fell upon man after man, each one more or less attractive than the last, yet none capturing his interest.

He felt a gnawing disappointment settling into his gut as he realized that tonight wouldn't be any different from all the other nights he'd spent in places like this. The emptiness persisted, mocking him. He ordered a drink at the bar, sipping slowly as he searched the room.

This place. Why had he come? All it did was make him feel more alone than ever.

I should go home and run a bath,he thought, and then he sighed, feeling old and worn out. Don't be ridiculous, you're not even thirty.

The feeling that he shouldn't be here persisted. With a sigh, he gave up.

The night air was cool against his flushed cheeks as he stepped out of the nightclub, disappointment settling around him like a heavy coat. The bass from the music vibrated through his bones, a reminder of all the hours in his life spent searching for that one perfect connection.

"Another night wasted," he muttered, frustration lacing his voice with a rare edge.

He wanted something, something new. Something unfamiliar. An impulse similar to the one that had driven him out tonight rose in him again, and instead of taking the streetcar back to his condo, he decided to walk.

He'd walked these streets with his college friends many times, buoyed with cocktails and good humour. Now they were colder, less friendly. He felt exposed. He couldn't shake the nagging sense that something was off, but he dismissed it as paranoia brought on by his loneliness.

Get over it,he told himself. There'll be other nights. Maybe next time.

As he turned down an alley that formed a shortcut between two apartment buildings, he heard a vehicle pull up behind him. It almost didn't register, but then the sound of a door being flung open made him look back.

A figure leapt toward him. Before he could react, the man had seized hold of him. Rylan cried out, struggling violently against the iron grip. "Let go!" he squeaked, terror making his voice shrill and desperate.

"Shut up!" a muffled voice barked, and he felt the cold press of metal against his temple. "You're coming with us."

Us.Rylan's breath hitched as he realized what was happening. That metal was a gun barrel. He was being abducted, by multiple people with guns. It he screamed for help they would most definitely shoot him.

Panic threatened to overwhelm him. "Please," he pleaded, his voice shaking. "I'll do anything, just let me go."

"Anything?" a second voice asked, amusement tinting the sinister tone.

"Y-yes," Rylan stammered, desperation clawing at his insides.

"Shut up," the first voice said, and Rylan felt the gun removed from his temple. Something was pulled over his eyes, plunging him into total darkness. The hands gripping his arms never loosened their hold, and he knew that any attempt at escape would be futile.

"Let's go," the first voice ordered, and Rylan felt himself being dragged further down the alley.

Suddenly, he was lifted off his feet and thrown into...somewhere. A door slid shut behind him with a bang. Sliding door. Like on a…van?

His hands were yanked hard and then he felt something around them, binding them tightly behind his back. He was utterly helpless, and in the dark.

Drawing on every ounce of courage he had, Rylan tried to focus on his senses—the smell of oil and old cigarettes in the air; the growl of the engine as it started up, vibrating through him like electricity; the sound of laughter and muffled voices from the men in the van, taunting him. He was trapped here, at their mercy.

He felt himself being jostled around as they drove through the city streets, each bump sending a wave of nausea through his body. Sweat slid down his forehead as fear coursed through his veins like ice water. His mind churned with thoughts of what was going to happen to him. They won't kill me. My father is too important. They're going to want a ransom. Oh God, please let that be all they want.

It had to be. He told himself this over and over as they sped through the night, but he couldn't make himself believe it was true.