Chapter Twenty-Eight Abby

Iwas scared.

But also bored.

I felt like I hadn't been bored since I was a kid, and it felt rough, odd, unfamiliar. I couldn't bask in it; I had nothing to learn, nothing to do, no way to get out.

The click of the remote felt like a metronome, measuring out time in a rhythm that didn't quite match the beat of my heart. I'd spent the whole day sprawled on Nathan's couch, cycling through channels without really seeing them. That is until I stumbled upon a reality TV show where deception was the name of the game.

"Liars," I muttered, a smirk tugging at the corner of my lips. The contestants were amateurs compared to the masks I'd learned to wear. Every twitch, every too-quick smile—I could spot their lies as if they were scrawled across their foreheads in bold ink. It was a skill that came with the badge, a necessity in my line of work, but also one that had woven itself into my being long before the FBI ever handed me a gun.

I paused, my thumb hovering over the power button as another contestant botched their attempt at deceit. "Rookie move," I scoffed and switched off the TV. The silence that followed seemed to mock me, and I pushed myself off the couch, feeling the weight of Nathan's shirt hanging loosely over my frame.

My throat begged for relief, parched from hours of idle viewing, so I padded into the kitchen. The clink of the plastic cup under the tap sounded louder than it should have, filling the empty space around me. Nathan had given me this cup just like night—a vessel for wine, an illusion of civility amidst a kidnapping.

An illusion, no matter what I told myself.

I washed it out, watching the water swirl and spiral down the drain, a miniature whirlpool of wasted time. As I set the cup down to dry, flashes of my last meeting with Matthews danced behind my eyelids. The Presidio, the cool San Francisco breeze, the semblance of control—how quickly that had all unraveled.

"Three days," I whispered to the reflection in the windowpane. Just seventy-two hours and yet it felt like I'd been ripped from that life, that version of Abby, and thrust into a world where time stretched and contorted, punctuated only by the certainty of Nathan's visits and the sharp edge of my own determination to survive.

Evening was creeping in, the shadows in the room lengthening as if reaching out to remind me of my confinement. I glanced at the clock; Nathan would be here soon. The thought twisted my stomach, a blend of fear and an odd anticipation. I shook it off. This wasn't the time for weakness.

I decided to pass the remaining minutes before his arrival by searching for something to read. Anything to distract my mind from the perilous game I had been thrust into. But as I scanned the stark shelves, it became clear that Nathan wasn't much of a reader. They were bare, save for a few scattered manuals about flowers and a thick book on criminal psychology. And one book in Mandarin, though I couldn't have him catch me reading that one. A grim collection for a man whose reputation was written in blood.

"Figures," I muttered, my fingers trailing over the spines, feeling the texture of violence beneath my fingertips. Disinterested, I let my hand drop to my side and turned back to the living room. My eyes drifted to the TV again, almost against my will. Remote in hand, I flipped through the channels robotically until my father's face froze me in place.

He was there on the screen, larger than life yet somehow diminished, haunted by a grief that seemed to consume him. His voice, when he spoke, cracked with a raw emotion that resonated deep within me, striking chords I hadn't realized still existed. I leaned forward, straining to catch every word, every nuance. What was going on? What story was being spun?

"I'm here in San Francisco today, talking to all of you…searching desperately for my daughter," he was saying. A byline underneath read Missing San Francisco Girl's Father Pleads for Help. "I don't care who you are, I don't need you to explain. Just…just bring my baby girl home. Her name is Abigail Harper, she goes by Abby…she's a waitress. I don't know who would have wanted to hurt her. Just get her home, she's all I have."

Hearing my name on his lips sent a jolt through me. My heart hammered in my chest as I listened, brows furrowed, trying to piece together the narrative unfolding before me. It was all wrong. The way they were framing this...my abduction was being treated as a crime of passion, a desperate act that had torn a family apart.

My dad had to know the truth–that I'd fallen in with the Triad.

Thank god he hadn't blown my cover.

My roommate, Erika, was standing beside my dad and wearing a shirt with my face on it, the number of a tip line in bold letters under my selfie. It all felt like a caricature of my life, like I'd found myself stumbling into a true crime documentary.

You know.

The kind where the girl ends up dead.

A noise at the door snapped me out of my trance. I fumbled with the remote, killing the screen just as the lock clicked open. It was him. Nathan. I rose to my feet, smoothing out the shirt that hung from my body, trying to calm the storm of emotions that threatened to overwhelm me. If he knew what I had seen, if he understood the implications…

People were looking for me.

If people were looking for me, they were looking for Nathan, too.

And he couldn't have that kind of attention on him.

"Hey," I greeted him, forcing lightness into my voice that I didn't feel. His eyes flicked briefly to where the TV stood silent and dark, an unspoken question in his gaze before it settled on me.

"Take off your clothes," he ordered, his voice carrying the same casual authority as someone asking for a glass of water. My throat tightened, knowing I had to comply, but also aware that every second I remained alive was another second closer to potential rescue.

"Sure," I said, with a nonchalance I was far from feeling, "just give me a moment." My mind raced, plotting and planning. I had to be smart. I had to survive. And right now, that meant playing along with the most feared man in San Francisco's criminal underworld.

I moved toward him, my movements deliberate, buying time as I searched his face for any sign that he knew about the manhunt. His dark eyes betrayed nothing, no glimmer of concern or awareness that the city's law enforcement was turning over every stone to find me.

"Your clothes," he said.

"Please," I replied, suddenly aware of how sore and tired I was. "Can we just talk for a minute?"

That only seemed to anger him. "Sure. Usually, you're glued to the screen. What happened? Bored of the outside world?" His tone was light, teasing, but there was an edge to it, a razor-sharp curiosity that didn't miss much.

I shrugged, feeling the weight of his shirt shift against my body. "Nothing to watch, I guess. Unless you're interested in a local business changing your bathroom tiles?" My words were a smokescreen, hiding my dread, my desperation for escape.

He didn't even crack a smile. "Come here," he commanded softly, his eyes never leaving mine. There was no trace of the orchid caretaker; only the criminal prince remained.

I rose, stepping toward him, every nerve ending acutely aware of his proximity. His scent, a mix of leather and something uniquely Nathan, filled my senses.

"Are you happy? We had a conversation. Now take off your clothes, Abby. I won't ask again."

"Nathan–"

I watched his hands tighten into fists by his sides. This was the angriest I had ever seen him, and I knew better than to tempt fate.

So with tears prickling at the corners of my eyes, and my breath shuddering, I told myself to start undressing.

I just needed to get my fucking hands to listen to me.