I stared at her as she left home that day, I've been doing this long enough to know not to immediately follow as she walked to the bus stop. Ginger colored hair, with the morning sun bouncing off each curl. She was beautiful, he'd give her that Amir Alec sure had good taste. Her skin shone like a freshly polished porcelain doll, and anytime the light hit it at just the right angle the dark skin turned gold. Beautiful was an understatement he decided, she was stunning, the kind of attractive that took your breath away and no matter how many times you looked, it was more interesting. You wouldn't be able to take your eyes off of her, I knew that first hand. That had been the case for me all the weeks I'd spent memorizing every facial feature of hers. It was a sin to want whatever Amir had his eyes on. She was his, I knew that. I watched her get on the bus and immediately turned on my engine to follow. What life decision had been the altering factor in the butterfly effect to lead me here, I wondered. Doing this. As my job...  The man who had paid me to have her followed was a powerful man, I knew that much but that was just about the only thing I knew of my employer. Being a seasoned detective taught me there were some questions that didn't need to be asked, I got into the private investigator job five years ago after a misdemeanor and tampering with evidence had forced me to resign from the police force, but I knew I had to put my skills to good use. Hence, opening a private detective practice had been the next best thing and I was a darned good one. I chuckled to myself realizing that my train of thoughts had distracted me from a very important observation. Goddamnnit, I wasn't the only one following this woman. I guess the stories are true, Amir Alec definitely had some enemies. ••• I rushed out of the door quickly knowing that I was already late, coffee in one hand and the other struggling to put on my black faux leather ankle length coat from Zara. I had a lot of problems and combating cold along with an insane amount of lack of sleep was not one I needed to have on this day. Today was very important, so much so that after getting home from work last night I kept working till three am, I finally fell asleep after much badgering from my husband and had to wake up 5am and be out the door at 6. This was a very important week and every planning we had done all these months was riding on this week, fashion week, especially on today. Working as creative director on a fashion line for an influencer we turned socialite was definitely not what I'd thought I would do with her life when I was a little girl but, life gives lemons or something of that sorts.  I stared down at my black work pumps, loose corporate but chic charcoal work pants and asymmetrical top from also Zara and thought this should suffice. I had a lot to deal with and listening to insults on the outdated state of my clothes or shoes might just be the thing to drive me off the edge. Everything needed to go smoothly and perfectly to show my husband why I was keeping all those late nights. I rushed to the bus barely looking at where I was going, thanking heavens I kept my apartment instead of moving into my new husbands house like he suggested, the proximity to the bus was much easier for me as is not waking up with fifty other empty rooms and let's face it a cult like staff waiting on me hand and foot. At least not yet, moving there will make it all feel real and I can admit I'm not ready to face what accepting it reality would mean for me.  The bus finally stopped opposite the large skyscraper as I rushed in and straight into the elevator 6:24, my time read. The bus ride had taken almost thirty minutes and as though the work gods had notified the overbearing social media which I currently work for, my phone begins to ring. Ugh, this woman can't let me even set my coffee down I think as I walk into the office, it's not even official work hours yet she can't keep-doing this... The chair in my office spun to face me, and I swear, I nearly launched my coffee across the room. There she was-the Instagram queen herself, reigning tyrant of all things trending and tasteless, Leah Eastwood, my boss, in all her platinum blonde, Versace-drenched glory. "Sabrina," she purred, eyes boring into me like I was a less-than-interesting pet hamster she'd rather not be dealing with. "Yes, Leah," I replied automatically, bracing myself for the barrage of last-minute demands, each more ridiculous than the last. I could practically feel the day's to-do list expanding by the second. Leah Eastwood was the sort of person who wore her superiority complex like a favorite coat. She was all "I breathe rarified air; you breathe whatever the masses inhale." It was her universe, and the rest of us were just biding our time in her orbit. Call it inferiority complex, abandonment issues, or a craving for praise that made a dog with a treat obsession look moderate. "So," she began, her fingers tapping an unholy rhythm on my desk, "we're rebranding my upcoming fashion line." I managed to hold back a sigh. Of course we were. The line wasn't even out yet, and it was already on its second rebrand. "Absolutely, Leah. What direction are you thinking?" She tilted her head as if she were making a monumental decision. "Think...ethereal meets streetwear. Like, urban angels. But also sustainable," she added as if she'd just invented the concept. "Ethereal and sustainable angels. Got it," I said, doing my best to translate whatever that actually meant. "Oh, and make sure we emphasize that it's different from, you know, my earlier... ventures." She waved a hand dismissively, the diamond the size of a grape flashing. Leah had spent the better part of the early 2000s building her name in the adult entertainment industry. Classy, right? But of course, she's trying to ditch that reputation now, several husbands and one humanitarian marriage later. "Definitely," I replied, making a mental note to dodge the tabloids and promo shots that would inevitably reference her past. "Just because people love a comeback story doesn't mean I want mine on the cover of People. I mean, we all know Lawal married me for charity points," she sniffed, as if even her exes should thank her for the privilege. I kept my mouth in a neutral smile. Lawal Fraser, the "humanitarian" she'd been married to for a grand total of six months, had done more good PR-wise than any of her other husbands combined. Now she was on number three-Blaine Ashwood, some tech billionaire who thought the whole "artsy fashion influencer" thing was an investment worth backing. Four months in, and he was already dropping six figures into her design empire. "Well, Blaine wants me to have, like, depth. Think high fashion. Artisanal. He says it's all about legacy, Sabrina," she announced, using air quotes for "legacy," as if she were discussing extraterrestrial life instead of another cash-in on her latest husband's credit. "Absolutely, Leah. High fashion, urban angels, sustainable." I repeated, making a note and silently wondering how long Blaine would last before finding his replacement in the wings. I guess it would be much easier to feel a bit more sympathy for her if she didn't use it as an avenue to make my life a living hell, coming out of university it hasn't been easy finding a job to put my art and design degree to good use, it has been from one freelance position to another so when this opportunity came on especially with Leah Eastwood asking for me specifically... Sabrina Lowry in particular, I had jumped on it thinking it was an amazing opportunity to finally put my degree to good use.  Unbeknownst to me that a venture like this would only lead to my pain and suffering. But it would all be worth it after today if this show was a massive success, to finally be able to put this on my resume would open me up to so many other opportunities, one without the influence of my husband and a much far off industry than where his family name could reach. "Sabrina, Sabrina," Leah shrills, in her high pitched tone. She immediately catches herself and mellows it to the fake airy voice that's a trademark to most influencers online persona. "Yes, Leah, you want the models arrival time pushed up so they can start practicing the new set list you came up with last night," I say referring to the email I received at 12am yesterday,  " you're not a fan of the Swarovski bracelets as a party favor anymore and you want me to personally contact Cartier to have them send those instead and swap the Tiffany key chains for guccis. The guest lists will updated to include 20 more people and you would like to swap the flower arrangements for the ones we first agreed on... the designers should..."  She nods as I continue the long list of orders and last minute changes she requested this morning six hours to the show. This was going to be a long day. ••• I shouldn't be here. The idea of Amir Alec, self-proclaimed power broker, lurking at a fashion show is almost laughable. This morning, I'd been explicitly banned from even thinking about coming within ten miles of this place. Yet here I was, willing to risk her wrath for a glimpse. Call it obsession, call it stupid-hell, maybe both. My guys had discreetly tailed her all morning, and I got the heads-up as soon as she was inside the venue. No paparazzi yet, which was the only reason I even considered this stunt. But now that I was here, there was the issue of actually seeing her. Walking in was out of the question; I'm a powerful man, but not stupid enough to think I could just stroll up and demand an audience. No, that would be a surefire way to set her off, and I didn't come here to make her angrier than she already was. Yeah, I know-borderline stalking. But if we're ranking crimes, this has to be the mildest one on my list. Still, I'm weighing my options-sneaking into the building like some kind of suit-clad Bond knockoff or staying put and trying not to look out of place. My six-foot-four frame isn't exactly inconspicuous, one of the many reasons I didn't exactly pursue a career in covert ops. A chuckle escaped as I remembered her teasing me once about how I'd make the world's worst spy. This was insane. Maybe I'd just go in, show my face briefly, make it clear I'd come to support her, and then get out before the show even started. A quick appearance, no drama-she might even appreciate that, right? But then, there she was. God had, apparently, chosen to take pity on me. She stepped out of the building, her red hair catching the light, dressed all in black, and looking like she'd swallowed every spotlight in the place.  I'd dated models, actresses, politicians-the works. But none of them had ever struck me like she did. Sabrina, with her quiet confidence and that damn smile, could stop my heart cold. The first time I saw her, it was like my chest forgot its job entirely. Here we were again, the same instant reaction, and she didn't even know the effect she had on me. And then she paused, scanning the scene as if looking for something, her eyes roaming until they zeroed in on my car. Could she have recognized it? Because, to my complete shock, she was moving toward me. There was no mistaking it-she'd seen me. Her expression was... not exactly angry, but maybe annoyed, definitely stressed.  I was about to tell Mark, my driver, to get us the hell out of here when- A man steps out as though from the shadows like he has been hiding, waiting for the perfect moment. This seems to play out in slow motion, the man grabs Sabrina and in seconds hitting her on the side of her head she is knocked out immediately. The man surveys the surroundings quickly he puts her into the back of the black Peugeot he just came out of. He put her into his car. My brain can't seem to comprehend fast enough that Sabrina has just been put into a car. A man has just knocked Sabrina out and kidnapped her. My wife has just been kidnapped.

I was moving-why was I moving? That was the first thing my groggy brain managed to process as I came to. My head was pounding, my whole body felt like lead, and something was definitely wrong. A minute ago, I was at work... wasn't I? I squinted, fighting to open my eyes, and found myself in the backseat of a speeding car. To my right, I could make out the driver-a small, frumpy-looking man with a haggard face, black hair sticking out of a green hoodie, and red sweatpants that looked like they hadn't been washed in a month. He looked like he'd been living in that car for days. Lucky for me, he hadn't noticed I was awake yet. I tried to turn my head, to get a better look at my surroundings, but my body wasn't responding. Panic flared as I realized my hands and feet weren't bound; they were just useless. I let out an involuntary groan, and the man's head whipped around to look at me. "Don't waste your energy trying to move," he rasped, eyes flicking to me for a split second before focusing back on the road. "You won't be able to." I tried to speak, my voice scratchy and weak. "Who... who are you? Where are you taking me?" The car surged faster, and my heart hammered in my chest as we flew past cars like they were parked. "It's irrelevant. Just sit tight," he muttered, ignoring the fact that I could barely sit up, let alone "sit tight." I forced myself to focus, to think logically. "I think you've made a mistake," I croaked. "I have to be at a show right now. You've got the wrong person." The man gave no response, his fingers just gripping the steering wheel tighter. My mind raced. I was Amir Alec's wife, true, and yes, that came with a lot of baggage, but hardly anyone even knew. We'd only been married a few weeks-no time for enemies. Not serious ones, anyway. "Look, maybe you don't realize who I am, but I can promise you I'm not worth much," I pressed. "You'd be better off taking someone else. Hell, there's a whole room of VIPs at that show I could introduce you to. Ever heard of Leah Eastwood? She's practically asking to be kidnapped." Still nothing. He kept driving, eyes locked on the road, giving me the silent treatment. Impressive, I might've admired it-if he wasn't, you know, my kidnapper. "Listen, seriously," I tried again, growing more frustrated by the second. "I don't have money, and I'm not about to fetch you some golden ransom. I don't know where you're getting your info from, but I'm a very busy person, and if I'm not back before the show starts-well, trust me, you'll wish you had dropped me off five miles ago. Leah will absolutely flip, and you do not want to be the reason for her meltdown." I tried to recall how this even started. I'd only gone outside because some intern texted me about a flower arrangement mix-up. The second I stepped out, the whole place looked deserted, like some bad horror flick setup, and next thing I knew... well, here I was. And sure, maybe there was a rational part of me that was terrified right now, but a bigger part was picturing Leah's face when she found out her right-hand woman was abducted on the day of her big fashion show. "Please, you have to take me back," I pleaded, trying to ignore the edge of desperation in my voice. "Leah would literally kill me if I got kidnapped today. You don't understand, Mr. Kidnapper, this is huge for her." Still no response. I glanced around, hoping to spot some sign of where we were. "You know who Leah Eastwood is, right? This show's supposed to 'revolutionize' fashion or whatever, like she's been telling us nonstop for months. And I basically run the thing-she's gonna lose her mind without me." "Be quiet," he growled, and I nearly jumped. It was the first time he'd spoken since that croak about not moving. "Fine, fine," I shot back, barely able to suppress my irritation. "You probably know more than I do, so I won't ask the obvious. But tell me, how'd you find out about the marriage? Who tipped you off?" Silence. "Come on, you can tell me. Not like I'm gonna go blabbing," I tried to joke, though I knew I wasn't fooling anyone. "I mean, it's a bold move, going after Amir Alec's wife. News travels fast, you know. And Amir? His reach is longer than you'd think." Nothing.  Right. So, here we are. I'm in the backseat of a car that's speeding down god-knows-where, with Mr. Hoodie-and-Sweatpants at the wheel, giving me the silent treatment like he's a kidnapper and my ex. Great. And let me tell you, this guy smells like he hasn't seen a shower in a few weeks, which does wonders for the nausea creeping up as we swerve down the road. So, I figure it's time for some damage control. I clear my throat and launch into my best let's-not-get-killed speech. "Listen, I'm just gonna throw this out there," I say, in my calmest hostage tone. "What if, hypothetically, you drop me off somewhere quiet, we forget this ever happened, and-bonus-I don't tell a soul. Win-win, right?" Not even a twitch. Okay, cool. So, we're going to pretend that didn't happen. "Please," I try again, dialing up the desperation just a tad. "Look, I'm not even worried about me here. But Amir Alec? Yeah, he's messed up. You don't want to find out just how messed up, trust me." Finally, the guy's head snaps around. "Amir Alec?" His voice has this nice tremble to it now, which is almost reassuring. "Oh yeah," I reply, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Figured you knew that, hence the whole, you know, kidnapping thing." His eyes widen, darting back to the road. "You know Amir Alec? The blood collector?" "Well, it'd be hard to marry the guy without knowing him, now wouldn't it?" He glares at me, hands gripping the wheel so tight his knuckles are going white. "You're lying." "Why the hell would I lie about that?" I huff. "I thought that's why you were hauling me around at 90 miles an hour on zero sleep." I watch his face, trying to make sense of it, but he just stares back, uncertain. This makes zero sense. If he's not here because of my wonderfully bloodthirsty husband, what other reason could there be? "Fine, whatever. Don't believe me," I say, rolling my eyes so hard I might've pulled a muscle. Then, on impulse, I tilt my neck. "Look. See for yourself." I'm not exactly sure what I'm trying to prove, but hey, at this point I'll try anything. He leans over, squinting to catch the tattooed initials on my neck. When he realizes, his face goes from vaguely homicidal to just plain freaked out. His hand shoots up-completely off the wheel, by the way-and for a split second, we're both holding our breath.  And that's when everything goes to hell. The car jerks forward, and my head snaps back just in time to see it-a whole convoy of black Mercedes blocking the road up ahead. Of course. Because what's a kidnapping without Amir's private army? The driver slams on the brakes, but since I'm paralyzed and not exactly in the position to grab a seatbelt, I go flying forward like a rag doll. My head smacks against the back window with a crack, and all I see is stars. I fade out, right as Hoodie McSweatpants realizes he's officially had the worst day of his life.  And here I am, passing out for round two. Because why not?

I should've called off this job when I found out who I'd been tailing, who was in that house this morning. Although, it is inevitable the news of their marriage will come out sooner or later I understood why Amir Alec would want to keep it a secret. Apart from being extremely beautiful and a high achiever, Amir Alec's new wife was quite regular, no ties to politician, except being voted to be principal for a day in secondary school, she was not a celebrity, model, actress, influencer, nor even a child of a very high profile family, in fact an orphan with no ties to any underground crime syndicates, I did not understand why Amir Alec had picked this bride. Was that perhaps the information my employer was looking for? I watched from a distant as Sabrina Lowry paced in the parking lot while checking her phone, she looked up and scanned the perimeters looking for something and her eyes seem to have settled on the other car which was following her this morning. Attentive, she walks towards the car and I immediately took that initial thought back, not as smart - my thoughts were immediately caught off as like a scene from a movie Sabrina was quickly knocked out and stashed inside a small car by a questionable looking man. This was not good that happened so quickly, too quickly. As I rev up my engine to immediately follow the car. This was turning out to be quite an interesting day, everyone knows you don't play with a king's new toy. ••• The fluorescent lights above were blinding, stabbing right into my skull with their harsh, white glare. I blinked a few times, trying to focus through the haze. Everything smelled clean, but somehow... off. Hospital? No. Not quite. But I definitely didn't feel at home either.  A warm hand clasped over mine, gentle and sure. "Sabrina, can you hear me?" The voice was low, steady, and unmistakable. I turned, finding him already leaning close, his expression shadowed with worry. "Amir?" I asked, my eyes still adjusting, slowly letting the room come into focus. "Yes, I'm here." He didn't let go of my hand, his thumb moving softly over my knuckles. "How are you feeling? I'll call the doctor." "I'm fine," I murmured, attempting to sit up, more out of reflex than anything. "No, no, you shouldn't be moving yet." He eased me back, his touch gentle but firm. "You took a pretty hard hit to the head." With a quick press of a button, he summoned the doctor, who arrived promptly and ran through a series of checks. Amir stayed silent, watching me carefully, barely moving a muscle until he was certain I'd passed the doctor's questions without any signs of lasting damage. Only when the doctor left did he exhale, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. "Sabrina, I'm so sorry," he said, his voice heavy, almost breaking. "If I'd thought for a second that news of... us would get out this fast, I would've taken precautions. I would've done more to keep you safe." I shook my head, reaching up to touch his hand, still resting over mine. "Amir, you couldn't have known. It's not your fault." He gave a small, rueful smile. "Don't try to make me feel better. I know the risks of being who I am. And by being with me, you took those risks too. It's on me that you were put in danger." "Amir, he didn't even know about us," I whispered. "Not until I told him. He had no idea." His brows drew together, a flicker of doubt crossing his face. "Are you sure? He might've been playing you, waiting for you to confirm it." I shook my head slowly, memories flooding back. "It didn't seem that way. He was genuinely confused. Panicked, even. What happened after I passed out? Is he... is he hurt?" A shadow darkened his eyes. "When I saw the car, my men blocked the road. I think they got a little... overzealous." He looked down. "But none of that matters now. What matters is that you're here, safe." He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead, his hand still firmly wrapped around mine. The warmth of his touch was comforting, grounding. "But what about him? That man didn't seem like he knew what he was doing. He looked terrified, Amir," I murmured. "I don't think he's the mastermind here. Please, don't... don't hurt him. Let the police handle it." Amir's jaw clenched, and he gently pulled his hand back, his other hand curling into a fist. He took a long, steadying breath before nodding, his expression softening just a bit. "Alright," he said finally, looking down at me. "If that's what you want... I should've expected as much from you. I married a woman with a heart bigger than my own." His lips curved into a small smile, and I felt myself smile back, faint but real. "Where am I?" I asked, looking around. "In one of my safe houses just outside the city, don't worry, you're getting the best care here, I promise." He says and I don't doubt that I think looking around the large expanse of the room, with the arm chair next to the bed, there is a television opposite the bed and in front of it is a large cloud sofa just adjacent to a big fridge. The floor is covered in a plush rug that makes me just want to run my feet through it to feel the softness and place my face against the coldness if the floor to ceiling glass windows which knowing Amir are probably bulletproof. "Hey, what time is it? Can I still make it to the show if I drive out now?" I ask. He looks back at me incredulously and sternly says, "You shouldn't bother yourself about that, it's all taken care of, just focus on resting." He comes close touching something on my I.V, " the doctor says you need rest, you've been pulling all-nighters working I know you want to see the result, I know what it means to you, but I'm sorry, you need to recover so just focus only on that for now and don't think of anything else. Everything is fine now." "Amir..." I start but I can't remember the rest of the sentence, my eyes are heavy, as I feel so weightless and sleepy. "I'm here," I hear him say before I'm asleep. ••• I'm in this weird half-asleep limbo, drifting between dreams and reality, and then the screams pierce through the fog like a horror movie soundtrack. It's like my body is having a tug-of-war with my mind. My brain's screaming, "Wake up! This is bad!" while my body is all, "Nah, we're good here, just let me snooze a bit longer."  But those screams are bloodcurdling-raw, visceral pain that even my sleepy self can't ignore. Finally, I yank myself into consciousness. It takes a second for everything to click into place. Hospital. I'm in a hospital. Right, got it.  I groggily sit up, and my hand catches on the I.V. It's like a bad relationship-one minute, it's fine, and the next, you're pulling it out like it's a nasty weed. My legs are wobbly, and I feel like Bambi learning to walk. I throw on one of those lovely hospital gowns-because who doesn't want to feel both exposed and awkward?-and shuffle toward the door. The screams are louder now, echoing in the sterile hallway. Seriously, it sounds like I've stumbled onto a scene straight out of a war film, the kind you watch through your fingers. I can practically hear the soundtrack of despair.  I peek outside, trying to decide whether to turn left or right. Left looks dark and shadowy, while right... well, it's slightly less ominous but not by much. I listen intently for the next scream and make my choice.  The hallway is dimly lit, like they're trying to set an ambiance that's somewhere between hospital chic and horror show. I glance into the rooms I pass-each one is an Instagram-worthy set piece, cold and sterile like a museum exhibit. Kudos to whoever the interior decorator was; they really nailed the "unnatural and unsettling" vibe. The farther I walk, the more the screams claw at my nerves, hitting higher frequencies, making my skin crawl. I feel a chill, goosebumps spreading like an unwanted rash. I know who Amir is-the blood collector, they call him. The name alone sends shivers down my spine. I've heard the whispers, the tales of his connections to the underworld. It's one of the reasons I hesitated about the marriage in the first place.  But rumors about torture chambers? I'd pushed those thoughts away. I mean, who wants to entertain that kind of darkness? Not me, thank you very much. But now... well, reality is a tough pill to swallow.  I find myself standing in front of the door where the sounds are coming from, heart pounding, palms sweaty. Every scream sends shivers down my spine, prickling my skin. What in the world is happening in there? A sound of metal clashing sends a jolt through me, and then a shrill scream erupts-twenty seconds of pure terror, followed by a gut-wrenching silence. I know I should turn back, but curiosity and a rush of adrenaline push me forward. Taking a deep breath, I burst through the door like I'm crashing a party I wasn't invited to. The sight that greets me? Not what I expected. Three men, one of whom is Amir, my husband, the charming "blood collector" I've been hearing about. Lohan, his right-hand man, stands over a figure I barely recognize as the homeless guy from before. His face is a mess, almost unrecognizable, blood coating him like a bad horror flick. Amir is sitting at an interrogation table, all calm and collected, like he's discussing the weather instead of whatever sick game is unfolding. His white shirt is immaculate, no stains, no sweat, nothing. He looks up at me, and if he's surprised by my dramatic entrance, he hides it well. "Sabrina, you shouldn't be here," he says slowly, as if we're discussing something mundane, like dinner plans or the latest episode of a reality show.