Chapter 62 A Message in Blood
I didn't answer Ethan's question about breaking our agreement. What was the point? In my mind, this relationship had an expiration date. Two years, tops. That's what we'd agreed to.
Ethan was turning thirty next year. The Bennett family would surely pressure him to marry someone suitable—a daughter from another powerful dynasty, not some poor girl like me. Whatever this thing between us was, it couldn't last. This wasn't a fairytale where the prince chooses the pauper.
Since our conversation about the two-year deadline, things had returned to our version of normal. Me attending classes, him running his empire, nights spent in each other's arms.
Three days before Independence Day, I approached him as he worked at his desk.
"You need to stay at the family estate in Beverly Hills for the holiday," I said firmly. "Don't come back to the apartment."
His eyes snapped up from his laptop, narrowing. "You alone here? I don't think so."
"Remember what happened last Labor Day when you didn't stay overnight? Your mother came looking for me at school." I crossed my arms. "If you don't want me to be in an even more awkward position, if you don't want your family to hate me more than they already do, then listen to me just this once."
"What will you do?" The question was sharp, suspicious.
"I'll hang out with my roommates. I won't be alone."
He still looked unconvinced, but after two more days of gentle insistence, he finally relented.
Independence Day morning, I watched from the bedroom window as Ethan's black Maybach pulled away from the curb. I grabbed my phone and texted Emma and Grace: I'm free! Still on for Universal?
Within an hour, we were all together on the subway, heading to Universal Studios. The place was packed with tourists, American flags and red, white, and blue decorations everywhere.
"God, I needed this," I said, feeling genuinely happy for the first time in weeks. "Thank you guys for including me."
"Are you kidding? We've missed you!" Emma linked her arm through mine. "You're always either studying or with your mysterious boyfriend."
We grabbed lunch at CityWalk, and Emma couldn't stop talking about the limited-time attraction that had just opened.
"It's called 'Nightmares Unleashed,'" she said, eyes wide with excitement. "Today's the last preview day before it officially opens next week. They say it's the most realistic haunted house experience ever."
Grace shuddered. "I don't know if I can handle that."
"Come on," I nudged her. "We'll protect you."
After lunch, we joined the long line for the attraction. Staff members were separating people into small groups to enter the haunted house. The interior was dimly lit, with eerie sound effects and jump scares around every corner.
Emma screamed when a "zombie" actor lunged at her from behind a wall, then took off running ahead.
"Emma, wait!" Grace called, chasing after her.
I lost sight of them in the darkness and fog. Unlike them, I wasn't easily frightened by people in costumes. Each time an actor jumped out, I either ignored them or stared back, unimpressed. This wasn't real fear. I knew what that felt like.
The final room was called "Hell's Gate," bathed in pulsing red light and thick smoke. I squinted, trying to spot Emma and Grace, when a hand clamped over my mouth and nose from behind. A sweet, chemical smell filled my nostrils. My limbs went heavy as darkness closed in, my last conscious thought was that this wasn't part of the show.
When I came to, my head was pounding. I blinked against harsh sunlight streaming through a broken roof. I was in some kind of abandoned warehouse or factory, sitting on a metal chair. My wrists and ankles were bound with professional-grade zip ties that cut into my skin when I tried to move.
Dust particles danced in the slanting afternoon light. I estimated I'd been unconscious for at least a couple of hours. The air smelled of rust and neglect.
On a small table in front of me sat a brand-new iPad.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I struggled against the restraints, my heartbeat thundering in my ears. The plastic cut deeper into my wrists, sending sharp pain up my arms.
I forced myself to calm down and assess the situation. The chair wasn't bolted down. I could move it, inch by inch. Looking around, I spotted a rusty metal rack about eight feet away with some jagged edges. If I could get there...
It took nearly forty-five minutes of painful scooting to reach the rack. My wrists were bleeding by the time I positioned the zip tie against a sharp edge and began sawing back and forth. The plastic was thick and resistant, designed specifically to prevent escape. Sweat dripped down my face, my shoulders screaming from the awkward angle.
Another hour passed. My hands were slick with blood, making the process even harder. I bit my lip to keep from crying out when the jagged metal sliced into my thumb.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the zip tie snapped. I quickly freed my ankles and stood on shaking legs, the pain from restored circulation almost bringing me to my knees.
The warehouse was eerily empty. I crept toward what looked like a side exit, constantly glancing over my shoulder, expecting my captor to appear at any moment. The door creaked open, revealing an industrial area I didn't recognize, somewhere on the eastern outskirts of Los Angeles.
Twilight was settling over the city. In the distance, I could hear the first festive fireworks beginning. I had no phone, no wallet, no car keys—all gone. Just the backpack with the mysterious iPad.
I started walking, keeping to shadows, my heart jumping at every distant sound. My wrists stung in the open air, thin trails of blood occasionally dripping from my fingertips. The industrial district was deserted for the holiday, nothing but empty parking lots and locked buildings.
After walking for nearly half an hour, I found a secluded corner between two dumpsters and sat down. My hands trembled as I pulled out the iPad. It was unlocked, with no password protection. In the photo gallery was a single video.
I pressed play and immediately wished I hadn't. The video showed a young woman being sexually assaulted by multiple men, her face blurred but her terror clear. I slammed my finger on the pause button, feeling sick.
At the end of the video, text appeared in what looked like dripping blood-red letters: "Tell Ethan Bennett about this, and your fate will be worse than hers. Don't think he can protect you. You're just his toy."
Cold sweat broke out all over my body. I closed the video and shoved the iPad back into my bag, my breathing shallow and fast.
I walked for what seemed like hours before finally spotting a 24-hour gas station. With parched mouth and shaking legs, I stumbled forward. There wasn't another open business in sight.
"Hello?" I called shakily at the door. "Is anyone here? I need help."