Chapter 113

Chapter 113
Eloise – First Person POV

The smell of smoke still clung to my clothes. It had seeped into the fibers, into my hair, my skin. Even though the fire department had left hours ago, the scent was a constant, nauseating reminder of how close I had come to losing everything.

From my place behind the glass door of my office, I could see the cluster of reporters now outside the atelier. Microphones were raised like weapons, camera flashes strobing across the windows. Their voices were muffled through the thick glass, but every so often, one would hit a pitch that pierced through —

“Eloise! Is it true the fire was set intentionally?”

“Are you filing for bankruptcy after this?”

“What about the Dior collection? Is it all gone?”

I curled further into the small loveseat in the corner, pulling my knees to my chest. My phone sat on the table, its black screen like an accusing stare. I hadn’t answered calls. I hadn’t answered texts. I just… couldn’t.

Not when every inch of me felt hollow and splintered.

Tears blurred my vision again, hot and silent, slipping down my cheeks and dripping onto the fabric of my dress. My breath came unevenly, catching every time I pictured the smoldering remains of the racks, the melted mannequins, the charred lace that had taken me weeks to hand-stitch.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway outside. At first, I thought it was one of the assistants trying to coax me out, but the pace was too fast, too heavy. The door burst open before I could wipe my face, and there he was —

Mike.

His chest rose and fell rapidly as if he’d sprinted here. His shirt was half-untucked, the sleeves rolled up hastily, his hair a little disheveled in a way I’d never seen before.

Without saying anything, he crossed the room and pulled me into him. His arms wrapped around me tight, his scent, faint cologne mixed with something metallic, maybe from the streets — filling my lungs. I let myself fold into him, burying my face into his chest.

“Hey…” His voice was low, pained. “Are you okay?”

The question was too big to answer, so I just shook my head against him.

“What happened?” he pressed, pulling back slightly to search my face. “You suddenly disappeared, been calling you.”

The words tumbled out between shuddering breaths. “Nadia called me that there was a fire outbreak—” My throat closed, and I had to blink fast to keep from collapsing entirely. “It spread so fast, Mike. I thought…I..”

His brows pulled tight, and he pressed a hand to my cheek, brushing away tears with his thumb. “Why didn’t you tell me right away? I caught your text, but before I could respond, I saw it on the news — the atelier was on fire.”

I gave a short, humorless laugh. “I didn’t even have the words. I was scared. I still am.”

We sat like that for a moment, his hand still holding my face as if he could anchor me to something steady.

Then, out of nowhere, a question slipped out of my mouth before my brain could catch up. “If you’re here… where’s Max?”

The shift in his expression was immediate, a flicker of realization, followed by something sharp and panicked. He stepped back, raking a hand through his hair.

“I—” His voice cracked, and then he said it. “I left him at the school.”

“What?” My stomach dropped. “You left him?”

“I was supposed to pick him up after his ceremony,” he said quickly, almost defensively, “but when I saw your text about the fire, I—” He stopped mid-sentence, his face draining of color. “God, Eloise—”

Before I could respond, my phone buzzed violently on the table.

I reached for it, my hands trembling. The screen lit up with an unknown number, but it wasn’t a call. It was a message.

I opened it, and my blood turned to ice.

A photo filled the screen. Max. Bound to a chair with thick rope, his wrists raw against the fibers, a strip of silver duct tape over his mouth. His eyes, wide, wet, terrified, stared straight at the camera.

Below it, the message:

‘If you want to see your son alive, meet me. Alone. No police. No Mike. You bring anyone else, and he won’t come home.’

It was signed with a single name. Damon.

The world tilted. My breath became sharp, shallow gasps. My vision tunneled until the only thing I could see was Max’s face.

Mike leaned over my shoulder to read, his hand clenching into a fist. “That bastard—”

I turned on him, voice breaking. “We have to call the police.”

Before I could even unlock the keypad to dial, another message came through.

‘Call the cops, and you’ll get his body in a box instead.’

A sob ripped from my throat, so violent it hurt. I clutched the phone as if holding it tight enough could somehow reach Max.

Mike’s hand was suddenly on my arm. “Eloise, listen to me. He’s bluffing. This is Damon—he’s trying to scare you into doing something stupid.”

My eyes snapped to him. “Max is tied up somewhere, Mike! I am not gambling with his life.”

He opened his mouth, then shut it again, jaw tightening. The phone buzzed once more, and I flinched before looking.

‘You have one hour. I’ll send you the address. You come, and you come alone.’

There was no signature this time. He didn’t need one. The cold certainty in my gut told me this wasn’t an empty threat.

The noise outside, the reporters, the clicking cameras, the questions, all faded into a low, distant hum. My entire world had shrunk to a single point: Max.

I could feel the clock already ticking.