Chapter 170 The Setup
Elena： POV
I stood outside the café where I was supposed to meet the difficult client, checking my phone for the third time.
The address he'd given was legitimate—a trendy spot in Shoreditch, all exposed brick and industrial lighting, about two or three kilometers from my studio.
Through the window, I could see the usual crowd: freelancers hunched over laptops, couples sharing pastries, a few business types in the corner.
Nothing that screamed danger.
Alexander and I were in a strange place right now—ever since that confrontation outside Lila's school, ever since Julian had appeared and turned my carefully constructed world sideways.
Alexander had been tense, watchful, like he was waiting for me to bolt.
And maybe I was. Maybe part of me wanted to grab Lila and run from both of them, from all the questions I couldn't answer and the past I couldn't remember.
My phone buzzed. A text from the client: [Table in the back. Corner booth.]
I took a breath and pushed through the door.
The smell of coffee and cinnamon hit me immediately, warm and comforting. I scanned the space, my eyes landing on the corner booth he'd mentioned.
A short, stocky man sat there—maybe mid-forties, with thinning hair slicked back and a round face. When he saw me approaching, he stood with a polite, professional smile.
"Ms. Hunt?" He extended his hand for a brief handshake. His voice was measured, businesslike. "Thank you for coming. Please, sit."
I slid into the booth, setting my bag beside me. "Thank you for choosing to work with me. Your inquiry mentioned custom textile designs for a private collection—I'd love to hear more details about your vision."
"Of course." He gestured to a steaming mug already waiting on the table. "I took the liberty of ordering coffee for us both. I hope you don't mind—cappuccino seemed like a safe choice."
I picked up the mug gratefully. "That's very thoughtful, thank you." The warmth felt good against my palms, and I took a sip. Rich, smooth, with just a hint of sweetness.
"Now, about the project," he continued, pulling out a leather portfolio. "I'm looking for a series of wall hangings—something sophisticated, modern, but with classical influences. The space is a private study, roughly twelve by fifteen feet, with high ceilings and natural light from the east."
I nodded, taking another sip of coffee as I listened. This was exactly the kind of detailed briefing I appreciated. "What's your color palette preference? And are there any particular themes or motifs that speak to you?"
"Earth tones primarily—deep browns, muted golds, perhaps some sage green accents. As for themes..." He paused, seeming to consider. "I'm drawn to patterns that suggest... control. Order. The beauty of things falling into their proper place."
Something in his phrasing made me glance up, but his expression remained professional. I took another drink, feeling the caffeine beginning to work its magic. "That's an interesting way to put it. Are you thinking geometric patterns, or something more organic?"
"A combination, perhaps." His eyes seemed to focus more intently on me now. "I believe the most beautiful designs come from... submission to the pattern. When individual elements give up their resistance and become part of something larger."
I set down my mug, having finished about half the coffee. "I think I understand what you're looking for. Let me show you some examples of my previous work that might align with your vision."
As I reached for my tablet, I noticed his smile had changed. It was wider now, more... satisfied.
"Actually," he said, his voice taking on a different quality—softer, almost intimate, "I think we should discuss your... personal approach to design first. You work alone, don't you? No partner to interfere with your creative process?"
The coffee suddenly tasted bitter in my mouth. "My personal life isn't relevant to our business arrangement."
"Oh, but it is." He leaned forward, and I caught a whiff of cologne so heavy it made my head swim. "You see, I like to know who I'm working with. Their circumstances."
My vision wavered slightly. The café seemed to tilt, just for a moment. "I think there's been a misunderstanding—"
"Sit down." The command in his voice was sharp, authoritative. His professional mask had completely slipped now, revealing something predatory underneath. "We're not finished here."
"What did you put in the coffee?" I gripped the edge of the table, fighting the wave of dizziness that washed over me.
His smile turned genuinely pleased, like I'd just solved a puzzle he'd set for me. "Just a little something to make you more... compliant. You've been such a good girl, drinking it all up."
The world was starting to blur at the edges. My tongue felt thick, and when I tried to call for help, only a weak sound came out.
He stood and moved to my side of the booth, his hand reaching for my elbow. "Don't worry. It won't hurt. Much."
"You—" I tried to pull away, but my limbs felt heavy, uncooperative.
"That's it," he murmured, his voice taking on that predatory satisfaction again. "Just let it happen. Fighting will only make it worse."
He was guiding me toward the back of the café now, toward what I dimly realized was a rear exit. His grip on my arm was firm, possessive.
The door opened onto an alley. The cold air hit my face but did nothing to clear the fog in my head. I could see a dark van parked at the far end, its engine running.
No. Not like this.
Some deep, primal part of me rebelled against the helplessness. I might not remember my past, but every instinct I had was screaming that I'd been here before—vulnerable, drugged, at someone's mercy.
Never again.
I drove my elbow back into his soft stomach with everything I had.
He grunted, his grip loosening just enough. I wrenched myself free and stumbled forward, my vision swimming, my legs barely holding me up. The alley spun around me, but I forced myself to move toward the street, toward people and safety.
"You fucking bitch!"
His hand caught my blazer, yanking me backward. I spun around and, using the momentum, kicked out hard. My heel connected with his shin, and he howled, releasing me.
I tried to run, but my legs gave out. I went down hard on the grimy pavement, my palms scraping against broken glass. Behind me, I could hear him cursing, getting to his feet.
"You think you can fight me?" His voice was closer now, filled with rage. "Stupid cunt. You just made this so much more fun."
His shadow fell over me as I struggled to crawl toward the mouth of the alley. My vision was tunneling, everything going gray at the edges, but I kept moving. One hand forward, then the other.
He grabbed my ankle and flipped me over. His round face was flushed with anger and excitement, a thin line of blood trickling from where I'd apparently scratched him.
"You want to be difficult?" He raised his hand. "I like them difficult. I like them when they fight."
"Get away from me!" I managed to get the words out, my voice stronger than I felt.
"Or what?" He laughed, the sound wet and ugly. "No one's coming to save you, sweetheart. No one even knows you're here."
That's when I slapped him.
Hard.
The crack echoed off the alley walls, and for a moment, he just stared at me in shock, his hand flying to his reddening cheek.
"You fucking—"
"You're an animal!" I spat, finding my voice even as the drugs tried to pull me under. "Who gave you the nerve to drug me? Who do you think you are?"
His expression shifted from shock to something darker, more satisfied. Like I'd just given him exactly what he wanted.
"Who gave me the nerve?" He leaned down, his face inches from mine, his breath hot and sour. "Why, naturally, I was just following someone's request."