Chapter 3 A sudden sharp pain lances across my forearm, carrying with it a burning sensation. "Scream," the younger man whispers, his breath hot against my ear. "Scream his name or I'll make it hurt." My gaze catches on the glint of a blade and the butt of the knife in the man's hand. He's using the perfect amount of pressure to press the blade into my skin, but only deep enough to cut, not enough to do serious damage. A thin line of blood beads across my flesh, bright crimson against the paleness. The last thing I want to do is give them the satisfaction of using my fear against Aries and Arson, but I'm not stupid enough to test him. If I don't do what he wants, then he'll ramp up the torture, and something tells me he's good at torturing, especially with such cold eyes, ones that appear to be void of life. I've seen that look before-in board rooms, at charity galas, and in my mother's eyes when she thinks no one is watching. To them, we're expendable and replaceable in every sense. "ARSON!" I scream, letting genuine fear and pain loose in my voice. It's not hard to do, especially because I am afraid. Not just of these men, but of what they represent-the hidden strings, the puppet masters behind the Hayes family drama. The ones who've been funding Arson's revenge. The phone is pulled away before I can say anything else, and a hand clamps down over my mouth. I taste salt and metal-sweat and the remnants of my own blood from when they first grabbed me by my tongue. The room spins while my heart hammers against my ribs to the point of pain. Breathe, Lilian. Steady. Don't show them weakness. My mother's voice is in my head, as always. The constant narrator of my life, telling me how to act, how to feel, and how to breathe. Even now, miles away from her, she's watching me through the lens of years of conditioning. Back straight. Chin up. Hayes women don't show fear. The man with the phone-older, refined, and wearing an expensive watch-finishes the conversation and hangs up the phone. The subtle nod he gives his partner makes my stomach clench. "Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Hayes," he says, like we've just concluded a business meeting instead of a hostage negotiation. The hand on my mouth disappears, and the knife moves away from my arm. "Fuck you," I spit, voice steadier than I feel. He smiles, amused rather than offended. "Such foul language from a Hayes heiress. What would your mother say?" "Probably that I should have used a more creative insult." He laughs, and the sound is genuine, which is somehow worse than anger would be. Like we're playing a game with rules only he understands. I peer around the room where I'm being kept. It looks like a corporate apartment-neutral colors, generic furniture, no personal touches. A gilded cage, but a cage nonetheless. The windows are blacked out, but I'm pretty sure we're high up somewhere. The city sounds distant. I've been here for hours, though it feels longer. My arms ache from the zip ties cutting into my wrists, and my head throbs where they grabbed me. Those things suck, but it's the superficial stuff that bothers me most-the rub of my leggings at my ankles, the way my hair continues to fall into my eyes. They're the stupidest things to focus on when my life is in danger, but they're the things I can control, even if only in my mind. The man with the knife-younger, harder around the edges despite the expensive suit-watches me with open curiosity. "What?" I snap at him. "You're not what I expected," he retorts, head tilted slightly. "For someone with a supposedly fragile heart, you've got quite the spirit." I resist the urge to correct him about my condition. Let them think I'm weaker than I am. Mother taught me that, too-never reveal your full hand, especially to enemies. "Sorry to disappoint," I say instead. The older man puts his phone away, adjusting his cuff links with practiced precision. There's something familiar about him-something in the set of his jaw, and the way he holds himself. In the back of my head, there's a memory, although it refuses to come forward. I've seen him before, somewhere on the periphery of my life. One of Richard's business associates? One of Mother's countless friends? "We have some time before our deadline," he says, settling into an armchair across from me. "Perhaps we could use it productively." "If by productively, you mean interrogating me? No thanks." "Conversation, Miss Hayes. Civil discourse between interested parties." "Can you speak normally? If you wanted to have a civil conversation, kidnapping me wasn't a good way to go about it." "It was a regrettable necessity." He gestures to the younger man, who produces a first-aid kit and begins cleaning the cut on my arm. I flinch away from his touch, but there's nowhere to go. "Don't touch me." "Infection would be unfortunate," the older man speaks so nonchalantly as if he's commenting on the weather. "Regardless of what you think, we have no desire to cause you unnecessary harm. My only desire is to bring down Richard and Patricia. From what I have seen in surveillance footage, you might feel the same way. We can work together on this." "Could've fooled me," I mutter, wincing as the antiseptic stings my cut. The younger man works efficiently, clinical in his movements. No unnecessary touching, no threatening gestures. Just the impersonal care of someone maintaining valuable property. "You've discovered quite a bit about the Hayes family secrets," the older man comments while watching me carefully. "Impressive research." I say nothing. I know they've been watching me through Arson, but have they been watching me in other ways? Following me around campus, hacking into my laptop? Thinking about the lengths they might go to get what they want... makes my skin crawl. "The offshore accounts. The board manipulations. Medical facility irregularities." He ticks them off on his manicured fingers. "All threads in a very tangled web. But of course I've known about most of that for some time." Mother always said knowledge is power, but only if you control who has access to it. I've spent time and stress gaining this knowledge. It's unsettling to have someone else read my hand so easily. "Sounds like you know everything. What do you want from me?" I ask, trying to keep my voice level. "Information. Clarification. Your perspective." "On what?" "The Hayes empire. Its vulnerabilities. Pressure points." He leans forward slightly. "Its heirs." And there it is. The twins. That's what they're after. "I don't know anything," I lie. "Miss Hayes." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "We both know that's not true. You've been rather intimately involved with both Hayes men, haven't you?" My cheeks heat despite my best efforts to ignore the images flashing in my mind. The implication hangs in the air, heavy and humiliating. Is nothing private anymore? Some part of me had hoped that maybe they weren't watching the intimacy I had shared with Arson and Aries. A fat chance that was. They need to know everything, so of course they'd be monitoring everything. "I don't think what I do or don't do with either of them is any of your business." "On the contrary. It's very much our business." He crosses one leg over the other, perfectly at ease. "You see, we've invested considerable resources in this venture. And now you've become, well, a complicating factor." The younger man finishes bandaging my arm and steps back, disposing of the bloodied gauze with meticulous care. His movements-precise and practiced-remind me of a doctor's. Or maybe a butcher's. "I didn't ask to be involved in any of this," I point out. At least not with these assholes. "Yet here you are. By choice, I might add." The older man's gaze is penetrating, seeing too much. "You could have walked away when you discovered the truth. Instead, you chose to help Arson destroy your family." "They're not-" I stop myself, but it's too late. "Not what, Miss Hayes? Not your family?" His expression shifts, interest sharpening. "An interesting perspective, don't you think? Care to elaborate?" I press my lips together, mentally kicking myself. Never volunteer information. Another one of Mother's rules. "Don't worry. We know that the Hayes family has many secrets," he continues when I don't respond. "Some buried deeper than others. Your mother has been particularly...creative in her recordkeeping." My heart skips a beat. Are they referring to my mother's files? The ones I found hidden in the attic. The ones that led me down this rabbit hole in the first place. "I don't know what you're talking about." My response is too quick, and I mentally kick myself. "I think you do." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "I think you've known for some time that all is not as it seems in the illustrious Hayes household. That certain...truths have been obscured." There's something in his tone, something probing and expectant. Like he's waiting for me to connect dots I can't yet see. "Why do you need me?" I ask, changing tactics. "If you're backing Arson, if you want the Hayes empire destroyed, why involve me at all? I'm not even a true Hayes, only by marriage." "Insurance," the younger man says, speaking for the first time in minutes. "Leverage." "Against who? Arson? Aries?" "Against anyone who might deviate from the plan," the older man says smoothly. "Including ourselves." That doesn't make sense. Why would they need leverage against themselves? Unless... "You're not just Arson's backers," I realize slowly. "You have your own agenda." A flicker of approval crosses the older man's face. "Very good, Miss Hayes." "What is it? What do you want?" "Justice," he says simply. "Restitution. Correction of certain... historical inequities." His response is deliberately vague, but there's an edge to his voice that sends a chill down my spine. This isn't just business for them. It's something uglier, something deeper. It's personal. "So you plan to kill Richard Hayes and destroy the company? Do you think that it stops there?" "It's a place to start." The older man studies me, his head tilted ever so slightly. "I do find it a little strange that you don't seem particularly distressed at the prospect of your family's demise." I think of Richard Hayes-his cold eyes, calculated smile, and the way he's always looked at me like a disappointing investment that hasn't yielded an appropriate return. The way he treated my mother. The way he discarded Arson. Even though he's been married to my mother for years, I've never seen him as a father figure. Nothing is loving or fatherly about him. "I'm not," I admit. "Interesting." He exchanges a look with his partner. "And your mother? Where do your loyalties lie where she is concerned?" For a moment, I'm frozen in time. The question hits a nerve. My mother and I have a complicated relationship-love tangled with resentment, protection twisted with control. She's been my advocate and my jailer, my support system and my biggest critic. Her love is suffocating, yet in some ways, I understand why she is the way she is. It doesn't mean I agree with anything she's done, though. "My mother does what she has to do to survive," I say carefully. "As do we all." The older man's expression softens, but only by a fraction. "Your condition-your heart. It's shaped your entire life, hasn't it? The way people see you, and the way you see yourself." I shift uncomfortably. My heart condition has defined me since childhood. The fragile Hayes daughter, too delicate for the real world-always watched, always monitored, always protected. A glass figurine put on the highest shelf. But the truth is, I'm none of those things. Not really. The past weeks with Arson and Aries have shown me that much. I'm stronger than any of us ever knew, including myself. "My condition is managed," I say tersely. "Is it?" There's something knowing in his tone. "Or was it...exaggerated, and you reset yourself when you stopped taking all of those medications so regularly? After all, revenge does put a damper on routine." The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with implications I'm not ready to face. Not here and definitely not with these men. "I don't know what you're talking about," I repeat my previous response, but the words sound hollow even to my own ears. The older man gives me a satisfied grin, like I've confirmed something for him. He opens his mouth to speak again, but the younger man suddenly straightens, his head cocked toward the door. "We have company." The older man frowns, his gaze darting to his watch. "What a shame. Earlier than expected." A noise from somewhere outside the room-faint but unmistakable-can be heard. There's a thud followed by an eerie silence that makes my pulse quicken. Is it Arson and Aries? Did they come for me? Hope builds in my chest. The younger man moves toward the door, one of his hands slipping inside his jacket. The older one remains seated, perfectly composed despite the interruption. I'm startled when I hear another sound-closer this time, followed by a muffled grunt and a soft thump. The younger man draws a gun and positions himself beside the door. I tense and start to pull against the restraints. If there's going to be gunfire, I'm the perfect target tied to this chair. "Perhaps your knight in shining armor has arrived," the older man says, staring at me, clearly watching my face for a reaction. "Though I wonder which one it is-the avenging twin or the golden child?" Before I can respond, a gunshot pierces the air-not inside our room, but close enough to make me flinch. The sound reverberates, followed by shouting, then silence again. I freeze, physically and mentally. Not a panic attack, not now. I can't afford to be weak. Breathe, Lilian. In through the nose, out through the mouth. I force myself to think about anything else but the impending panic. The older man doesn't move, nor does he flinch at the sound of the gunfire. Instead, he remains watching me, his gaze fixated on my movements with unsettling intensity. It's like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve. "Ahhh, it seems my men have delayed them a little. They're actually going to arrive right on time," he says, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "What do you mean, right on time?" I ask, my suspicion growing. "Miss Hayes," he says, straightening his already perfect tie, "in this game, every move is calculated. Even the ones that appear to be setbacks. I told them exactly where to find you." Suddenly, it all makes sense. Dread rains down on me like icy shards of glass falling from the sky. "This is a trap." "I prefer to call it a meeting," he corrects. "One that would have been considerably more difficult to arrange through conventional channels. Not like Arson wouldn't put up a fight if I demanded to walk right into his little warehouse and speak to his brother." The younger man moves behind me, his gun still drawn. I can feel the weight of his presence, the threat of the weapon. "You're using me as bait," I growl, anger replacing fear. "A way to get both of them here." "Both?" The older man raises an eyebrow. "I thought I noted something taking place when I peeked in last. They did still seem somewhat at odds. I'm curious about this...relationship that seems to be developing between you." I clamp my mouth shut, cursing myself for the slip. He doesn't need any more information than he already has. "Well"-he grins, settling back in his chair like he's preparing for a show-"this should be even more interesting than I anticipated." More sounds from the other side of the door fill the room. Footsteps. The sound of a body crashing to the floor and then another gunshot. I strain against the zip ties, but the movements only cause them to dig deeper into my wrists. The unyielding plastic is designed to tighten with struggle. "Don't worry, Miss Hayes," the older man says, noting my efforts. "We have no intention of harming you. You're far too valuable." "Valuable? Could've fooled me. Most people don't use zip ties on things that they find valuable." "You have yet to understand your full value, and the zip ties are more for our protection than anything." His gaze softens again, almost regretful. "Unfortunately, our conversation must come to an end now. Soon, all the secrets will be revealed, and you'll discover we're more allies than enemies." The door handle turns, and everything moves in slow motion. The younger man shifts behind me, and I catch the silver barrel of his gun out of the corner of my eye. It's no longer trained on the entrance but instead the side of my head. My heart hammers in my chest, a familiar ache spreading through my left arm. Not now. Please, not now. The door creaks as it slowly opens, and the air in my lungs wheezes out like a deflating balloon. Am I being rescued or sent to an early grave? Either way, I know with bone-deep certainty that nothing will be the same after this. Whatever game these men are playing, we've just reached the next level. I'm still not sure what the rules are, or what happens when you lose.