Betrayed by Fiancé and Friend

The blindfold over my eyes reeked of gasoline and something else—something metallic and sharp, like blood. My wrists burned from the rope cutting into my skin, and every breath sent shards of pain through my ribs.

"She's waking up," a gruff voice said somewhere to my left.

I tried to speak, but my throat felt like sandpaper. The blindfold was yanked away, and harsh light stabbed at my eyes. I blinked rapidly, trying to focus on the three men standing before me.

"Where am I?" I finally managed, my voice a ragged whisper.

The tallest man—bald with a scar across his jaw—crouched down to my level. "That doesn't matter, princess. What matters is your boyfriend pays up."

Boyfriend. The word felt like acid on my tongue. "Ezra isn't my boyfriend. He's my fiancé."

Scar-Jaw laughed, the sound echoing off concrete walls. "Whatever you call him, he's got twenty-four hours to come up with two million dollars. Or you're dead."

My heart stuttered in my chest. Two million. The number was so absurd I almost laughed. "He doesn't have that kind of money."

"Then you're dead either way," said another man, shorter with a pockmarked face. He was holding a phone—my phone. "We've already called him. And your little friend Catherine."

Catherine. Her name sent ice through my veins. "What does she have to do with this?"

Scar-Jaw's smile turned cruel. "Lady paid us extra to make this interesting. Said your man needs to choose which one of you is worth saving."

The realization hit me like a physical blow. Catherine had orchestrated this—staged her own kidnapping to force Ezra's hand, to make him choose.

"When?" I asked, struggling against my restraints. "When did you call him?"

"About four hours ago," Pockmark replied, checking his watch. "Should be hearing back soon."

The wait was excruciating. Every minute stretched into an eternity as I sat bound to a metal chair in what looked like an abandoned warehouse. The men paced, argued over who would take the first payment, and ignored my pleas for water.

Then, suddenly, Pockmark's phone rang.

"Yeah?" he answered, eyes flicking to me. "You've made your choice?"

I held my breath, praying silently that Ezra had chosen me—that he'd seen through Catherine's manipulation, that some part of him still cared enough to save me first.

Pockmark's expression darkened. "You're sure? The other one might not last that long."

My heart sank as understanding dawned. Ezra had chosen Catherine.

"Tell him we'll call back in twelve hours," Pockmark said before ending the call.

Scar-Jaw looked at me with something almost like pity. "Looks like your prince charming chose the other princess."

"What happens now?" I whispered.

"Now," Scar-Jaw said, stepping closer, "we wait. And you hope he hurries."

The next twelve hours were a blur of pain and terror. They moved me to a smaller room—a closet, maybe—where the air was thick and stale. Every few hours, one of them would come in to check if I was still conscious.

"Your friend's been rescued," Pockmark informed me sometime later, his voice oddly casual as he tossed a water bottle at my feet. "Now we wait for our second payment."

I couldn't speak. Couldn't think past the roaring in my ears. Ezra had saved Catherine first. He'd left me here to suffer while he rescued her.

"Why?" I finally croaked.

Pockmark shrugged. "Said she was more fragile. Said you were stronger."

Stronger. The word mocked me as I huddled on the concrete floor, my body aching from being dragged across the warehouse, my face throbbing where Scar-Jaw had struck me when I'd tried to scream for help.

When they finally untied me and shoved me into the back of a van, I could barely stand. My legs buckled as soon as my feet touched solid ground.

"Can you walk?" Scar-Jaw demanded, grabbing my arm roughly.

"No," I admitted, tears streaming down my face.

He sighed, then hoisted me over his shoulder like a sack of flour. "You're heavier than you look."

The police station lights blinded me as we approached. Scar-Jaw set me down gently—ironically gentle, considering what he'd done—and stepped back.

"Someone's inside waiting for you," he said before disappearing into the night.

I stumbled through the doors, my vision clearing slowly. And there was Ezra, pacing the lobby in his pristine suit, not a hair out of place.

"Lucy!" he exclaimed, rushing forward to embrace me.

I flinched away from his touch, my body instinctively rejecting his comfort.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, his eyes scanning my bruised face, my torn clothes.

"Yes," I said simply.

He nodded solemnly. "I'm sorry it took so long. Catherine—she was hysterical when we found her. The doctors said she couldn't handle the stress of knowing you were still in danger."

I stared at him, unable to comprehend his words. "So you chose her."

"I chose the person who needed help most urgently," he corrected, his voice taking on that patronizing tone I'd grown to hate. "Catherine's health is delicate. You're stronger, Lucy. You always have been."

In that moment, looking into his eyes and seeing nothing but self-justification, I realized the truth: Ezra Reynolds had never loved me at all.

He'd simply never learned how to let me go.