His Loss, The Tycoon's Gain: The Lost Heiress Returns

Kinsley opened her eyes.

The warehouse smelled of motor oil and rotting wood.

Panic seized her chest, squeezing her lungs until she could barely draw a breath.

The rough hemp rope bit into the skin of her wrists. Warm blood dripped down her fingers.

In the far corner, two men in black ski masks leaned against a rusted metal barrel.

"When does the Bitcoin transfer clear?" one of them asked, his voice a harsh rasp. "The boss said the rest of the money comes tonight."

"Relax. The crypto wallet is set up. She just wants this bitch gone," the other replied, spitting on the floor.

She was kidnapped.

Kinsley forced her breathing to slow down.

Her fingers brushed against something sharp near her right hip. A sharp, rusted metal gear from some discarded machinery.

She gripped the jagged metal edge.

It sliced into her thumb, but she ignored the sting. She began sawing at the thick rope binding her wrists behind her back. Back and forth.

The friction burned her open wounds. It was agonizingly slow work.

The thick hemp barely frayed at first, but she kept her movements steady, hiding the effort behind her back.

Ten minutes passed in agonizing tension as the men bickered about their payout, giving her the precious time she needed to wear the fibers down.

The taller kidnapper walked over and kicked her thigh. The impact sent a jolt of pain up her spine.

"Your Wall Street husband does not give a shit about you," he laughed, blowing smoke into her face. "We grabbed you three hours ago. No cops. No search party. You are nothing."

She kept her mouth shut. Her eyes locked onto the cheap, older model burner phone clipped to his belt.

A siren suddenly screamed, not distant, but screaming down the immediate block. The flashing red and blue lights bled through the cracks in the rolling door, painting the dark warehouse in frantic strobes.

Both men stiffened, thinking it was a raid. They dropped their cigarettes and jogged toward the metal rolling door to look outside.

This was her chance. She pulled her arms apart with every ounce of strength she had. The frayed rope snapped.

Her wrists bled freely now, but she did not stop. She crawled across the concrete, silent as a shadow, and reached the metal barrel. She snatched the burner phone off the table where the man had just tossed it.

She threw herself behind a stack of rotting wooden crates just as they turned back around.

Her hands shook violently as she dialed Joaquin's private number. Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard she thought it might break them.

The line rang twice. He picked up.

"What kind of game are you playing now, Kinsley?" Joaquin's voice was ice.

"Joaquin, please," she whispered rapidly, pressing her hand over her mouth to muffle the sound. "I was taken. I am in a warehouse, maybe the edge of Brooklyn. They have knives. You have to call the police."

A soft, weak cough came through the receiver.

"Joaquin, my chest hurts," Ember's fragile, high-pitched voice whined in the background.

The temperature of Joaquin's voice dropped to absolute zero. "Are you out of your mind? Faking a kidnapping because you are jealous of Ember? She is sick, Kinsley."

"I am bleeding. They are going to kill me," she pleaded, tears burning her eyes.

"Do not ever call this number and disturb Ember's rest again," Joaquin snapped.

The line went dead. The dial tone buzzed in her ear.

She stared at the dark screen. The tears stopped falling. The cold reality of her three-year marriage settled into her stomach like a block of lead. He left her to die so his mistress could sleep.

"Where is the phone?" a voice roared across the warehouse.

Footsteps pounded against the concrete, coming straight toward her hiding spot. She switched the phone to silent and shoved it down her bra.

Her fingers wrapped around a rusted iron pipe lying in the dirt. She gripped it until her knuckles turned white.

The taller kidnapper peered around the wooden crate.

She swung the pipe with everything she had. The heavy iron smashed directly into his kneecap.

He screamed, a wet, cracking sound echoing through the room, and collapsed to the floor.

The second man pulled a switchblade from his pocket and charged at her.

She shoved the stack of heavy, rotting crates. They toppled over, crashing into him and blocking his path.

She did not look back. She scrambled over the fallen wood and sprinted toward a broken window at the side of the building.

The man lunged, his blade slicing through the fabric of her jacket and grazing her shoulder.

She threw herself through the shattered glass frame. She hit the muddy ground outside hard. Her ankle twisted, sending a sharp spike of agony up her leg.

Adrenaline flooded her veins. She forced herself up.

The warehouse door kicked open behind her. Flashlight beams cut through the darkness.

She ran into the dense woods. The freezing rain poured down in sheets, soaking her clothes instantly and washing away her blood.

Thorns tore at her cheeks and arms. Her lungs burned. She kept running.

Through the trees, she saw the faint yellow glow of streetlights. A highway.

She stumbled out of the treeline and onto the slick, wet asphalt. Headlights pierced the heavy rain, rushing straight toward her.

She stepped into the middle of the road and raised her arms.