My Groom Planned My Fake Kidnapping to Win My Trust

The precinct smelled of stale coffee and desperation. Lincoln's hand rested lightly on my lower back as we approached the front desk, his presence commanding immediate attention.

"We need to see Detective Maria Santos," Lincoln said, his voice carrying the quiet authority that came with his name.

The desk sergeant's eyes widened slightly. "Mr. Price. I'll get her right away."

Detective Santos appeared minutes later, her dark hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. Her eyes darted between Lincoln and me, a flicker of recognition crossing her face when she saw me.

"Ms. Ross," she said, her voice carefully neutral. "It's been a while."

"Three years," I replied. "I'd like to see the file on my carjacking case."

Something shifted in her expression—a tightening around the eyes, a slight step backward. "I'm afraid those files are in storage. The precinct is digitizing everything, and—"

"Detective," Lincoln interrupted smoothly, "we'd like to see those files today."

Santos glanced toward the captain's office. "I'll need to check with my supervisor."

As she walked away, Lincoln leaned close to my ear. "She's hiding something."

Twenty minutes later, we sat across from Detective Santos in a small conference room. The captain had personally intervened after Lincoln made a phone call.

"The files are... incomplete," Santos admitted, sliding a thin folder across the table. "Some of the witness statements didn't make it into the digital system."

I opened the folder, scanning the sparse contents. "This is all there is?"

Santos looked down at her hands. "Off the record, Ms. Ross... there were inconsistencies in the original statements. Things that didn't add up."

"Such as?" Lincoln prompted.

"Your attacker's description, for one." She met my eyes briefly. "And the timeline didn't make sense. But pressure came down from above to close the case quickly."

"Pressure from whom?" I demanded.

Santos shook her head. "I can't say. But... I'm sorry, Ms. Ross. I should have pushed harder."

---

"Mr. Turner, Mr. Turner," Lincoln greeted Colton's father with a firm handshake as they entered his office. "What can Price Holdings do for you today?"

I watched from the adjoining room through the one-way glass, my heart pounding as Colton and his father took seats across from Lincoln's desk.

"We're excited about our new venture," Mr. Turner began, sliding a glossy brochure across the desk. "TechForward is poised to revolutionize the fintech industry."

Lincoln flipped through the brochure with practiced interest. "Impressive. And your funding strategy?"

"We're looking for Series A investors," Colton interjected smoothly. "Five million to start, with options for additional rounds as we expand."

Lincoln's eyes flickered briefly to the recording device hidden in his pen. "And your business model?"

As they launched into their pitch, I noticed something odd—there were no specifics. No actual technology descriptions, no client base, no revenue projections beyond vague promises.

"The real appeal," Mr. Turner said, leaning forward confidentially, "is our upcoming access to the Ross fortune through Colton's marriage to Magnolia. Her trust fund alone is worth billions."

Colton nodded eagerly. "Once we're married, those funds become available for investment purposes. We're talking about a complete vertical integration of TechForward into the Ross holdings."

Lincoln's expression remained impassive as he recorded every damning word.

---

The encrypted message arrived at 3:17 AM.

My phone vibrated on the nightstand, waking me from a fitful sleep. An unknown number had sent an audio file.

I hesitated before tapping the play button, my finger trembling slightly.

"What did you tell her?" Colton's voice hissed through the speaker, distorted but recognizable.

"Please," Skyla's voice begged, so faint I had to strain to hear. "I didn't say anything."

"You're useless," he snarled. "Do you know what happens to useless people, Skyla?"

Silence, then a small sob.

"I'll hurt you like I did when you were fourteen if you don't help me win her back," he continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Remember how much you cried then?"

The message ended abruptly.

I sat frozen in bed, my heart hammering against my ribs. The timestamp showed it had been sent just minutes ago.

With shaking hands, I replayed the message, listening more carefully this time. There was something in Skyla's voice—not just fear, but desperation.

"She's not just a brat," I whispered to myself, the realization dawning slowly. "She's a hostage."

I thought of her taking the Venmo payment, her provocative Instagram posts wearing my jewelry, her tears at the engagement party.

Had it all been an act? A cry for help?

The message played again in my mind: "I'll hurt you like I did when you were fourteen..."

Fourteen. When Skyla would have been just a child.

My blood ran cold as the pieces began falling into place.