The Hostage Stole My Fiance

"You look ridiculous in his clothes, Samantha," I said, stepping into the living room.

She leaned against the doorframe, adjusting the collar of Charles’s oversized white shirt to make sure I saw the purple marks on her skin.

"Oh, Nat," she sighed, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "I did not want you to find out like this. Charles just insisted I come grab some of his things. He said you'd be too hysterical to pack for him."

"Get out."

"Don't be like that." She took a step forward, her bare feet padding softly on the hardwood floor. "You have to admit, it's poetic. Your father died so I could live. Now, you get to step aside so I can have the man you love. It's almost like your dad’s sacrifice actually meant something for once."

My jaw tightened. "Don't talk about my father."

"Why not?" She tilted her head, a smirk playing on her lips. "He was a rent-a-cop, Natalie. He took a knife for a rich kid because he wanted a payout. Too bad he didn't live long enough to spend it. Now, you’re just as pathetic, clinging to Charles for a crumb of a decent life."

I closed the distance between us in two strides.

I raised my hand and swung.

The crack of my palm against her cheek echoed through the apartment. The force of the blow sent her stumbling sideways. Her shoulder slammed hard into the wooden console table by the entryway, knocking a vase to the floor. It shattered into a dozen jagged pieces.

Samantha crumpled to the ground, clutching her reddened face.

"You hit me!" she shrieked, her fake composure instantly dissolving.

"I’ll do more than hit you if you ever mention my father again," I warned, standing over her.

She scrambled backward, her hands fumbling in the pockets of Charles’s shirt. She pulled out her phone and frantically dialed.

"Charles!" she wailed into the receiver, tears streaming down her face. "Charles, help me! Natalie just attacked me! She’s gone crazy!"

I watched her perform, my expression flat.

"Yes, I’m at the apartment," she sobbed, dragging herself up against the wall. "She slapped me so hard I fell. Please hurry, she’s going to hurt me again!"

She lowered the phone, glaring at me with venomous eyes. "He’s coming right now. You’re done, Natalie. He’s going to throw you out on the street."

"Let him try." I grabbed the collar of the oversized shirt and hauled her to her feet.

"Let go of me!" she screamed, thrashing wildly.

"You wanted to pack his things?" I shoved her toward the front door. "Start with yourself."

Before I could push her out into the hallway, a blinding beam of light sliced through the living room windows. The harsh white glare illuminated the dust motes in the air.

I froze, turning my head toward the floor-to-ceiling glass.

Down below, the screech of tires tore through the quiet evening. A massive, matte-black Maybach tore through the security gate of the apartment complex, the wooden barrier splintering upon impact. The luxury vehicle skidded to a violent halt in front of the building's entrance.

Samantha stopped struggling, her eyes widening as she stared out the window. "What is that?"

I did not answer. My grip on her shirt loosened.

The heavy thud of footsteps pounded down the hallway outside my apartment.

"Nat!" Charles’s voice roared as he burst through the open front door, chest heaving. He rushed straight to Samantha, wrapping his arms around her. "Are you okay? Did she hurt you?"

"She hit me, Charles," Samantha whimpered, burying her face in his chest.

Charles whipped his head toward me, his face twisted in fury. "You psychotic bitch! I told you to wait for me to get back! You think you can just assault her?"

He took a menacing step toward me, raising his hand.

Downstairs, a car door slammed shut. The sound echoed up the stairwell, sharp and heavy.

Heavy boots crunched over the shattered glass of the lobby doors. The rhythmic, heavy steps moved up the stairs, bypassing the elevator entirely.

Charles ignored the noise, stepping closer to me. "I’m going to make you regret this, Natalie. You’re leaving this apartment right now, with nothing."

"Try it," a deep, icy voice commanded from the doorway.

Charles stopped dead in his tracks.

A man stepped into the apartment. He wore a tailored charcoal suit, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. The harsh hallway light cast long shadows over his sharp jawline and piercing gray eyes.

Alexander Sterling.

The head of the Sterling Corporation. The man who had silently funded my father’s funeral, paid for my college tuition, and watched over me from the shadows for the past ten years.

Charles puffed out his chest, trying to regain his bravado. "Who the hell are you? Get out of my apartment before I call the cops."

Alexander didn't blink. He walked slowly across the shattered remains of the vase, his polished dress shoes crunching over the ceramic shards.

He stopped two feet away from Charles.

Without a single word, Alexander raised his right hand. The cold, black steel of a Glock 19 pressed directly against the center of Charles’s forehead.