Page 56 of Defending What's Mine

Dark pines crowd the narrow road as the van jostles over the gravel road. My wrists throb where the zip-ties rubbed raw during the drive. My mind still echoes Asher’s name like a heartbeat, but it’s a useless comfort now. The vehicle stops with a crunch. Wade slides the door open, and the daylight stabs my eyes.

“Home sweet hideaway.” His smile is all straight teeth and shark ambition.

A two-story lake house crouches ahead. Weather-gray cedar shingles, black-trimmed windows, a dock stretching onto the glass-calm water that reflects the surrounding pines like a mirror. It should be idyllic, actually Instagram perfect. Instead it hums with menace, every shuttered window whisperingno one will hear you out here.

Wade jerks his chin at the thug who’s been driving. “Bags.” The man hefts a single duffel—zip-ties, rope, God knows what else.

I stay rooted in the gravel until Wade grabs my arm. “Walk.”

I stumble forward, one bare foot crunching the pine needles. The air smells of damp wood and diesel from the van. Wind sends ripples across the lake which lap the shore with soft shushes, as though conspiring to hide my screams.

Inside, the house is an architectural magazine spread: open floor plan, vaulted ceiling with timber beams, a wall of windows facing the water. Plush charcoal sofas, stone fireplace, bare wood floors that amplify every footstep. No personal photos, no knick-knacks—just staged perfection. It causes me to shiver.

Wade steers me toward the modern dining table of polished walnut. “Sit.” The enforcer lingers near the foyer, arms crossed.

I sink onto a chair, spine rigid. Hands still bound. A silent prayer flickers—Asher, find me—then I bury it. The desperation won’t help.

Wade paces as his fingers drum against the tabletop. “Let’s outline the plan, shall we?” His tone is faux-boardroom, as if we’re negotiating contracts instead of my life.

“What do you want?”

He blinks. “I’m going to bribe your family into marrying you off to me.”

“I’ll never marry you,” I say, voice hoarse but steady. “My family will never agree.”

He laughs. It’s a high, manic laugh that causes goosebumps to break out all over my skin. “Your father will crawl over broken glass once he realizes the alternative is sending you home in pieces.”

Heat drains from my face. “You wouldn’t.”

“I owe seven figures to a very dangerous investor,” he snaps, veneer cracking. “They want a return. Your father’s company—merged with mine—gives them that. So, yes, Charlotte, I would. I’m out of options.”

I force a breath.I need to stall.“If you kill me, the company’s worthless. My father will torch every asset before handing it over.”

“Which is why you won’t die. Not if he signs.” Wade leans in, eyes gleaming. “But a finger? An ear? Collateral damage is persuasive.”

Revulsion twists my gut. “You’re insane.”

“Desperate.” He straightens, smoothing his sleeves. “We send the first ransom demand tonight. You read it on video, nice and tearful. The Lane board will buckle by morning.”

“I won’t cooperate.”

He shrugs. “Pain is a persuasive tutor.” He nods to the goon. “Take her upstairs. Green room.”

The enforcer shoves me down a hall lined with oversized monochrome art—blurred cityscapes, as impersonal as hotel décor. Upstairs, a long corridor ends at a solid door painted sage. He unlocks it, pushes me inside, cuts the zip-ties with a pocketknife, then slams the door.

The room is… beautiful. Sea-glass green walls, whitewashed planks, a four-poster bed dressed in linen, French doors opening onto a Juliet balcony overlooking the lake. The contrast to my panic is sickening.

I remember long summers here at this house, staying in this room. It’s sort of ironic this is the room he chose for me.

I rush the balcony doors, but of course they’re locked and key-bolted. I peer through the glass. There’s no escape. I could smash the glass, but even if I climbed out, the noise would alert them. A single kayak drifts lazily at the dock—like freedom mocking me.

I glance around for weapons. There’s a ceramic lamp, and a curtain rod. No phone, obviously. In the closet there’s nothing but empty hangers. In the bathroom there’s a marble sink, luxe toiletries, and an extravagant claw-foot tub which is wide enough to drown in.

Back in the bedroom, I test the door. Ugh. It’s locked.

I pace, inhaling cedar-clean air that does nothing to calm me. Think. Asher will trace my phone—except it’s probably smashed. Still, he’ll track Wade, track the van. He’ll come. I must buy time.

I tug the bed’s quilted coverlet, yank a seam until the stitching pops. I rip a strip, and wind it over the raw grooves on my wrists. A makeshift bandage. Then I wedge the chair beneath the doorknob; it won’t stop a determined entry, but maybe slows them a few seconds.

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