Page 32 of Royal Affair
I tried to speak through the gag, managing only muffled sounds. My captor chuckled.
"No need to say anything. I've already made the call to Bellavista. Your family should transfer several million euros soon." He moved closer, crouching down to my eye level. The mask was eerily smooth and featureless except for black holes where the eyes should be. "A fair price for a princess, don't you think?"
Tears burned in my eyes. This couldn't be happening. Would James even be able to find me? Could he track the taxi somehow, since I had turned off my phone at the club? Or had someone seen us leave?
"You should have stuck with your bodyguard," the masked man continued, brushing a strand of hair from my face. I jerked away from his touch. "Mr. Banks seems very competent. Much better than that fool Cameron, who got himself fired over a maid."
My blood ran cold. He knew about Cameron? How?
"Oh yes, princess. I keep track of your security detail. Among other things." He stood up, moving toward one of the windows. "Like what really happened that night five years ago."
No, no one knew about that. No one except…
"Your silence speaks volumes," he said, returning to face me. "But don't worry. Once I have my money, you can return to pretending none of it ever happened. Unless someone decides the truth needs to come out."
The room spun again as the implications of his words sank in. This wasn't just about ransom. This was personal. My captor knew things, things I'd buried so deep I sometimes convinced myself they weren't real.
And James... God, James. He would be looking for me, but would he find me in time? Or would my past finally catch up with me in this sun-filled loft with its exposed brick walls and a masked horror?
More memories of last night started surfacing through the fog in my mind. The handsome stranger had seemed so genuine, so careful with me. He'd even stopped me from drinking too much at one point, or at least I thought he had. Had that all been part of the act? A way to gain my trust?
I shifted position, trying to ease the burning in my shoulders. My dress from last night tore at the hem, and my feet were bareagainst the cold wooden floor. What else had happened in those blank hours between the club and now? And what about Octavia and Gabriela? Were they safe?
"Now," my captor said, pulling out a phone, "let's send your family a little proof of life, shall we?"
He approached with the phone, and I noticed he moved with a slight limp. Something about it seemed familiar, triggering a memory I couldn't quite grasp.
"Look at the camera, princess. Let them see those pretty eyes filled with fear." He grabbed my chin roughly, tilting my face up. "Perfect. Just like that night in the palace gardens, remember? When everything changed."
My heart stopped. The palace gardens. Five years ago. How could he know?
The sound of sirens wailed in the distance, and my captor's head snapped toward the window. For a moment, his composure cracked.
"Seems we have company," he muttered, moving to peer out the window. Through the glass, I saw black vehicles and figures in tactical gear surrounding the building.
"Your Mr. Banks appears to be more resourceful than I anticipated." He turned back to me, and even through the mask, I could feel his malicious smile. "No matter. If they find you, certain truths have a way of surfacing, eventually."
My whole body trembled as another memory hit me—the dead kitten outside my door, the note. It had been him all along, hadn't it? Watching, waiting, playing his twisted game.
He walked over to a sleek metal desk in the corner, pulling out what looked like a laptop. "While we wait, perhaps we should discuss what really happened that night? The official story was so convincing, wasn't it? But we both know better."
Bile rose in my throat. Not this. Anything but this.
"Your mother's team did an impressive job covering it all up," he continued, typing something on the laptop. "But some secrets are too big to stay buried forever. Don't you agree, princess?"
Tears streamed down my face now. I wanted to scream, to deny it all, but the gag kept me silent. Just like I'd been silent all these years.
The sirens were getting closer. My captor seemed unbothered, continuing to type. What was he doing? Sending evidence to the press? Preparing to expose everything I'd fought so hard to bury?
"You know what's ironic?" he said, closing the laptop. "If you had not run from your bodyguard last night, none of this would be happening."
He stood, walking back to me, his limp more pronounced now. "This time, princess, there's no one to clean up your mess. No royal PR team to spin the story."
The sirens stopped abruptly. Somewhere below, a car door slammed. I heard shouted commands - someone calling about securing the perimeter, mentions of "the target" and "princess."
"Ah," my captor said, reaching for something in his jacket and adjusting what looked like a small device at his throat. "Showtime. Pity about my associates—your Mr Banks seems to have dealt with them rather efficiently."
Associates? How many people had been involved in this? I tried to glance around, wondering if I could spot any evidence of others—zip ties in corners, signs of a struggle.
