“You’ll be leaving this town cured,” my mother continues, her voice flat and decisive. “Or you won’t be leaving at all.”
Without another word, she turns and ascends the stairs. Pastor Williams follows, glancing back at me with something that might be pity, but certainly isn’t mercy. The door closes behind them with a heavy thud, followed by the distinct sound of a lock engaging.
I sit there in the silence, in too much shock to move, to think, even to cry. This goes beyond anything I could have imagined, beyond the pain of watching my gallery burn. That was my livelihood, my passion—but this is my mind, my very self, she’s threatening.
The weight of her words settles over me like a shroud. My own mother would rather have my brain mutilated than accept who I am. The hurt runs so deep it transcends tears, lodging itself into the deepest recesses of my psyche. I’ve never felt more betrayed, more utterly alone than in this moment.
34
JULIAN
Ireturn from my early morning meeting feeling unusually light. The prospect of seeing Elliot still sleeping in my bed brings an unfamiliar warmth to my chest. The night before replays in my mind—his confession, my response. We’re navigating uncharted territory together.
My thoughts screech to a halt when I reach my door. It’s slightly ajar. The sleek metal lock bears obvious scratch marks—someone forced their way in.
Panic slams into me like a physical blow. I’ve navigated hostile takeovers and criminal enterprises without breaking a sweat, but this unfamiliar fear paralyzes me for three heartbeats.
“Elliot!” I shove the door open, my voice echoing through the penthouse. “Elliot, are you here?”
The silence that answers me is wrong. My home looks undisturbed at first glance—no overturned furniture, no obvious signs of struggle in the living room. But something feels off. The air feels disturbed, like a predator has passed through.
“Elliot!” I rush toward the bedroom, my heart pounding against my ribs. The bedroom door stands open, the sheets rumpled. A crystal paperweight lies on the floor, and there’s a smear of something dark on the white carpet.
Blood.
My fingers tremble as I reach for my phone. This isn’t random. Margaret Chambers comes immediately to mind—her vicious smile in those country club photos, the premeditated arson, her willingness to destroy her son’s livelihood. What would she do to Elliot himself?
I scan the room for clues, anything that might tell me where he’s been taken. His phone sits on the floor. His watch is missing—a small mercy if he managed to activate its emergency features.
The bathroom door is ajar. I push it open, finding nothing but pristine tiles and empty space. I slam my fist against the wall.
“Where are you?” I whisper, the question aimed at ghosts.
I reach for my phone with trembling fingers, pulling up the data on Elliot’s watch. It’s showing as still in the apartment, but I haven’t seen it. Maybe the battery was dead. Fuck. I instantly dial my security team’s direct line.
“Frost residence emergency protocol. Initiate now.” My voice sounds foreign to my own ears—tight, clipped, edged with something I barely recognize as fear.
“Yes, Sir. What’s the nature of the emergency?”
“Home invasion. Possible kidnapping.” The words feel like gravel in my throat. “My... Elliot Chambers has been taken from my penthouse. I need every camera feed within a ten-block radius, vehicles entering and exiting my building’s garage in the last hour.”
The security chief’s voice sharpens. “Notifying the team now, Mr. Frost. Should we contact the authorities?”
“I’ll handle that. Just move.”
I disconnect and immediately dial 911, pacing the length of my bedroom as I report the crime. Their questions feel endless, each second stretching while Elliot is somewhere, possibly hurt.When they finally promise to send officers, I hang up, already knowing how this will play out—reports, statements, procedure. All too slow for what I need.
I scroll to a contact, my finger hovering over the name. Jenson. The Blackwood brothers’ most valuable asset—their spymaster. The man who finds what doesn’t want to be found.
He answers on the second ring.
“Julian. This is unexpected.”
“I need your help.” No preamble, no negotiation. “Elliot has been taken from my home. I believe it’s his mother, Margaret Chambers. I don’t have time for police protocols.”
A pause. “The gallery owner? Your prey from the Hunt?”
“Yes.” I swallow hard. “He’s more than that now.”
