Page 19 of Wicked Heat

I hear myself whimper, and Aria squeezes my hand.

“No,” I whisper, my mouth so dry I can barely utter the words. “No, please, no.”

But the voice can’t hear me. It just drones on. “Defy us in any way and we shall blanket the media with videos and photos. Believe us when we say that the one we have already revealed to you is tame.”

I blink, forcing back tears, desperate for this voice to shut up, shut up, shut up. But it just drones on and on in that cold, brittle, heartless cadence.

“Perhaps that is what you want,” it continues. “After all, you would be thrust into the spotlight, too. Such notoriety would surely cause your career to soar. Who wouldn’t want to buy a book from a woman under such a spotlight?”

I sit up straighter, the heat of anger and fury forging me into steel.

“Isn’t notoriety the path to fame? Didn’t your former employer ride that pony to his billions? Haven’t you profited from the vile fruits of his labors? Perhaps you want more. Perhaps this is what you want. Perhaps you won’t pay us because you want the videos released. And when they hit every news channel in the world, perhaps you will even thank us.”

“Don’t listen,” Aria hisses. And for the second time in my life, I know that if push comes to shove, I really do have it in me to kill.

“But the little girl?” Now, the voice is almost pleasant. Or as pleasant as the computer-altered voice of a totally sick fuck can be. “If those images and videos come out, dear little Anne will spend her life not as Damien Stark’s spoiled brat, but as the poor, pitiful little girl who was kidnapped and tormented. A little girl who will come to understand that someone is still out there who knows what happened to her. Someone who, one day, might take her again. And that next time she won’t be drugged. Won’t simply sit in the background rocking herself in a haze of dreams. She will be you. Touched. Violat⁠—”

“No!” I actually scream the word, as if whoever sent this recorded message can hear me.

“We won’t let that happen,” Aria says, our hands locked tight together.

“Today, you preened,” the voice continues. “You strutted and crowed, thinking you had created something wonderful. When you look back, remember that it was you who gave us the way to ensure your compliance. Defy us, and we will become the Brotherhood personified. We will release your shame to the world.

As I tighten my grip on Aria’s hand, the three-million-dollar figure disappears, replaced by a date and a time. Noon, Pacific Time. Three days from tomorrow. “Keep track of our appointment card. You may scan any time after six a.m. Pacific time for instructions as to where to transfer the funds. Once you scan, you will have fifteen minutes to comply. The latest you may scan is noon.

“Three million and we disappear forever. Less, and you will find the penalty to be very stiff indeed. And in case you need further incentive, from now until the money we are due reaches our account, you may amuse yourself by scanning the code to reveal your Greatest Hits—a curated collection of all the videos and images that will be released if our demands are not met.”

And then it’s gone. That tinny voice. But the low static that had buzzed behind it continues, edging through the silence that seems to fill the house. I want to hurl my phone across the room and make that horrible buzzing stop, but I know I can’t. I can’t close that page until I’m sure the message is over.

Then the static snaps off, and that fucking happy face appears on the black screen above three words written in lovely calligraphy: Enjoy your evening!

Finally, the screen goes blank, and I’m left wondering how the hell I’m going to get my hands on three million dollars.

Then I lurch forward and vomit all over my and Aria’s shoes.

Eight

My phone is my lifeline now. And I fear that’s not a metaphor.

So instead of smashing it, I start to pace, not even caring that I reek of vomit, as I try desperately to come up with someone—anyone—who isn’t Damien and might have three million dollars.

“Bastards.” Aria grinds out the word. “None of this is on you, Bree. Do you hear me? Not one single, fucking thing. Tell me you know that. Tell me you believe it.”

I just shake my head. “That doesn’t matter. All that matters is the money. Where the hell am I going to get that kind of money?”

“Damien,” she says. “I know you don’t want to, but you have to,” she adds at the same time that I snap, “No!”

I can’t bear the thought of hurting Damien and Nikki this way. There must be another solution. I consider asking Evelyn—but she’s known Damien for almost his entire life, and I’m terrified that she couldn’t keep the secret. Not only that, but she and her husband are in the middle of building a new house, and while she’s well-off, I don’t think she could spare as much as I need.

Maybe banks have good interest rates on So you’re being blackmailed loans.

I bark out a twisted-sounding laugh, realizing that I may be a little hysterical right now. Then Aria is in front of me, holding my shoulders and ordering me to take deep breaths.

Raindrops. Roses. Whiskers. Kittens.

By the time I hit tied up with string, my mind’s clearer. But I still don’t have a plan.

Ari sighs. “We just have to make a list and⁠—”