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Holy shit...
A picture of my face fills the massive screen. I lean back in the chair, stunned, my eyes popping open wide.
The picture was taken at the music academy on the day of a private performance held six weeks ago. A few of my students were too nervous to perform on stage with the rest of the school at the upcoming recital, so the administration made accommodations for them, and we hosted an exclusive performance just for them and their families.
Exclusive being the apropos word.
The school shut down for the event. Only the students and their families were present.
But yet this photo was taken from inside the auditorium.
Luka had been there, too.
A shiver scuttles down my spine.
How long ago had my kidnapping been planned?
Had Luka been watching me this whole time?
I press my fingertips to my throbbing temples as questions pepper my mind, questions I know he’ll never answer. It’s not exactly like he’s been any bit transparent with me about anything over the past twelve hours.
I absently click on the mouse, and the desktop opens. An array of yellow folder icons appear on the screen. I peer at the labels which mean absolutely nothing to me…except one.
Fuck You, Dima.
I double-click on it and clap a hand over my mouth as pages of thumbnails fill the screen. Horror settles into my bones when I realize I’m the subject of every single one — laughing, smiling, drinking coffee, reading a book, typing on my laptop, talking on my phone. He took pictures of me every single day for the past two months and used one of the images as his screensaver. Hell, maybe he used each one as a screensaver each day.
My heart jumps into my throat and hammers wildly as I choke down oxygen.
“I’d love to know why you’re so anxious to hand me off to a brother you clearly hate when you can’t keep your own hands off of me.”
Those words…my words…come rushing back with the force of an all-consuming wave as it crashes onto the shore. I slide the chair away from the desk and slowly rise on wobbly legs that have instantly transformed into limp spaghetti noodles.
This isn’t just about my father.
This is about me.
I am suddenly dizzy from the furious rush of blood to my head. My chest tightens as a set of heavy footsteps approaches from behind, and I twist around, caught like a rat in a trap.
Luka’s angry, growly voice reverberates between my ears. “What the fuck are you doing in here?”
