Soft gasps. Heavy breathing. A man’s voice—my husband’s—low, intimate, unfamiliar in the way it hurt the most. Not meant for me. My ears rang as the sound flooded through the line.
I ended the call before I could be sick.
There was no time to fall apart. No time to scream. Sienna needed me. The crew searched the ship, authorities were alerted, procedures followed—but by the time I got home, the nightmare deepened.
The phone rang.
“Mrs. Jones,” a distorted voice drawled. “We have your daughter. If you want her alive, prepare one hundred million dollars. You have until tomorrow.”
The number echoed in my head. One hundred million.
I ran to my laptop, logging in frantically, ready to empty every account, every investment, everything I owned. But the screen stared back at me, cruel and unmoving.
Accounts restricted. Funds frozen.
“No… please…” My voice came out hoarse, barely sound at all.
I didn’t think. I grabbed my keys and drove straight to Aldrin’s office, tears blurring the road. At the reception desk sat Bianca—his secretary. My former best friend. The woman I had trusted with everything. I had hired her, defended her, welcomed her into my life without hesitation.