Star slipped out of the hospital room and locked it from the outside. She found herself in a house that defied logic—a sprawling estate with a grand staircase that curved upward like something from a Gilded Age dream. Whoever her new captor was, he wasn't just wealthy; he was old money wealthy. The kind of wealth that doesn't brag, it just exists.
But the house was hollow. Empty. For two weeks, if it weren't for the doctor who came to check on her, she might have believed she was the last person on earth.
She stood in the hallway, the sterile hospital gown clinging to her skin. Rows of doors stretched before her, silent and promising. If she was going to escape, she needed clothes. She couldn't run through the city in this.
The first door she tried opened to a bedroom—lavish but barren. A king-sized bed sat in the center, its duvet crisp and untouched. A closet stood against the far wall, but she didn't open it. Not yet.
The next room was a kitchen—the kind with marble countertops, a stove that looked like it belonged in a restaurant, and a refrigerator as tall as she was.
So, she thought, her voice barely a whisper in the cavernous space. He's planning to move in.
The third door made her breath catch.
It was a bedroom, yes—but it was a shrine.
Her eyes widened, her pulse hammering as she stepped inside. Photographs covered the walls. Dozens of them. Hundreds. Pictures she remembered taking since her first day at university: candid shots of herself, selfies in her dorm. But others… others she'd never seen before. Photos taken while she slept. While she studied. While she laughed in coffee shops, unaware she was being watched.
In the center of it all, directly opposite the entrance, hung a massive portrait—her face, rendered in oil paint, gazing back at her with an intimacy that made her skin crawl.
"So," she breathed, her voice echoing in the too-quiet room. "He's obsessed with me."
The room was enormous. She paced its length, her bare feet silent on the polished wood floors. It was the size of her mother's entire house. A chandelier of cascading crystal hung overhead, dripping light onto furniture that looked like it cost more than a year of her tuition.
Then she found the walk-in closet.
She pulled the door open and froze.
Racks upon racks of clothes—all her size, all her style. Sweater pants, the exact brands she favored. Boyfriend jeans, stacked in neat piles. Tops, blouses, business suits, dresses—organized by section like a high-end boutique. It was as if someone had rifled through her mind and copied her wardrobe, including pieces she'd only ever planned to buy.
She dressed quickly in grey sweatpants and a soft cotton shirt. The clothes fit perfectly. Of course they did.
Next to the closet was another door. She opened it and found herself staring at a shoe collection that would make any sneakerhead weep. Every pair she'd ever pinned to her mood boards. Every style she'd ever admired from a distance.
Her head was spinning, but one thing crystallized in her mind with terrifying clarity: The kidnapper knows me.
Which begged the question: Who?
It had to be someone who knew her intimately. Someone who had studied her life, her tastes, her dreams. And as she walked back through the room of photographs, a creeping familiarity settled into her bones. This house… it felt like she'd been here before. Not in reality, but in her imagination.
She descended the grand staircase slowly, her eyes tracing the interior design. The furniture was museum-quality. The dining table could seat twenty. A massive 100-inch television was mounted on the living room wall like a work of art.
Then it hit her. Hard.
She rushed to the grand entrance, threw open the massive doors, and stepped outside.
Sunlight spilled across a sprawling green lawn, dotted with manicured hedges and a stone fountain that glittered in the light. The house rose behind her, its turrets and stone facade achingly familiar.
It was a château-style mansion. The exact one she'd sketched in her notebook.
Her breath came in short, sharp bursts. How? Why? Who?
She remembered her own sketches: the layout, the grounds, the placement of the garage to the west. She moved toward it, her heart thudding against her ribs. Her hand trembled as she pressed the button beside the garage door.
The door rolled up with a mechanical hum.
Inside were three vehicles: a gray Ferrari F76, its curves sleek and predatory; a Mercedes-Benz, black and understated; and a motorcycle fitted with top-of-the-line gear. All exactly as she'd drawn them.
"This is like a dream," she whispered, a strange flood of happiness washing over her.
And then she froze.
Her smashed hand—the one Frieda had broken—was no longer in pain. There was no pain in dreams, was there?
"If this is a dream," she murmured, "then it's a nightmare."
She pinched her arm, hard, and gasped as pain shot through her.
Real. It was real. This is reality.
"It's not a dream."
The voice came from behind her, deep and calm. She spun around. The doctor who had been tending to her leaned against the garage entrance, arms crossed, watching her with an expression she couldn't read.
"Then I need to go to my mom," Star said, her voice steadier than she felt.
"I can't let you do that." He pushed off from the doorframe and took a slow step forward. "My boss will be here soon. Once he arrives, I can go back to my life. Until then… you stay."
Star's eyes flicked to his hand. Something small and dark was clutched in his palm. She didn't wait to find out what it was.
She was done waiting.
Her eyes darted to the basket by the garage entrance. The keys had been there. Now they were gone. The doctor must have taken them when she wasn't looking.
Stupid, she cursed herself.
"Star." His voice was calm, almost patient. "You're my get-out-of-jail card. Let's not make this difficult."
She moved to the other side of the Ferrari, putting the car between them. Her muscles tensed, remembering the martial moves Lucian had taught her years ago in case she encountered danger. She'd never had to use them for real. Today might be the day.
"Who's my kidnapper?" she demanded.
"You're not kidnapped," he said, circling slowly.
"How did I end up here? And why can't you leave?"
She grabbed the Ferrari's door handle. The car hummed to life.
"Welcome, Star."
She nearly jumped out of her skin. The voice came from inside the car—smooth, artificial, polite.
The doctor went rigid. His calm mask cracked. "Don't say anything," he warned, his voice low and sharp. "Leave."
Star's mind raced. An idea sparked.
"You know my name?" she asked, addressing the car.
"Yes, I do. You're my boss."
The doctor's face went pale. "Stop. Now."
"Who are you?" Star asked, keeping her voice light, curious. "I'm sorry, I haven't been here in a long time."
The doctor moved slowly, trying to flank her, but Star kept the car between them, her attention fixed on the AI.
"You've never been here. This is our first interaction. I am Ice."
"Then open the door for me, Ice" Star said.
A soft click echoed through the garage.
The doctor lunged, but Star was faster. She yanked open the door, slid into the driver's seat, and slammed it shut. The locks engaged with a satisfying thunk.
She didn't wait to see his reaction. Her foot hit the accelerator, and the Ferrari shot forward like a bullet.
In the rearview mirror, she saw the doctor standing in the garage entrance, hands on his head, already a shrinking figure of regret and fury.
The driveway stretched before her, long and winding, flanked by ancient oaks. At the end stood wrought-iron gates, massive and ornate. As she approached, she saw the letter S worked into the metal—delicate but unmistakable.
The gates swung open automatically.
She was about to speed through when a black SUV, windows tinted so dark they were like mirrors, pulled into the driveway from the outside. It was newer, sleeker than the ones Frieda's men had used.
Her foot hovered over the accelerator. Every instinct screamed at her to stop, to see who was inside. But the fear was louder.
She pressed down.
The two vehicles passed each other in what felt like slow motion. The SUV's windows were impenetrable, but she felt the weight of eyes on her, a presence so heavy it seemed to press against her chest. Her heart hammered as the gap between them shrank and then vanished.
She didn't look back.
By the time she reached Crestfall, her hands had stopped shaking. The city sprawled before her, familiar and indifferent. The château was miles outside the city limits, just as she'd always envisioned her future home—a quiet retreat from the noise and chaos.
She'd shown that sketchbook to so many people. Friends. Acquaintances. Anyone could have built that house. Or maybe it was just a coincidence—a grotesque, impossible coincidence.
Or maybe Ramon and Frieda had sold her to someone richer. Someone powerful. Someone who could afford to build a fantasy around her while she slept.
She parked the Ferrari in front of the Crestfall Police Department. The building was buzzing—people filing reports, officers shuffling papers, the low hum of bureaucracy. She joined the queue, her heart steady now, her story ready.
When her turn came, she approached the small window. A female officer sat behind the glass, her expression bored.
"I'm here to report a kidnapping," Star said.
The officer's eyes flicked up. A flicker of recognition crossed her face—and then something else. Disdain.
"Elaborate."
"I was kidnapped two weeks ago by a woman named Frieda Grimm."
The officer let out a short, incredulous laugh.
Star's jaw tightened. "It's not funny."
"It's a little funny." The officer leaned back, crossing her arms. "You run off with some man, then come back claiming you were kidnapped? Did you look in a mirror on your way in? Is that how a kidnapping victim looks?"
Star caught her reflection in the glass partition. Her hair was brushed, her curls defined. Her clothes were clean, stylish, expensive. Even her bandaged hand seemed more like an accessory than an injury.
"How did you escape?" the officer pressed, her voice dripping with skepticism. "In a Ferrari?"
Star opened her mouth to answer, but the officer cut her off.
"We're not here to play games. Your mother already told us everything."
Star's blood ran cold. "My mother?"
"She told us about the fight you two had. About you running off with a man. We were young once, Star. We still respected our parents."
"That's not what happened," Star said, her voice rising. "I was kidnapped. Why won't you believe me?"
"Because you're a liar and a bad child."
The voice came from behind her. Star turned to see Detective Vix, the most respected cop in the CPD, standing with his arms folded. The room seemed to quiet around him.
"Now that you've brought yourself in," he continued, pulling a pair of handcuffs from his belt, "we'll be charging you with filing a false report and defamation of character against Ms. Frieda Grimm."
Star's world tilted. This couldn't be happening. The police believed her mother. They believed Frieda. They believed anyone but her.
"Star."
The voice was soft. Gentle. Familiar.
She turned, and there he was.
Adrian stood a few feet away, his arms slightly raised, his eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her forget, for one suspended moment, where she was.
She didn't think. She crossed the distance and threw herself into him. His arms closed around her, strong and sure, and she buried her face in his chest, breathing him in. The station, the cuffs, the accusations—all of it dissolved.
They stayed like that for a long moment. When he finally pulled back, his hands cradled her face, his eyes scanning her as if to assure himself she was real.
"Are you okay?" His voice was rough. "I was so worried sick about you."
"I'm safe," she said.
He kissed her then. Not gently—desperately. As if she might vanish if he let go. Star's eyes fluttered open at the shock of it, and for one crystalline moment, she saw Lucian standing in the station doorway, his face unreadable, watching them both.