CHAPTER 159: CHOICES

~LAYLA~

I woke up feeling something soft underneath me. It wasn’t the cold metal or rough rope I was expecting. Instead, it was just warm, smooth leather that felt luxurious and gentle.

As my eyes gradually adjusted to the low light, I took in my surroundings. I was in a study, a fancy one at that. The dark wood panelling and towering bookshelves gave it an air of elegance. The Persian rugs on the floor looked like they might cost more than a lot of people’s cars.

The walls were decorated with trophies that included the heads of a lion, a bear, and an elk. One wall even had a lion’s skin stretched out like a strange-looking tapestry.

I sat up carefully, taking stock of my surroundings. My hands were free, my feet too. The hood was gone; the zip-ties had been cut away.

Behind an enormous mahogany desk sat a man, maybe sixty years old, with silver hair slicked back and a face that spoke of both cruelty and refinement. He wore an expensive, three-piece suit, perfectly tailored. A fat cigar smouldered between his fingers.

Two armed guards flanked the door, holding rifles with blank expressions.

’No doing anything stupid,’ I said to myself.

I didn’t know where I was, how many people were here, or what they wanted beyond the obvious.

The man took a long pull from his cigar, then smiled. "Mrs. O’Brien. Welcome. I trust your accommodations during transport weren’t too uncomfortable?"

"You drugged me and threw me on a boat. What do you think?"

He chuckled. "Fair point. Would you like some water? You must be thirsty."

He gestured to one of the guards, who approached with a sealed bottle of water.

I examined it carefully; the plastic wrap was intact, the cap was sealed, and the label was undamaged. Only then did I take it, twisting off the cap and drinking deeply. My throat was raw, my head pounding.

"Smart," the man observed. "Always verify before consuming. I appreciate caution in my guests."

"Guests don’t usually get kidnapped at gunpoint."

"Semantics." He waved his cigar dismissively. "You’re here because we need to discuss a financial matter. Ninety million dollars, to be precise."

"I don’t have your money."

"So you claim. Yet our records show quite clearly that funds were siphoned from our accounts and rerouted through Eclipse Beauty’s offshore holdings."

"Records can be forged. Doctored."

"True." He leaned back in his chair, studying me. "But if you didn’t take our money, who did?"

"My guess? Charles Watson."

"Charles Watson." The name rolled off his tongue like he was tasting it. "The man whose daughter you put in prison. Interesting timing, wouldn’t you say?"

"It’s not timing; it’s revenge. He stole from you and made it look like we did it."

"Can you prove this?"

"Given time and resources, yes. But not from here, tied up in your..." I gestured around, "...hunting lodge."

"Estate," he corrected. "And you’re not tied up. I’m a civilised man, Mrs. O’Brien. Violence is for those who lack... persuasive arguments."

Before I could say anything, the door flew open, and a younger man walked in.

He looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties, and he had the same silver hair as the older man, but his was styled to one side. His strong cologne quickly filled the room.

"Papa, is this her?" He circled me like a shark, eyes raking over me in a way that made my skin crawl. "She’s prettier than the photos."

"Marco, sit down."

"Such fire in her eyes." Marco moved closer, too close. "I see why O’Brien married her. Though I wonder if he appreciates what he has."

"Step back," I said coldly.

"Or what?" He grinned. "You’ll call for help? Scream? No one can hear you here, bella."

"Marco." The older man’s voice carried a warning. "Take your eyes off a married woman."

"Married women can become unmarried. Especially when their husbands can’t pay their debts."

"She wears a ring. That means something."

"It means nothing if O’Brien’s dead." Marco perched on the arm of the couch, too close for comfort. "Papa, let me take her. Settle the debt that way. She looks worth more than ninety million."

My stomach turned.

The older man, Papa, apparently, set down his cigar. "You’re being disrespectful."

"I’m being practical. We need payment. She’s sitting right here. Why not..."

"Because we’re not animals!" The boom in his voice made me flinch. "We have rules. We have honour. We don’t traffic in human flesh like common thugs."

"Since when? You’ve sold..."

"Enough." Papa’s hand slammed on the desk. "Leave. Now."

Marco stood slowly, shooting me a look that promised this conversation wasn’t over. He walked out, but not before trailing his fingers across my shoulder.

I shuddered.

The door closed, leaving silence.

"I apologise for my son," Papa said, his voice returning to that civil tone. "He forgets his manners."

"He’s a pig."

"He’s young, ambitious... and stupid." He picked up his cigar again. "But he raises a point, crude as it was. We need our money, Mrs. O’Brien. One way or another."

"I don’t have it. I told you..."

"Then call your husband. Have him wire the funds. With interest, of course."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then we have a problem."

A guard approached with a tray holding a crystal glass filled with amber liquid. Whiskey, probably.

"I don’t drink," I said.

He nodded to the guard, who turned, but then, an idea popped in my head and I decided to go with it. "On second thought..." I said, reaching for the glass. I took it, but my hands were shaking slightly.

As I raised it to my lips, my fingers ’accidentally’ slipped.

The glass tumbled, shattering on the hardwood floor. "I’m so sorry!" I dropped to my knees immediately, gathering pieces. "I didn’t mean..."

"Leave it," Papa said. "The maid will—"

"No, please, I’m so clumsy." I kept gathering shards, palming one small piece, and sliding it into the waistband of my dress. "I’ll clean it up."

Marco’s voice came from the doorway. "Leave it, Mrs. O’Brien. Maria will handle it."

I stood slowly, brushing my hands together. "I really am sorry."

"No harm done." Papa waved it off. "Now, about that phone call."

"I won’t call him."

"Mrs. O’Brien..."

"You want me to call my husband and tell him to wire ninety million dollars to the people who kidnapped me? Do you know how insane that sounds?"

"It sounds practical. Business, even."

"It sounds like extortion... kidnapping and ransom."

"Call it what you like. The result is the same." He leaned forward. "Call your husband. Tell him to transfer the funds. Once we verify receipt, you go free. Simple."

"No."

"You have no choice."

"Everyone has choices."

"Do they?" His smile faded. "Let me be clear, Mrs. O’Brien. You will make that call. You will secure our payment. Either in cash..." He paused, letting the words hang. "Or in blood."