The room was bathed in darkness except for the faint glow of the fireplace, its flames barely flickering, reduced to the last dying embers. Ezra Birmingham sat on the edge of his leather armchair, his elbows braced against his knees, his hands tangled in his hair. His breath was low and measured, but his heart slammed violently against his chest. His eyes were bloodshot, the remnants of rage still burning there.
The scent of scorched paper still lingered faintly in the air—the last traces of the evidence he had destroyed to protect Olivia. But the satisfaction he had felt while watching the incriminating photos turn to ash was long gone.
Now, only fear remained.
The phone had been ringing for a full five seconds before Ezra realized it. His head snapped toward it, his fingers tightening into fists. He didn’t recognize the number on the screen, but somehow, he already knew who it was.
He snatched the phone off the table.
“Where is she?” he growled, his voice already low and menacing.
A smooth, chilling laugh slithered through the receiver, and Ezra’s blood turned to ice.
“Oh, Ezra.” Victoria’s voice. Cold. Silken. Cruel. “You sound upset.”
He shot to his feet, his knuckles white against the phone.
“Where. Is. She?” he repeated through gritted teeth, his voice sharper now, cutting through the stillness of the room.
Victoria’s purr was filled with false sympathy.
“Relax, darling. Olivia is perfectly fine—for now.”
Ezra’s grip tightened until the phone creaked slightly beneath his fingers. His jaw clenched, the veins in his neck taut and visible.
“If you’ve touched her—”
She cut him off with a playful tut.
“Temper, temper.” She sighed, feigning disappointment. “I expected more from you, Ezra. Especially when you know you have no leverage here.”
He closed his eyes for half a second, his chest heaving with the effort to keep himself from hurling the phone across the room.
“What do you want?” he bit out.
A satisfied pause. She had him right where she wanted him.
“Oh, it’s very simple,” Victoria cooed. “I want us to have a little chat. Just the two of us. No police. No tricks. You come alone, or I promise you…” Her voice dropped lower, venom lacing every syllable. “You’ll never see her again.”
Ezra’s breath hitched. His eyes narrowed into slits, his free hand clenching into a fist at his side. His mind raced, calculating the odds, searching for a trap in her words. He didn’t trust Victoria for a second. She was as deceitful as she was ruthless.
But none of it mattered.
Because Olivia was out there somewhere—alone, vulnerable, and in Victoria’s grasp.
He exhaled sharply.
“Where?”
Victoria let the silence hang for a beat, savoring his desperation before finally delivering the answer.
“The abandoned textile factory on Briarcliff,” she said sweetly. “In one hour. No sooner. No later.”
Ezra’s fingers tightened around the phone.
“If you hurt her—”
She chuckled softly, almost patronizing.
“Don’t be late, darling,” she crooned, and then the line went dead.
Ezra slowly lowered the phone from his ear, his hand trembling slightly. His lips parted, his breathing uneven. The space around him seemed to constrict, the walls pressing in.
For the briefest moment, he allowed himself to close his eyes—and the image of Olivia flashed behind his eyelids. Her soft smile. The warmth in her eyes. The way her fingers had tightened around his when he’d burned the evidence, silent and steady in her defiance.
And now she was out there—terrified, alone, and in danger.
He would burn the entire world down to get her back.
Ezra moved quickly. He grabbed his gun from the safe behind the framed painting in his study. He barely looked at the weapon as he slid the magazine in, chambered a round, and tucked it into the holster beneath his jacket.
The factory. Briarcliff. One hour.
He didn’t bother calling for backup. He didn’t trust anyone with Olivia’s life but himself.
His car was a black Mercedes with tinted windows. He slid into the driver’s seat, his hands gripping the steering wheel with bone-crushing force. The engine roared to life.
He drove like a man possessed. The speedometer needle crept far past legal limits, but he didn’t care. His knuckles were white against the steering wheel, his eyes sharp and unwavering.
The city lights blurred into streaks of gold and white as he sped down the highway. His heart hammered violently in his chest, each beat heavier than the last.
And all he could see was her.
The way she had smiled at him that morning, her lips brushing over his with featherlight tenderness. The way she had looked at him with unyielding trust, even as she stood in the face of Victoria’s wrath.
He gritted his teeth, his jaw locking painfully. She had trusted him.
And he would not let her down.
The textile factory was a crumbling skeleton of its former self. Its windows were shattered, the once-proud brick walls blackened by age and graffiti. The cracked pavement was littered with broken glass and weeds, and the sagging metal doors hung loosely on their rusted hinges.
Ezra parked his car a block away, out of sight. His hands were steady as he checked his weapon one last time, slipping it beneath his jacket.
The air was bitterly cold, but he didn’t feel it. His blood was a wildfire raging in his veins.
With silent, purposeful steps, he moved toward the entrance. The factory loomed above him, its skeletal frame casting jagged shadows beneath the dim moonlight.
His eyes scanned the building’s exterior, searching for signs of Victoria’s men. There would be guards, of course. She wouldn’t make this easy.
But he didn’t care.
As he stepped closer, a sharp voice rang out from the shadows.
“Stop right there.”
Ezra’s hands curled into fists at his sides. Slowly, he turned his head. A man stepped into view—one of Victoria’s goons. He was broad and stocky, a pistol in hand, his expression flat and cold.
“Keep walking,” the man warned, motioning with his gun.
Ezra didn’t move. He held the man’s gaze, unwavering.
“Where is she?” he growled, his voice low, barely more than a breath.
The man smirked slightly.
“You’re not in any position to make demands.”
Ezra’s eyes narrowed. Wrong answer.
Without warning, he lunged. His movements were swift, lethal. He caught the man’s wrist and twisted violently. The gun clattered to the ground as Ezra drove his fist into the man’s face. Bone cracked beneath his knuckles.
The man stumbled back, blood pouring from his nose, but Ezra didn’t stop. He struck again—harder—sending the man crashing against the wall.
When the goon slumped to the ground, unmoving, Ezra grabbed the discarded pistol and pressed forward.
Victoria was waiting for him inside.
She stood near the center of the abandoned factory, illuminated by a single hanging light. Her dress was pristine, her makeup flawless, as though she were hosting a dinner party instead of luring a man into hell.
Olivia sat slumped in a chair behind her, her wrists bound to the armrests with rough rope. Her lip was split, dried blood crusting at the corner. Her face was pale, her breathing shallow, but she was awake. Her eyes met Ezra’s instantly, wide with relief—and fear.
Victoria smiled.
“Right on time,” she drawled, her voice silky smooth.
Ezra’s eyes were on Olivia, his hands trembling slightly at the sight of her battered face.
“Let her go,” he said, his voice low and deadly.
Victoria clucked her tongue softly.
“Oh, Ezra. Still so predictable.” She turned her gaze on Olivia, her eyes glinting with cruel amusement.
“Do you see now, my dear? How reckless he is for you? How easily he would throw everything away?”
Ezra took a step forward, his gun raised, unwavering.
“Let. Her. Go.”
Victoria’s lips parted into a slow, venomous smile.
“No.”
And then, with a flick of her wrist, one of her men appeared behind Olivia, pressing a gun to her temple.
Ezra’s heart nearly stopped. His blood turned to ice.
Victoria’s eyes glimmered with triumph.
“Now,” she purred. “Let’s talk.”