Chapter 4: Hostage Hearts

A plan started to form.

Just give a crazy fan a little opportunity, and anything could happen.

On the way from the studio to the parking garage—level B2—Tyler and I both smelled something off and blacked out.

We really were kidnapped.

When I woke up, Tyler was shirtless, sprawled on a hard single bed, looking nothing like a star.

A metal ring—an ankle shackle—was on his ankle, chained to the bedpost.

Someone walked in with a boxed meal.

"Tony, do you recognize me? I gave you flowers at your concert last year."

"I also gave you a diamond bracelet, remember?"

"I really love your songs!"

Tony—what his fans called him, or maybe just a stage name—was Tyler’s idol persona. The crazy fan’s last name was Martinez; she looked older than us, greasy hair, a little chubby—the exact type he, in his snobbery, dismissed.

I called her Ms. Martinez.

Tyler was famous for his looks and bad temper.

He raised his sharp brows, still striking even when angry.

"I’m warning you, stay away from me!"

I turned my head, pretending to still be unconscious.

Later, Tyler gritted his teeth at me: "Emily, you didn’t even look nervous. Where’s your professionalism?"

I flattered him: "What do I have to worry about? I’m neither rich nor pretty."

"It’s all the boss’s fault for being too handsome. Whether Ms. Martinez wants money or something else, I should be safe!"

"You—"

He glared at me in disbelief. "So your attentiveness before was all fake."

No wonder he was loved by so many girls.

Even angry, he was still gorgeous.

Yeah, he was born to be the main character, used to girls fawning over him.

Always narcissistic, thinking everyone should love and protect him.

But when someone doesn’t, he can’t accept it.

"It’s just a job, boss. You’re impossible to please." I sighed.

"Even married couples crack in a crisis, let alone a little assistant like me who got dragged into this."

"If I lie, you worry I have ulterior motives."

"If I tell the truth, you say I’m unprofessional."

"What do you want people to do?"

I enjoyed watching Tyler suffer.

Ms. Martinez injected him with muscle relaxants—a benzo, maybe; he was like a big doll, posed for photos.

"I’m going to kill her, I swear—"

I listened to his complaints, dazed. I pictured the pool. My sister had been pinned in the water and filmed, humiliated in so many ways.

They wouldn’t let her go.

"You have to recite the love letter word for word, or you’re not leaving."

"Didn’t you have the guts to send a love letter?"

She cried as she finished reciting it, but underestimated their cruelty.

They sent the video anyway.

Tyler must have seen it too.

I joked with Ms. Martinez,

"What’s the point of tying me up? You finally got your idol."

"Keeping me here is just in the way. Let me go, I promise I’ll keep quiet."

"Hey, how about we cut a deal…"