Chapter 2: The Trap Springs Shut

Just as I reached out to move the painting, I heard the front door open downstairs. Shit. My whole body went rigid—no way, Whitmore was supposed to be at the gala. Footsteps followed—not just one person. My stomach knotted. Of course it was a trap.

My heart didn’t just drop—it plummeted and twisted, settling somewhere cold and deep. I froze, hand hovering over the frame, every muscle tensed. The sound of heavy shoes and muffled voices drifted up the stairs—definitely more than one. I cursed under my breath, ducking away from the desk.

I quickly shut off my night-vision goggles and ducked behind the heavy curtains. Don’t panic. My heart hammered in my chest, but I forced myself to stay calm. Through a gap in the curtains, I watched the study door swing open and the lights flicker on.

The sudden brightness stung my eyes. I squeezed them shut, blinking fast. A split second to adjust. I pressed myself flat against the wall, barely daring to breathe. I could see the edge of Whitmore’s suit jacket, the shine of his Italian loafers. My mind raced, calculating escape routes. Stay still. Wait for a shot.

Whitmore walked in, flanked by two guards. I ducked lower, holding my breath, muscles tight as piano wire. The tension in the room crackled like static. I could feel every inch of myself, heart pounding.

Up close, his presence was even more chilling—like a blast of winter air. The guards, muscle-bound and stone-faced, stood at attention. Whitmore’s eyes swept the room, sharp and calculating. I shrank back, hoping the shadows would swallow me whole.

“Put it on the desk. You two can go,” Whitmore commanded, his voice low and authoritative. I felt the power in his words, like he expected the world to obey.

His tone left no room for questions. The guards set the briefcase down with a heavy thud, then retreated, their footsteps echoing down the hall. Whitmore waited until the door latched shut, then turned his attention to the painting. My pulse skipped. What was he hiding?

The moment the door closed, the tension in the room got so thick I could practically taste it—like swallowing cotton. Whitmore’s hand lingered on the briefcase, fingers drumming a slow rhythm, savoring whatever was inside. My skin crawled. Something big was about to happen.

Whitmore waited for the door to close before walking over to the painting. I held my breath as he pressed a hidden button on the frame. The entire bookshelf slid aside, revealing a secret door. My heart leapt. This was way beyond what I’d expected.

I blinked, stunned. Holy hell. My intel hadn’t said anything about a hidden passage—just a safe, maybe a false back in the bookshelf. But this? This was straight out of a spy movie. I watched, barely daring to move, as Whitmore hefted the briefcase and disappeared into the darkness beyond the sliding shelf. Son of a—

Instead of a chill up my spine, my skin prickled with electric dread. Had I missed something? Was there a second layer to his security, something even my source didn’t know about? Don’t panic. I counted the seconds, heart pounding, as the bookshelf glided silently back into place. Keep it together. Don’t freeze.

I counted to one hundred, making sure he wasn’t coming right back, then slipped out from my hiding spot.

Every muscle screamed to run, but I forced myself to wait. Sweat trickled down my back. I counted under my breath, slow and steady. At one hundred, I crept out, brushing the curtain aside. The room was empty again, but the air still felt charged, like the stink of Whitmore’s cologne wouldn’t leave. Gross.

Now what? My thoughts spun. I couldn’t just bail. Not now.

My brain raced through options. Stick to the plan, or follow Whitmore into the unknown? My hands trembled, not from fear, but from the thrill of the chase. This was a twist I hadn’t seen coming. My heart was all in.

The original plan was to grab the goods and get the hell out, but this curveball changed everything. No way I was walking away from a secret passage.

I weighed my options, but the lure of the unknown was too strong. I’d come this far—I wasn’t about to walk away now. Not when the real secrets were just beyond that hidden door. I wiped my palms, ready.

I hesitated for a few seconds, but curiosity won out over caution. I approached the painting and found the nearly invisible button. This was it. No turning back.

My fingers found the seam Whitmore had pressed. My breath came short and quick. I pushed. The bookshelf slid aside with a soft mechanical whir, revealing a narrow staircase spiraling down. My nerves sizzled. Go.

A faint draft rose up from below, carrying the scent of cold stone and something metallic. My stomach clenched. This was no ordinary hiding place. What the hell was he keeping down there? My mind raced.

I drew the handgun I always carried—yeah, it’s weird for a thief to pack heat, but I’d come prepared for much more than that tonight. Just in case. You never know with people like Whitmore.

I checked the chamber, the cold weight solid in my palm. The last time I’d needed it, things had gone sideways fast. I flexed my hand. Tonight, I had a feeling it might save more than just my own skin.

At the bottom of the stairs was a spacious basement, furnished like a luxury apartment. Plush rugs, leather couches, a wet bar in the corner—billionaire’s man cave. But something was off. Danger crawled along my skin.

The air was thick with something darker, an undercurrent of fear that made my stomach twist. I tasted bile at the back of my throat. Something bad had happened here—maybe still was.

But what really made my blood run cold was the iron cage in the center of the room, with a young woman curled up inside. She couldn’t have been more than twenty, terrifyingly thin, deep marks around her wrists and ankles. My gut clenched so hard I almost doubled over.

My breath caught. The sight was so jarring, it took a second to process. The girl’s hair was matted, her skin paper-pale. She wore what looked like a college sweatshirt, sleeves shredded and stained. The marks on her wrists and ankles were raw, angry red—proof of weeks, maybe months, spent chained up. Jesus. How long had she been here?

Whitmore stood before the cage, pulling a syringe and a vial of clear liquid from the briefcase. My finger tightened on the trigger. He looked calm—too calm.

He moved with a calm, clinical precision, like he’d done this a hundred times before. The briefcase was open on the floor, lined with vials, syringes, and stacks of cash. Rage flared in my chest, hot and blinding. This was worse than I’d ever imagined.

“Please… please, don’t inject me again…” the girl begged, her voice so hoarse it was barely audible. My throat tightened. My hand shook on the gun.

She tried to scoot away, but there was nowhere to go. Her words barely carried, but the terror in her eyes was unmistakable. I felt a surge of helpless anger—no one deserved this, least of all someone so young. Not again. Not ever.

“Quiet, Emily.” Whitmore’s voice was disturbingly gentle, sending chills down my spine. “You know this will make you feel better.” My skin crawled. Monster.

He crouched beside the cage, voice syrupy-sweet. The contrast made my stomach turn. He was a predator, and she was his prey—trapped, powerless, desperate. I wanted to shoot him right then and there.

My hand holding the gun started to tremble. I gritted my teeth, trying to steady it. Focus. Don’t lose control.

Sweat slicked my palms. I wiped one hand on my jeans, trying to keep my grip. The urge to act was overwhelming. My mind screamed: Move! Do something!

This was not what I’d planned to find. Not even close. Fury and fear tangled in my chest.

I forced myself to steady my breathing. In, out. In, out. I’d seen bad things before, but nothing like this. Nothing that hit this close to home. My mind flashed back to Hannah, to the day everything changed. I wasn’t letting another girl die tonight.

Whitmore plunged the needle into her arm. She whimpered in pain, then gradually quieted, her eyes going blank. My stomach flipped. I wanted to tear him apart.

I watched, helpless, as the drug took hold. Emily’s head lolled, her limbs slack. The sight made my blood boil—I wanted to shoot Whitmore right then and there, but I couldn’t risk missing. Not with her so close. Not with him so close to finishing whatever he’d started.

“Get some sleep.” Whitmore patted her face, then turned toward another room. My hands shook with rage. I had to act—soon.

He straightened, wiped his hands on a monogrammed handkerchief, and strode toward a steel door at the far end. The way he touched her cheek—like she was a pet, not a person—made me want to scream. I had to stop him. Now.

I had to get out before I was discovered. But as I backed away, I accidentally knocked something over by the stairs. Shit. Too late.

A metal tray clattered to the floor, the sound sharp and jarring in the silence. I froze, heart hammering, but it was too late. Whitmore spun around, eyes narrowing. Damn it.

His face twisted in fury, mouth a hard line. His eyes locked on mine. The tension snapped like a wire.

“Who the hell is there?” His voice went ice-cold. I felt the words slice right through me. No more hiding.