After My Fiancé Hung Up During My Kidnapping, I Stopped Begging for His Love

I woke to the sound of splintering wood.

For a second, I thought I was dreaming. Then the door exploded inward. The chair I'd wedged under the handle clattered across the floor. Three men poured into the room. Dark clothes. Ski masks. One had a gun.

I opened my mouth to scream. A hand clamped over my face. I was dragged off the bed, my knees hitting the floor hard. Zip ties bit into my wrists. Someone yanked my hair back. Cold metal pressed against my throat.

"Quiet," a voice hissed in my ear. Accented English. "You make noise, you die."

My heart slammed against my ribs. I couldn't breathe. The hand over my mouth smelled like cigarettes and sweat.

They shoved me face-first against the wall. The concrete was rough and cold. I tasted blood. My lip had split.

"Check the bag," the man holding me said.

One of them dumped my suitcase onto the floor. Clothes scattered. He rifled through my wallet. Held up my credit cards like trophies.

"American," he said. "Rich."

The ringleader—the one with the knife at my throat—pulled out a phone. My phone. He scrolled through it with one hand while keeping the blade steady with the other.

"Who do we call?" he asked me.

I couldn't answer. My voice was gone.

He pressed the knife harder. A thin line of pain opened along my skin. "Who has money?"

"My—my father," I choked out.

"Good." He found the contact. Hit dial. Put it on speaker.

It rang once. Twice. Then my father's voice, groggy and alarmed. "Marley? What's wrong?"

"Mr. Edwards," the man said smoothly. "Your daughter is with us. If you want her back, you will pay."

There was a beat of silence. Then my father's voice again, sharp now, fully awake. "Let me talk to her."

The man tilted the phone toward me. "Say hello."

"Dad—" My voice cracked. "Dad, please—"

The phone was yanked away. "Five hundred thousand dollars," the man said. "US. You have twelve hours."

He hung up.

The two other men started arguing in a language I didn't understand. One of them gestured at me. The other shook his head. Their voices got louder. The ringleader barked something, and they both went quiet.

In that moment—in that tiny sliver of distraction—I felt it.

My phone. Still on the bed. Just inches from my bound hands.

I shifted. Slowly. My fingers stretched. Touched the edge of the case.

The men were still arguing. The ringleader had turned away to light a cigarette.

I grabbed the phone. Pulled it toward me. My hands were shaking so hard I almost dropped it.

I unlocked it. Went to recent calls. Cade's name was right there.

I hit dial.

It rang. Once. Twice. Pick up. Please pick up.

"What?" His voice was sharp. Annoyed.

Relief flooded through me so fast I almost sobbed. "Cade," I whispered. "Cade, please, there are men, they have guns, please help me—"

"Marley?" He sounded far away. Like he'd pulled the phone from his ear.

Then I heard it. Her voice. Soft and breathy and so close to the receiver she must have been right next to him.

"She's just doing this for attention," Lilian murmured. "She's been jealous of me all trip. Don't fall for it."

Silence.

My heart stopped.

"Cade," I said again. My voice broke. "Please. They're going to kill me."

Another beat of silence. Then his voice came back. Cold. Irritated. Contemptuous.

"Jesus, Marley. Stop being pathetic. I'm not doing this with you right now."

The line went dead.

I stared at the screen. At his name. At the call duration: forty-three seconds.

The phone slipped from my fingers.

Something inside me snapped. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a clean, quiet break. Like a wire pulled too tight for too long.

The ringleader turned back toward me. Saw the phone on the floor. His eyes narrowed.

"Who did you call?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't. My mind was somewhere else. Somewhere cold and clear.

He grabbed my arm. Hauled me to my feet. Shoved me toward the other men. "Watch her."

One of them pushed me into the corner. I hit the wall hard. My shoulder screamed. I didn't care.

I wasn't thinking about the gun anymore. Or the knife. Or the zip ties cutting into my wrists.

I was thinking about my mother's voice three months ago, pressing a thin silver bracelet into my hand. "Just in case," she'd said. "You never know."

I was thinking about the tiny blade hidden in the clasp.

I was thinking about Cade's voice. *Stop being pathetic.*

The ringleader was on his phone again. Arguing with someone. His back was to me.

I twisted my wrists. Found the bracelet. Found the clasp.

Pressed.

The blade slid free. Small. Sharp. Cold.

I sawed at the zip tie. My hands were numb. The plastic was thick. I kept going.

It snapped.

The ringleader turned.

I lunged.

The blade caught him across the throat. Hot blood sprayed. He staggered back, choking, eyes wide.

Chaos.

The other men shouted. One of them grabbed for me. I ducked. Ran. The door was open. I didn't think. I just moved.

Down the stairs. Into the street. A car was parked outside, engine still running. Keys in the ignition.

I threw myself into the driver's seat. Slammed the door. Locked it.

Behind me, they were coming.

I hit the gas.

The car lurched forward. I didn't know where I was going. I didn't care. I just drove. Through narrow streets. Past dark buildings. My hands were slick with blood. My breath came in ragged gasps.

I saw a sign. Blue and white. Police.

I turned. Slammed on the brakes. Stumbled out of the car and through the doors of the station.

Someone caught me before I hit the floor.

"Help," I whispered.

Then everything went black.