Jilted By Nephew, Claimed By King

The concrete floor was cold enough to seep through the denim of her jeans, biting into her kneecaps. Annelise Phelps kept her head down, her chin tucked against her chest, letting her shoulders shake in a rhythm that mimicked terror. It was a performance she had perfected in places far worse than a dusty, abandoned shipyard warehouse in the Brooklyn Navy Yard.

Dust motes danced in the single shaft of light cutting through the gloom. She counted them. She counted the seconds between the drips of water falling from a rusted pipe somewhere in the darkness. But mostly, she calculated the distance between Benji, who was currently wearing a ski mask and brandishing a serrated tactical knife, and the heavy iron door to her left.

Twelve feet.

If this were real, Benji would be dead in three seconds. But this wasn't an extraction. This was theater.

The heavy iron door groaned, the sound of metal grinding against metal echoing through the cavernous space. Light flooded in, harsh and blinding. Annelise squeezed her eyes shut and let out a whimper that sounded pathetic even to her own ears.

"Annelise!"

Preston Carson's voice cracked. He sounded out of breath. He sounded like a man who had run a marathon, or perhaps just a man who wanted to appear as though he had.

Annelise looked up, widening her eyes until they watered. Preston stood in the doorway, his Italian suit looking out of place against the industrial decay. Behind him, clutching the back of his jacket, was Felicia. Her stepsister. Felicia's makeup was flawless, her terror perfectly curated, though Annelise caught the glint of excitement in her eyes as she took in the scene.

"Please," Annelise begged, her voice trembling. "Preston, please help me."

Benji stepped forward. He had a voice modulator tucked against his throat, turning his youthful tenor into a gravelly, demonic growl.

"Two minutes," Benji barked, pointing the knife at a device strapped to a pillar. Red numbers ticked down. 1:59. 1:58. "The bomb is rigged to the door mechanism. I take one hostage with me. The other stays here and burns. You choose, rich boy."

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. The ticking of the timer seemed to amplify, bouncing off the corrugated metal walls. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Annelise shuffled forward on her knees. The rope binding her wrists behind her back was loose-she had tied the knots herself-but she kept her arms rigid. She looked at Preston. She looked at the man who saw her as a rival for his family's power, a piece on a chessboard he desperately wanted off the board. This was the man whose uncle, Francesco Lancaster, she was contractually obligated to marry-a man Preston believed was an invalid, making this entire merger a threat to his own inheritance.

"Preston," she whispered. She stretched her neck out, reaching for him with her gaze. "I'm scared."

Preston looked at her. He really looked at her. He saw the oversized, pilling gray sweater she wore to play the part of the dowdy fiancée-to-be for his crippled uncle. He saw her messy hair, the lack of makeup, the way she cowered on the dirty floor. His lip curled. It was a micro-expression, gone in an instant, but Annelise saw it. Disgust.

Then he looked at Felicia. Felicia, who was wearing a silk blouse that caught the light. Felicia, who let out a high-pitched scream and buried her face in his chest.

"I don't want to die!" Felicia sobbed. "Preston, don't let him kill me!"

The numbers on the pillar flashed. 1:15.

Preston didn't hesitate. He didn't agonize. He didn't even say he was sorry. He simply grabbed Felicia's hand.

"I'm sorry, Annelise," he said, though his voice was flat, devoid of any real apology. He turned his back on her.

Annelise let out a scream, a raw, desperate sound that scraped her throat. She lunged forward, falling onto her side, trying to inch toward him. "No! Preston! Don't leave me!"

He didn't look back. He shoved Felicia through the open door and followed her out. The heavy iron slab slammed shut with a finality that shook the floorboards. The darkness returned, absolute and suffocating.

Annelise lay on the cold concrete for exactly three seconds.

Then, she stopped shaking.

She rolled onto her knees, her spine straightening, the hunch of the victim vanishing instantly. Her face, previously contorted in fear, smoothed into a mask of bored indifference. With a simple twist of her wrists and a sharp tug, the ropes fell away. The knots were a variation of a Navy SEAL restraint she could undo in her sleep.

"Cut the timer, Benji," she said, her voice cool and steady.

The red numbers went dark. Benji pulled off the ski mask, revealing a face flushed with adrenaline and sweat. He hurried over to the pillar and yanked the power cord on the fake explosive.

"That was cold, Boss," Benji said, looking at the closed door. "I mean, I knew he was a prick, but... damn."

Annelise stood up and brushed the dust off her knees. She looked down at the gray sweater with disdain. It was itchy. She hated it.

"He did exactly what his psychological profile predicted," Annelise said. She reached into her boot and pulled out a tube of lipstick. Using the reflection in the darkened screen of the tablet Benji handed her, she applied a coat of deep crimson to her lips. It was like putting on war paint. "Did we get it?"

"4K, sixty frames per second," Benji said, tapping the tablet screen.

He handed it to her. Annelise watched the playback. The camera angle was perfect. It captured the exact moment Preston recoiled from her. It captured the way he grabbed Felicia's hand. It captured the look of relief on his face as he condemned his uncle's future wife to death.

"Do we leak it to the press?" Benji asked.

"No." Annelise capped the lipstick with a satisfying click. A small, cruel smile played on her lips. "This isn't for the public. Not yet. This is an appetizer for Francesco Lancaster."

Benji checked his watch. "Speaking of the devil. His convoy is three miles out. He's moving fast."

"Good." Annelise tossed the tablet back to him. "Torch it."

Benji nodded. He moved to the corners of the warehouse where they had pre-staged the accelerants. He struck a flare and tossed it onto a pile of oil-soaked rags.

The fire caught instantly. It roared to life, hungry and violent, climbing the walls and eating the oxygen in the room. The heat was immediate, a physical wall slamming into them.

"Go out the back," Annelise ordered. "Make sure you aren't seen."

"See you on the other side, Boss." Benji vanished into the shadows.

Annelise stood alone in the center of the growing inferno. She reached up and messed up her hair, pulling strands loose until she looked wild and unhinged. She began to hyperventilate intentionally, forcing her heart rate to spike, flushing her skin, dilating her pupils.

She stared at the flames reflecting in her eyes. The heat was becoming unbearable, singing the fine hairs on her arms.

It was time to meet the King.