Beneath Steel Skies

Three years ago The dark was infinite. Not the kind of dark one finds in a power outage or beneath a cloudy sky, but a thick, suffocating darkness that pressed against her skin. Veronica Steele sat hunched in the corner of a damp concrete room, knees pulled tightly to her chest, fingers pressed to her temples to block out the world. It had been, she didn’t know, hours? Days? Her watch had been confiscated, along with her phone, earrings, belt, and shoes. The only certainty was the rhythm of her breath. In… two… three… four. Hold. Out… two… three… four… The voice of her trauma therapist echoed in her mind. Months before the business trip to Colombia, Veronica had undergone training for high-risk travel, part of the protocol for tech CEOs expanding into international territories. At the time, she’d rolled her eyes through most of it, too confident to believe anything like this could ever happen. Now, that training might be the only thing keeping her sane. The silence was deceptive. It wasn’t truly quiet. There was the occasional distant drip of water, a rat skittering across the cement, and the muffled sounds of Spanish being spoken somewhere beyond the heavy metal door. But within these walls, there was no light, no windows, and no clocks. Just Veronica’s breath, and the echoes of her heartbeat pounding against her ribs like a warning. Keep breathing. Keep counting. Don’t panic. The first day, she had screamed. The second, she had begged. By the third, she had gone silent. They hadn’t touched her, not yet. But the implication hung heavy in the air. The scent of mildew and sweat. They wanted something. A ransom? A demand? They hadn’t said. Her captors had kept their faces covered and their words few. All she knew was that she was no longer Veronica Steele, CEO of Steele Innovations, media darling and tech industry icon. Here, she was just a prisoner in a room too small to stretch her legs. Her stomach growled weakly, more out of habit than hunger. Food came irregularly. Thin broth or stale bread shoved through a slot at the bottom of the door. She drank it because she had to. She slept in fits, curled up in her business suit that now smelled of fear and mildew. Her bare feet were cold. Her toes ached. Veronica had always been in control. At twenty-seven, she had already built her first start-up. By thirty, she'd sold it for eight figures. Now, at thirty-two, she sat at the helm of a global tech empire, with a name that demanded respect. Her world was built on sharp heels, sharper intellect, and an iron will. Control was her religion. And now, stripped of it, she was losing her grip. She rocked slightly, back and forth, letting her forehead rest on her knees. She had stopped crying two days ago. Her tears had dried up, replaced by a hollow resolve. If they wanted to break her, they’d have to work harder. She would survive this. She would return. And when she did, she would burn everything in her path until the people who did this were nothing but a footnote in her legacy. Still, her mind betrayed her. Images of boardrooms and bustling city streets faded, replaced by the hum of silence and the weight of fear. Her therapist had warned her that trauma wasn’t about what happened, but how long it lingered. Veronica had always assumed she could outrun it. But here, time didn’t move. The door opened. Light flooded the room, so sudden and fierce that she recoiled with a gasp, shielding her face with her arms. Her eyes hadn’t adjusted fast enough, and it felt like daggers slicing across her vision. “Levántate,” a deep voice barked. She didn’t move. The figure stepped forward, grabbing her by the elbow and yanking her to her feet. Her body ached from disuse, and her legs trembled as she tried to stand. The man pushed a bottle of water into her hand and gestured toward the hallway. She blinked through the blur of light, trying to make out shapes. The corridor was narrow, lined with concrete. The man wore a black ski mask that revealed only his mouth and eyes. She couldn’t read his expression. Another man appeared behind him, also masked. They said nothing else. For a moment, Veronica’s panic spiked. Was this it? Were they moving her to another location? Was she about to die? But instead of dragging her away, the man gestured to the water again. “Drink,” he said in English, his accent thick. Her throat burned with thirst, and despite herself, she drank greedily. Cold water never tasted so sweet. Then he took the bottle, stepped back, and slammed the door shut again. Darkness returned. But this time, Veronica felt different. The water was a signal. So was the word in English. Someone was watching. Listening. Negotiating. It wasn’t over. She lowered herself back to the floor slowly, controlled. Her breathing steadied. The water was something they didn’t have to give her. That meant she had value. That meant there was still a game to play. And she knew how to play games. Three days later, she was found. It made headlines across every major news outlet. "Billionaire CEO Rescued in Hostage Operation," the headlines screamed. Footage of her being led, barefoot and blank-faced, into the back of a black SUV played on repeat. The world mourned. The stock market shuddered, then rebounded. People sent flowers. Her board issued statements. Her competitors made sympathetic noises. Veronica made none. She didn’t cry. She didn’t rage. She didn’t smile. She went back to work two weeks later. No interviews. No press conferences. She took back the reins of Steele Innovations with even colder precision than before. Her assistant said nothing when she replaced every staff member who had made decisions in her absence. Security was doubled. All boardroom meetings were moved to her floor. She began checking locks personally. She stopped wearing shoes with open toes. Always stilettos now. Always black. No one questioned her. They feared her. But late at night, when her office emptied and the city lights turned the windows into mirrors, Veronica sat alone at her desk, unable to sleep, staring at her own reflection. The world had moved on. But she hadn’t. Control wasn’t just a tool now. It was oxygen. It was armour. Without it, she felt like she was still in that concrete room, shaking in the dark, waiting to vanish. So, she built walls. Higher, colder, stronger. Love? Irrelevant. Friendship? Weakness. Touch? Unthinkable. If no one could get close, no one could take her again. And no one ever would.