Fear
1710 Words
Zayn didn’t sleep that night.
In fact, he didn’t even make an honest attempt at it.
After Lena fled down the hallway, tears streaking down her face, her shoulders trembling with a mixture of fury, fear, and humiliation, he remained standing exactly where she left him — rooted to the polished floor like someone had driven iron stakes through his bones.
He couldn’t recall the last time a single person, let alone a woman he should have viewed merely as a threat, had thrown him so violently off balance.
A strange tightness pressed against his ribs, something he refused to dignify with a name, though the word hovered in the back of his mind like an unwanted ghost: guilt.
It was ridiculous, he told himself; guilt was a luxury he eliminated long ago, a weak, cumbersome emotion he’d excised in the same way he’d removed every chaotic, sentimental element from his life.
And yet, now, that unwelcome sensation sat lodged beneath his sternum like a stone, refusing to be ignored.
He exhaled sharply and turned away from the hallway, driving himself toward his office in long, restless strides, as if he could outrun the echo of her voice — that broken, trembling plea asking if he truly intended to trap her on this island.
The image of her eyes, shining with despair, haunted him with a vicious persistence that irritated him more than he cared to admit.
Moonlight spilled across the office floor, casting long silver stripes over the furniture and illuminating the exact place where she had stood previously, desperately clutching the landline telephone like a lifeline.
“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, pressing his palms flat against the edge of the desk.
Why did it matter?
Why did any of it matter?
He had seen the type before — beautiful, calculating, willing to weaponize innocence and vulnerability as easily as others used a smile. She had lied with a straight face, denied everything despite overwhelming proof, and yet… despite every logical reason to disregard her tears, something in him reacted.
Something primal, inconvenient, and infuriating.
He pushed away from the desk and paced slowly through the room, each step echoing sharply in the quiet villa. His entire life had been dedicated to control — of himself, of his company, of every variable that could ever threaten his family’s stability.
Yet one woman, one stunningly infuriating woman with wide eyes and trembling lips, managed to slip beneath his guard and twist something deep inside him… she made him feel something.
Enough.
He needed clarity.
On a frustrated exhale, he unlocked his phone and dialed the one person who always spoke the truth, even when it was unwelcome.
Samson, his Head of Security, answered after two rings, his voice steady and firm, a grounding contrast to the turmoil in Zayn’s chest.
“Sir? It’s all in order?”
Zayn didn’t waste time. “I have a problem.”
There was a brief pause, and then, without hesitation:
“…Is it Miss Pearson?”
Zayn’s silence was answer enough.
Samson exhaled slowly. “With all due respect, sir… you are playing with fire.”
Zayn’s jaw tightened. “Don’t lecture me.”
“It’s not a lecture. It’s a warning,” Samson replied, his tone respectful but edged with steel. “If a journalist uncovers even a fraction of what’s happening on that island — or worse, if anyone in your family discovers that you forcibly brought your father’s mistress to a private location — your reputation will not survive the fallout. You won’t be able to contain it.”
The words landed like icy stones in Zayn’s stomach.
He knew Samson was right.
But knowing didn’t change the fact that he had already crossed the line.
“I am handling the situation,” Zayn said sharply, gripping the phone.
“With respect,” Samson said again, firmer this time, “you are not. You abducted her — whether intentionally or not is irrelevant — and now she is attempting to escape. That alone tells us she feels severely threatened. And a frightened woman makes unpredictable decisions.”
Zayn swallowed hard, hating the truth in those words.
Samson, usually measured, added in a quieter voice, “Sir… this is the first time I’ve seen you be … emotional.”
Zayn’s eyes snapped open. “I am not emotional.”
Samson didn’t challenge the lie, which somehow made it worse.
“Whatever you decide next,” Samson continued, “will determine whether this ends in a controlled solution… or a complete disaster. Please, sir. Tread carefully and let the girl go.”
The call ended, the screen fading to black in Zayn’s hand.
For a long moment, he remained still, staring at the reflection of moonlight on the floor, replaying every word.
Samson was right — he was playing with fire. But what Samson could never truly understand was that Zayn had already passed the point of caution.
The damage was already done, so at least he should get what he intended all this time.
He needed Lena Pearson neutralized, contained, prevented from ever approaching his father again.
But then he thought of her, curled behind her bedroom door, sobbing with helpless frustration… and something in him twisted sharply.
He pressed both palms onto the desk again, bowing his head.
“This was supposed to be simple,” he whispered into the empty room.
But nothing about Lana Pearson was simple.
--
The next day, Lena refused to leave her room.
The staff knocked gently, offering meals, juice, even a small plate of fruit — anything light enough to tempt her. She ignored every voice, every request.
When Marla opened the small service hatch to slide in a breakfast tray, Lena shoved it back so forcefully that the porcelain bowl shattered against the wall. The sound echoed through the hallway, startling the staff and leaving them in stunned silence.
The reports began trickling in almost immediately.
“Mr. Specter, Miss Pearson isn’t answering.”
“Sir, she refuses all meals.”
“We tried tea, soup, biscuits — she sends everything back.”
Zayn dismissed the first reports with a cold, controlled nod.
“Let her be,” he instructed. “She’ll fold eventually.”
He said it confidently.
He believed it.
Because this was the natural order of things: pressure yielded results.
People always broke eventually. They always came to their senses. And Lana, stubborn as she was, would do the same once hunger gnawed through her pride.
Except… she didn’t.
The second day came, and her refusal hardened like steel. The untouched trays were collected one after another. Even the butler — a man who rarely showed emotion — looked concerned when he delivered the report that every tray had been left precisely where it was placed, as if Lena had never once approached the door.
Zayn waved it off, though something small and uncomfortable twisted in his stomach.
“She’s being dramatic,” he muttered under his breath. “It won’t last.”
Yet the moment he said it, a tiny whisper of doubt murmured at the edge of his mind, but he pushed it away.
By the third day, that whisper had turned into a cold, persistent weight.
He was in his office reviewing contracts when Marla appeared in the doorway, wringing her hands.
“Sir… she still hasn’t eaten. Not a single bite. She isn’t responding at all.”
Zayn froze.
His pen hovered over the paper.
His chest tightened.
And for the first time in days, his composure faltered.
“She has to eat,” he said, but the words sounded wrong — too thin, too uncertain.
Marla’s eyes filled with worry. “Sir, … she might be ill?”
A strange tension shot through him, sharp and unwelcome.
Without thinking, he pushed back his chair and strode out of the room, each step growing faster, heavier, driven by something he didn’t care to define.
As he reached her door, he knocked hard.
“Lana!”
No answer.
His heartbeat spiked uncomfortably.
“Lana, open the door. Now.”
Silence.
His jaw clenched as an adrenaline-fueled urgency surged through his veins.
“Damn it,” he growled. “Open this door!”
Still nothing.
A chill slithered down his spine — a cold, whispering fear he hadn’t felt in years.
He turned sharply to the butler, who was present as well.
“Bring me the spare key. Now.”
The man rushed down the hallway, returning within a minute with a brass key on a small chain. Zayn snatched it, ignoring the tremor in his own hand as he forced it into the lock.
The click echoed like a gunshot.
He pushed the door open—
And froze.
His breath vanished.
Lena lay collapsed on the floor, her delicate frame crumpled like a discarded doll. Her hair spilled around her face, her skin pale, almost translucent. One hand was limp against the edge of the bed, the other curled weakly against her stomach.
For a full second, Zayn couldn’t move.
Couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t think.
A single horrifying realization roared through him:
She wasn’t acting.
The world snapped into motion.
“Lana!”
He was on his knees beside her, gathering her into his arms, his voice sharp with panic he didn’t recognize. “Lana, wake up. Open your eyes.”
Her head lolled against his shoulder, unresponsive.
Something inside him cracked — something deep and infuriatingly vulnerable.
This wasn’t defiance.
This wasn’t negotiation.
This was danger.
His danger.
His doing.
“Call Dr. Hale,” he barked to the butler, who stood frozen in shock. “Move!”
The staff scrambled, voices rising in frantic whispers, but Zayn blocked out everything except the unconscious woman in his arms — so small, so fragile, so disastrously human.
He lifted her easily, cradling her against his chest as he stood.
“Lana… what the hell have you done to yourself?” he whispered, but the words carried a tremor that betrayed the truth:
What the hell have I done to you?
Panic hammered through him like a second heartbeat.
And for the first time since meeting her…
Zayn Specter feared he’d finally pushed too far.
- Writer
