Daddy's Best Friend Bought Me

CHAPTER EIGHT: Night Terrors

I dream about my mother.

She's at the kitchen table in our old house, the one before it fell apart. Sunlight streams through yellow curtains, and she's laughing at something. Her black hair is pulled back, and she's wearing the blue sweater she loved, the one Dad threw away after she died.

"Baby girl," she says, and her voice is exactly as I remember. "You need to wake up."

"I don't want to," I tell her. "It's better here."

"It's not real here." She reaches across the table, but I can't quite touch her hand. "Wake up, Bella. Something's wrong."

I jolt awake.

The room is dark except for the city glow filtering through those massive windows. My heart is racing, and I don't know why. The dream felt urgent, like a warning.

Then I smell it.

Smoke.

Not strong, just a trace. Enough that my brain registered danger before I fully woke.

I sit up, trying to orient myself. The smoke detector isn't going off. Nothing obvious is burning. But the smell is real.

I grab my phone. Two-seventeen in the morning.

The connecting door to Marcus's room is closed. I put my ear against it, listening. Nothing.

Maybe I'm imagining things. Maybe it's just the heating system or something from outside or my paranoid brain inventing problems.

But my mother's voice in my dream felt so real. Wake up. Something's wrong.

I unlock my door to the hallway—the one that's usually locked from the outside. It opens.

That's wrong. It's never unlocked at night.

The penthouse beyond is dark and quiet. Too quiet. The normal hum of electronics and climate control is absent.

"Marcus?" My voice comes out small.

No answer.

I step into the hallway, and that's when I see the glow. Orange and flickering, coming from the direction of Marcus's office.

Fire.

"Marcus!" I run toward his room, throw open the connecting door.

His bed is empty. Covers thrown back like he left in a hurry.

The smoke is thicker here. I cover my mouth with my sleeve and move into the penthouse. The fire is definitely coming from his office—the one that's always locked, always private.

The office door is open. That's wrong too.

Flames lick up one wall, consuming books and papers. The fire isn't huge yet, but it's spreading. And Marcus is inside, on his knees, pulling boxes from a cabinet.

"What are you doing?" I scream. "Get out!"

He doesn't seem to hear me. He's focused on the boxes, dragging them away from the flames.

I look around wildly. Fire extinguisher. There has to be a fire extinguisher.

I find one in the hallway, rip it from the wall, run back into the office. The heat hits me like a physical force.

"Marcus, move!"

I pull the pin and spray. White foam explodes out, covering the flames. Marcus grabs another extinguisher from somewhere and helps. Together we knock down the fire until it's just smoke and char and the acrid smell of burned things.

The sprinkler system kicks in belatedly, drenching us both.

We stand there, gasping, covered in foam and water. The office is destroyed. Papers everywhere, shelves collapsed, one whole wall blackened.

Marcus is bleeding. I notice it suddenly. His forearm has a gash that's dripping red.

"You're hurt."

He looks down like he's just noticing. "It's nothing."

"It's not nothing. You need—"

The elevator chimes.

Viktor bursts out, gun drawn, two other men behind him. They take in the scene—the destroyed office, the fire extinguishers, Marcus bleeding, me drenched and shaking.

"Sweep the floor," Marcus orders. His voice is steady despite everything. "Check security footage. Find out how someone got in."

Someone. Not something. This wasn't an accident.

"You think someone broke in?" My voice shakes.

"I know they did." Marcus moves past me toward the bathroom. "The fire was set deliberately. And my alarm system was disabled."

Viktor and his men spread through the penthouse, checking rooms, barking into radios. I follow Marcus to the bathroom where he's running water over his arm.

"Let me help." I grab the first aid kit from under the sink—of course there's a first aid kit, Marcus prepares for everything.

"I can manage."

"You're bleeding all over the marble. Sit down."

He sits on the edge of the tub. I clean the wound—it's deep, probably needs stitches, but I make do with butterfly bandages and gauze. My hands are shaking, and I can't tell if it's adrenaline or fear or both.

"How did they get in?" I ask while I work.

"Good question."

"The message tonight. From your father's creditors. This is connected."

"Very likely."

His calmness is infuriating. Someone just tried to burn down his home—our home—and he's acting like it's a mild inconvenience.

"They could have killed us," I say.

"They didn't want to kill us. They wanted to send a message." He winces as I pull the bandage tight. "If they wanted us dead, they would have used more than a small fire in an office."

"A small fire? Marcus, your entire wall—"

"Can be replaced." He catches my hand. "You saved those boxes. The ones I was pulling out. Do you know what's in them?"

"No. And I don't care. You should have left them and gotten out."

"They contain every piece of documentation about your mother's trust. Your inheritance. Legal papers that can't be replaced." His thumb brushes my wrist. "I wasn't going to let them burn."

Of course. Even in a fire, he's thinking about control. About securing assets.

"Mr. Valerio." Viktor appears in the doorway. "We found how they entered. Service elevator. Someone disabled the camera and picked the lock."

"Professional, then."

"Yes. And they left something." Viktor holds out a piece of paper, protected in a plastic bag. "On your desk. Before they set the fire."

Marcus takes it, and I read over his shoulder.

The girl is ours until the debt is paid. All of it. Return her or next time we burn more than papers.

My blood turns to ice.

"They want me," I whisper.

"They want to intimidate me into giving you up." Marcus stands, the paper crumpling in his fist. "They won't succeed."

"Maybe you should." The words come out before I can stop them. "Maybe if you just let me go—"

"Then they take you, sell you to whoever pays most, and you disappear." His voice is hard. "You think I'm bad? You think this is captivity? Bella, these people traffic girls. They don't put you in penthouses and send you to college. They put you in containers and ship you overseas."

The casual brutality of it makes me sway.

"But if the debt is paid—"

"Your father's debt is never paid. He'll always owe someone. Always have a new crisis. Always need more money." Marcus grips my shoulders. "This is why I did this. Why I took you before someone else could. Because at least with me, you're alive. You're safe. You're here."

"I'm terrified."

"I know." His voice softens. "I know. But you're alive to be terrified. That's what matters."

Viktor clears his throat. "Sir. The rest of the floor is secure. But I recommend we relocate. At least for tonight."

"Agreed." Marcus looks at me. "Pack a bag. Essentials only. We're leaving in ten minutes."

"Where are we going?"

"Somewhere they can't find you."

I want to argue, but the burned office and the threatening note and the very real danger make the words die. Marcus's cage might be gilded, but at least it has locks keeping others out.

I run to my room and stuff clothes into a backpack. Phone charger, laptop, toothbrush, the photo of my mother I keep on the nightstand. My copy of Jane Eyre because I need something familiar.

When I come out, Marcus has changed into dry clothes and is holding a go-bag of his own. Viktor has three other men with him now, all armed, all scanning the penthouse like threats might materialize from the walls.

"Car's ready," Viktor says. "Back entrance."

We take a different elevator. Smaller, hidden behind a panel in Marcus's room. It drops us to a sublevel garage I didn't know existed.

A different SUV waits, armored and anonymous. Viktor drives. Two other cars flank us as we pull out into the pre-dawn darkness.

"Where are we going?" I ask again.

"I have a house," Marcus says. "Outside the city. No one knows about it. We'll be safe there."

"For how long?"

"As long as it takes."

We drive through empty Boston streets. Past my campus. Past my old neighborhood. Out onto the highway heading north.

I watch the city disappear behind us and realize I'm not being rescued. I'm being moved from one cage to another.

But Marcus's hand finds mine in the dark, and I don't pull away.

Because he's right about one thing.

At least I'm alive.

The question is: for how long?

We drive for over an hour. The sky starts to lighten, gray dawn creeping over the horizon. We exit the highway onto smaller roads, then onto a private drive that winds through woods.

The house appears suddenly—modern glass and stone, built into a hillside, isolated and beautiful.

"This is yours?" I ask.

"This is ours," Marcus corrects. "For now."

Viktor and his men sweep the house before letting us enter. It's smaller than the penthouse but no less expensive. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook a lake. Open floor plan. Furniture that looks like it belongs in a museum.

"Two bedrooms," Marcus says. "You can have your choice."

I almost laugh. Choice. As if I have that.

But I'm exhausted and scared and I smell like smoke, so I just nod.

He shows me to a room with a view of the lake. There's a bathroom attached, and I lock myself inside immediately.

The shower is scalding hot, and I stand under it until my skin turns red. Washing away smoke and fear and the feeling of hands on my shoulders—Marcus's hands, keeping me steady or keeping me trapped, I can't tell the difference anymore.

When I finally emerge, wrapped in a towel, I find clothes laid out on the bed. Not mine. New ones. Because of course Marcus has a stash of women's clothes in his secret house.

I dress in leggings and a sweater that's too big but comfortable. When I come out, I smell coffee.

Marcus is in the kitchen, making breakfast like we didn't just flee from an arson attack. Like this is normal.

"How many safe houses do you have?" I ask.

"Three. This one's my favorite." He slides a mug toward me. "Milk, no sugar. Right?"

I take the coffee because I need it. "How did you know they'd come tonight?"

"I didn't. But I've been expecting something since your father first started borrowing. Men like that always come to collect eventually."

"You could have warned me."

"Would it have changed anything? Would you have felt safer knowing people wanted to kidnap you?" He plates eggs and toast. "I made a choice to protect you through ignorance. Maybe that was wrong."

"Everything about this is wrong."

"Yes," he agrees. "But it's the wrong that keeps you breathing."

We eat in silence. Outside, the lake is perfectly still, reflecting the morning sky. It's beautiful here. Peaceful.

A lie, like everything else.

"What happens now?" I ask.

"Now we wait. Viktor and his team will track down whoever set the fire. Find out how deep this goes. Who your father owes and how much."

"And then?"

"And then I eliminate the threat." He says it casually, like he's discussing errands. "Permanently."

The implication is clear. Marcus doesn't just pay off debts. He removes problems.

"You're going to kill them."

"I'm going to protect what's mine."

"I'm not yours."

He looks at me then, really looks at me. "Keep telling yourself that, Bella. Maybe eventually one of us will believe it."

My phone buzzes. I grab it reflexively.

Lily: Where ARE you? I went by your dorm. All your stuff is gone. I called your dad and he hung up on me. I'm freaking out.

Guilt crashes over me. Lily thinks I've disappeared. And I have.

Marcus reads over my shoulder. "Tell her you're safe. With family. Out of state."

"She won't believe that."

"Then tell her something she will believe."

I stare at the message. At Lily's panic. At the friend I'm losing because I can't tell her the truth.

I type: Long story. Mom's family from Hong Kong showed up. Inheritance stuff is complicated and I had to leave school for a bit. I'm safe. I promise. I'll explain everything when I can.

It's not entirely a lie. There is inheritance stuff. It is complicated.

The fact that I'm being held captive by the man managing it is just a detail I'm omitting.

Lily: This is insane. Are you SURE you're okay? Do you need help?

Me: I'm okay. Just dealing with family drama. I'll call you soon.

Another lie. They're piling up like snow.

I set the phone down and find Marcus watching me.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" I ask. "Me isolated. Dependent. No one to turn to."

"I want you safe."

"You want me controlled."

"Both can be true."

He's right, and I hate him for it.

Viktor appears from wherever he's been patrolling. "Perimeter is secure. Cameras are operational. We're locked down."

"Good." Marcus stands. "I have calls to make. Bella, stay inside. Don't go near the windows. Don't open doors."

"So I'm a prisoner here too."

"You're protected here." He pauses at the doorway. "There's a library upstairs. Books, movies, whatever you need. Make yourself comfortable."

Comfortable. In a safe house. While people hunt me.

I laugh, and it sounds slightly hysterical.

Marcus's expression softens slightly. "I know this isn't what you wanted. But it's temporary. A few days, maybe a week. Then we'll reassess."

"And if they keep coming?"

"Then I keep protecting you." He says it like it's simple. Like the answer is obvious. "For as long as it takes."

He disappears into another room, and I'm left alone in this beautiful prison with a lake view and armed guards and a man who thinks obsession equals love.

I find the library he mentioned. It's small but well-stocked. First editions, modern fiction, poetry. And there, on the shelf, next to Jane Eyre, is Wuthering Heights.

I pull it down and read the opening line.

"I have just returned from a visit to my landlord—the solitary neighbour that I shall be troubled with."

Heathcliff and Catherine. Another story of obsession and isolation and love that destroys.

I curl up in a window seat overlooking the lake and read about people trapped by their own dark desires.

And I try not to think about how much I understand them now.

Outside, the sun rises fully. A new day in captivity.

But at least I'm alive to see it.

That's something.

Isn't it?