Chapter 4: AMBUSH
1544 Words
The SUV doors slammed around us, men in black pouring out with guns like it was Netflix crime drama night. My lungs shriveled. My seatbelt was suddenly my noose.
Laura’s voice cut through the panic like Siri on steroids. “Remain calm, Mrs. Bramhall. Panic reduces survival chances by 73%.”
“Oh my God, why would you even say that?!” I squeaked, clutching her arm. “Lie to me, Laura. This is when you’re supposed to lie. You tell me this is a flash mob. A performance art piece. Anything except death on a Tuesday night!”
The masked man yanked the back door open. His breath smelled like onions and regret. “Out.”
I shook my head violently. “No, thank you. I have a strict policy against being kidn*pped on weekdays. Can we reschedule for Saturday?”
He grabbed my arm. I shrieked. Laura, annoyingly composed, slid out first like this was an Uber drop-off. “Unhand her,” she said in her flat voice.
The guy laughed. Then I screamed louder. Because that’s what you do when someone laughs at your last line of defense.
They dragged us into the middle of the street, headlights glaring, engines idling like hungry beasts. My shopping bags spilled open, raining Gucci and Prada like confetti. One of the kidnappers actually paused mid-menace to kick a Dior shoe out of his way.
“Careful!” I yelled. “That heel is worth more than your rent!”
“Grace,” Laura murmured, “priorities.”
But panic made me stupid. My hands fumbled for the nearest weapon. Which happened to be a perfume bottle shaped like a crystal grenade. With a war cry that sounded suspiciously like a dying seagull, I hurled it at Onion Breath’s head.
It shattered in a mist of Chanel No. 5. He staggered back, coughing and swearing. His friend tripped over the Dior heel. Suddenly the air reeked like a luxury department store had exploded.
“Did I just....” I gasped. “Did I just win a fight with Chanel?”
Laura, deadpan: “Temporary advantage. Seventy-eight percent chance of retaliation.”
And retaliation came. The guy pulled his gun higher, and that’s when a roar split the night. Not a human roar. An engine.
A sleek black car shot out of the darkness, tires screeching. It swerved sideways in front of us, door flying open. And Ethan Bramhall stepped out like he’d just arrived for a board meeting instead of a street brawl.
Hands in his pockets. Suit immaculate. Hair perfectly combed like he hadn’t sprinted here in traffic but floated down from billionaire Olympus. His voice rolled calm and deep, slicing through the chaos.
“Put. Them. Down.”
The kidnappers faltered. Guns still up, but I swear even their masks looked nervous.
My heart, however, was screaming. “Oh my God, you followed me?! Again?! Do you have like a Grace-tracking microchip implanted in me?!”
“Not now,” Ethan murmured, eyes locked on the men. “Grace, step back.”
“Step back where?!” I shrieked. “The street? The sewer? Into death’s open arms?!”
Laura calmly pulled me by the elbow. “Obeying would increase our odds of survival.”
The standoff thickened. Perfume still hung heavy, mixing with gasoline and danger. Even the air felt suspended, as though the entire city was holding its breath to see who would flinch first.
Ethan finally moved. Slow. Deliberate. Like a predator who didn’t need to rush. His hand slipped into his jacket and came back with something shiny. Not a gun. A sleek silver pen.
The kidnappers barked out laughs. “You gonna write us to death, Bramhall?”
But Ethan clicked the pen, and with a subtle flick, it became a knife. My jaw dropped. Was I married to Batman or James Bond? Or possibly a Bond villain?
In the blur that followed, I couldn’t track every movement. Ethan was suddenly everywhere. A twist, a shove, a sweep of his arm. Two guns clattered to the pavement. A man groaned. Someone’s mask ripped off and flew into the gutter.
I stood frozen, useless, clutching a Prada clutch like it was a holy relic. My husband... ugh, even thinking the word made my stomach flip, was dismantling grown men like they were IKEA furniture.
Laura, infuriatingly calm, gave a commentary like she was grading a student. “Clean disarm. Precise. Minimal wasted motion. Seven out of ten.”
“SEVEN?” I squealed. “HE’S A HUMAN KNIFE-NINJA AND YOU’RE GIVING HIM A SEVEN?”
Ethan moved like liquid steel, his every step calculated, his every strike purposeful. He wasn’t just fighting—he was demonstrating. Like this was a presentation, and the thugs were unwilling participants in a TED Talk titled How to Humiliate Armed Criminals in Under Five Minutes.
One last thug lunged. Ethan caught his wrist, twisted, and suddenly the guy was face-first on the hood of his own SUV. Ethan didn’t even break a sweat.
He straightened, adjusted his cuffs, and turned to me. “Are you hurt?”
I blinked at him. Then laughed hysterically. “Am I hurt? Am I hurt? Oh no, I’m just casually traumatized! Totally fine. Great first date, by the way. Should we book a second?”
“Grace.” His voice was low. Sharp. A command hidden inside my name.
And I hated... hated... that it made my knees wobble.
He stepped closer. Eyes locked on mine. For a second, the chaos around us blurred. All I saw was him. Too close. Too calm. Too in control.
“Stay with me,” he said. Not a plea. An order.
I snapped out of it with a scoff. “Stay with you? Ha! No thanks. Next time I’ll take my chances with the kidnappers.”
“Statistically unwise,” Laura added.
I spun on her. “WHOSE SIDE ARE YOU EVEN ON?”
Before I could scream more, flashing blue lights tore into the scene. Police. Late to the party, as always. The thugs scattered into alleys, limping and coughing perfume. Ethan didn’t even chase them. Just slipped the knife back into his jacket like it was a pen again.
By the time the officers stumbled out, confused and shouting, the street looked like chaos with no explanation. Ethan calmly handed them his card. “Handle the vehicles. My lawyers will be in touch.”
And just like that, we were back in the Rolls Royce he came with, not my Bently. Laura typing on her tablet, Ethan silent beside me. I, however, was combusting.
“You...” I jabbed a finger at him. “You have some serious explaining to do, Mr. Knife-Pen! Who were those guys? Why did they want me? Why are you apparently Jason Bourne in a Hugo Boss suit?”
Silence. He just stared ahead, jaw tight.
I smacked the seat. “Don’t you dare brood on me. I am your wife!... legally, unfortunately... which means I get answers!”
His voice came quiet. Controlled. “It was a message.”
My stomach twisted. “From who?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters! A bunch of ski-mask psychos just tried to turn me into a hostage. That matters, Ethan!”
His gaze finally slid to mine. Dark. Intense. A warning in the shape of a look. “What matters is that you are safe. With me.”
I wanted to scream. Cry. Punch him. Instead, what came out was a cracked laugh. “Oh my God. You’re insane. This is insane. My life is officially a soap opera.”
He didn’t answer. Just reached over and buckled my seatbelt tighter. Like that fixed anything.
By the time we reached the mansion, my nerves were fried. I stormed inside, shopping bags clutched like shields, Laura trailing behind me reciting expenditure totals. Ethan’s calm shadow followed us all the way to the bedroom.
I spun on him. “Listen, Mr. Tall-Dark-And-Broody, I didn’t sign up for this. I signed up for… okay, technically I didn’t sign up for anything, but still. Kidnappings? Knife-pens? Perfume-fueled street fights? That’s not marriage. That’s Marvel.”
He leaned against the doorframe. Silent. Watching me unravel.
And maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was the perfume fumes still in my lungs. But I finally spat it out. “I want out, Ethan. I don’t care about your money. Or your stupid mansion. Or your stupid jawline that looks like it was carved by angels. I want out.”
Something flickered in his eyes then. Not anger. Not surprise. Something colder.
“Too late,” he said softly.
The words cut deeper than any knife.
I froze. Because he wasn’t joking.
Later, as I pretended to sleep, I heard him in the next room. Low voice, sharp, deadly. On the phone.
“…not just a warning… escalate if necessary… she stays with me.”
My blood turned to ice.
When he returned to bed, sliding under the covers like nothing had happened, I lay stiff beside him. Heart racing.
And the only thought pounding in my head was:
What the hell did I marry into?
- Writer
