Chained By Faith

The first thing I noticed was silence. Not the silence that came from my apartment where the radiator clanks and Mrs. Chen's television did little or nothing in adding noise to the environment. The silence was unsettling. The kind that comes from walls built to keep the world out. I open my eyes to see myself in an unfamiliar place . My heart skipped a bit as I tried to rack my brains on where I could be. I think I'm in a hotel. Maybe I took an extra shift at the hospital and crashed somewhere nice? But the memory of affording a hotel like this is so absurd that reality showed its face before I could even complete the thought. The alley, the blood, those ice-blue eyes watching me work. My hands begin to shake. I sit up too quickly, and the room tilts. The silk sheets--real silk, not the polyester stuff I got on sale--slide off my shoulders. I'm still wearing clothes that I had worn a few weeks earlier: jeans, my favorite burgundy sweater, the sneakers I keep meaning to replace. Small mercies. At least they didn't undress me while I was unconscious. “Unconscious.” The word came to my mind as I realized the truth they drugged me. "Just something to help you sleep," the woman had said, her voice soothing as two men held my arms. "You're in shock, dear. You'll feel better after some rest." I'd fought. God, I'd fought. But I'm a doctor, and they were trained assassins. The needle had slipped into my arm with barely a pinch, and the world had gone dark. My hand goes to my arm, feeling for the tiny puncture mark. The medical part of my brain catalogs it automatically: eighteen gauge, clean insertion, no bruising. They'd been careful. Gentle, even. That somehow makes it worse. I swing my legs off the bed and stand, testing my balance. Whatever they gave me has mostly worn off, leaving only a faint wooziness and a strange feeling in my mouth. The floor was warm and it warmed my legs. The room is enormous. My entire apartment could fit in here twice over. Floor-to-ceiling windows dominate one wall, and beyond them, the Pacific Ocean spreads out like hammered steel under the morning sun. Cliffs drop away just past a lawn. The view alone probably costs more than I'll make in my lifetime. It looks like the furniture was from some museum, or an advertisement for one: each piece is placed, the bed with its towering headboard, the velvet armchair angled toward the windows, the antique writing desk probably worth more than my car. Even the art on the walls-abstract pieces in gold frames-screams money I can't comprehend. It's beautiful. It's terrifying. I walk to the windows, searching for a latch, a lock, anything. Seamless glass, probably bulletproof. Of course it is. Can't have the prisoner escaping, or anyone getting in to rescue her. *Prisoner.* That's what I am, no matter how comforting the cage was. "You'll be safe here," Damien Blackwood had said yesterday, standing in my apartment doorway with two men flanking him like living weapons. His voice had been calm, rational, as if he were discussing the weather. "My enemies have identified you. They know you saved Adrian's life. They'll use that against both of us." "Then I'll go to the police," I'd said, my voice "File a report. Get protection." He smiled but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "The police can't protect you from the people who want to hurt me, Isabella. Trust me when I say this is the only way." "I don't trust you at all." "I know. But you will." The arrogance of it had stolen my breath. Still does, standing here in his guest room—*prison cell*—looking out at an ocean I can't reach. I turn from the window and pace, taking inventory. There's a door to what looks like a bathroom, and another that must lead to the hallway. I try the hallway door first, already knowing what I'll find. Locked. My heart pounds against my ribs. I try again, yanking harder this time, then slamming my fist on the wood. "Hello? Let me out!" My voice seems tiny in the high-ceilinged room. "This is kidnapping! You can't just—” The door opens. I jump back as the door swings open, revealing a woman in her forties with gray hair pulled into a neat bun. She's wearing slacks and a crisp white blouse-uniform-like but expensive. Her expression is a neutral one. "Miss Moreno," she says, as if it's perfectly normal to find me banging on the door. "I'm so glad you're awake. I'm Mrs. Chen—" "Like my neighbor?" The words are out before I can stop them. "the house manager. Mr. Blackwood asked me to see that you have everything you might need." She steps aside, gesturing toward a cart laden with covered dishes. The smell of coffee and warm bread drifts in to make my stomach growl. "I have brought breakfast. "I don't want breakfast. I want to leave." "I'm afraid that's not possible at the moment." Her tone is sympathetic but firm, the way you'd talk to a confused patient. "For your own safety, Miss Moreno. Surely you understand—" "I realize I'm being detained against my will." I force myself to stay calm, to think like the professional I am Something flickers in her eyes, respect perhaps. "Mr. Blackwood will explain everything. He has requested your presence for breakfast once you have had a chance to freshen up." "And if I refuse?" "Then I'll have one of the staff bring your meals here." She meets my gaze steadily. "But you should eat, Miss Moreno. And you should listen to what he has to say. Your life depends on it." She exits before I can say anything, the cart left behind like a peace offering. Or a bribe. I stared at the covered dishes, my mind racing. Three weeks ago, I saved a stranger's life because that's what I do, what I'm trained for, what I believe in. Now I'm trapped in a mansion on a cliff, being told my life is in danger because I did the right thing. I drank coffee while plotting on how to escape this prison called a “mansion”.