STOLEN BY THE WRONG HUSBAND

The night Amara Adebayo was taken, Leicester didn’t feel like her city anymore. Usually, her walk home after her evening shift at the coffee shop was peaceful. Calm streets, corner shops shutting their metal shutters, the faint hum of buses still running even though barely anyone was on them. Leicester wasn’t chaotic like London; it had rhythm, a heartbeat — familiar, steady. But tonight, something felt wrong from the moment she stepped out of the shop. Amara tugged her jacket tighter around her shoulders, breath turning white in the cold. Her phone buzzed — a message from her older sister, Rina: You good Amma? Let me know when you’re home. Amara smiled faintly. She typed back quickly: On my way. 10 mins. She pocketed her phone and crossed the road, heading toward her estate. She lived in a converted flat above a tiny off-license run by an old Jamaican couple who treated her like a niece. Leicester’s little multicultural warmth — she loved it. She didn’t know someone was watching her. She didn’t know her life was about to be divided into before and after. Amara felt it first — the strange quiet. Even the usual Friday-night rowdy teenagers weren’t around. The street was empty, too empty. Her footsteps echoed louder than they should’ve. She frowned, pausing outside the corner shop with the flickering sign. “Mr Collins?” she called. “You closing early?” No answer. A tiny chill slipped down her spine. She wasn’t scared — she wasn’t the type — but something in the air felt… off. Like Leicester had inhaled and forgotten how to exhale. Her phone buzzed again. Another message from Rina: Remember to double lock the door. I heard police sirens earlier. Amara snorted. Typical big sister energy. She walked faster. Past the row of terraced houses. Past the silent park. Past the bus stop where she’d once spent an hour crying about exam stress. Life had always felt hard, but predictable. Safe enough. She didn’t know that two black-tinted cars had already turned onto her street behind her. She heard the first sound when she reached the narrow alley beside her building — a soft metallic click. Footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Not rushing. Confident. Amara spun around. “Hello?” her voice echoed. A man stepped from the shadows. Tall. Broad shoulders. Gloves. A black coat. His face partly hidden, but his posture screamed danger. No hesitation. No fear. Amara’s heart slammed into her ribs. “Nope,” she muttered under her breath, already turning around. “Absolutely not. Wrong girl.” She moved to walk away. The man spoke. “Amara Adebayo.” Her blood turned cold. She didn’t turn back — she bolted. Pure instinct. Adrenaline blasted through her veins. She sprinted down the street, yanking her phone out of her pocket. Before she could dial Rina, a hand grabbed her wrist. A second hand covered her mouth. She screamed into the glove, kicking, twisting, fighting like her life depended on it — because it did. “Don’t make this harder,” the man hissed in her ear. She bit him. Hard. He swore under his breath but didn’t loosen his grip. Another man appeared from the corner, then another. Black clothes. Masks. Silent. They weren’t random criminals. They were prepared. Organised. Professional. Amara thrashed harder, wild and furious. “Get off me!” she tried to yell, but it came out muffled. The first man grabbed her arms, pinning them. The second pulled a black cloth over her eyes. Blindfold. Panic detonated in her chest. “No, no, no, please—!” she choked, losing her breath entirely as the cloth tightened behind her head. The third man spoke calmly into an earpiece. “Target secured.” Amara froze. Target? Her? She wasn’t special. She wasn’t rich. She wasn’t connected to anything. She was just a part-time barista with a normal life and student loans waiting to eat her alive. They lifted her off the ground like she weighed nothing. Her heart thundered so hard she could hear it inside the blindfold. “Wrong person,” she gasped desperately. “I don’t have money. My family— please—!” But they didn’t answer. The men moved with coordination, shoving her into the back of a car. The door slammed. An engine growled. She was trapped. Amara pressed herself against the seat, shaking so violently her teeth clattered. She couldn’t see a thing. She couldn’t breathe properly. Her mind raced: Kidnapped. Why? What do they want? Who are they? Are they going to kill me? She never imagined something like this happening. Not in Leicester. Not to her. Not ever. The car sped up. The tires screeched. Wind battered the windows. Someone was sitting next to her. She could feel the presence — cold, unsettling, powerful. She didn’t dare move. A deep voice finally cut through the silence. “You’ll find this easier if you don’t fight.” Amara swallowed hard. Her voice shook. “Where are you taking me?” Silence. Her heart dropped. “Please,” she whispered, hating how small she sounded. “I’m not whoever you think I am.” The man let out a short exhale — almost a scoff. “We know exactly who you are.” Her stomach twisted. The car slowed. A metal gate clanged open. Then closed. The air changed — colder, older, stone-like. A place she had never been before. Hands grabbed her again. She struggled, panicking, but they didn’t hurt her. They lifted her out of the car, steps echoing like they were inside a massive building. Doors opened. Closed behind her. A chair scraped against the floor. They sat her down. Someone unknotted the blindfold. Light stabbed her eyes. She blinked rapidly, vision swimming until shapes formed. A huge room. High ceilings. Marble floors. A chandelier overhead. Everything expensive. Intimidating. At the far end stood a man dressed in black, his back to her. He turned around slowly. His presence filled the room instantly. Sharp jawline. Cold grey eyes. Clean-cut hair. Tall. Controlled. Dangerous without even trying. He didn’t look like a street criminal. He looked like someone born into power. His stare locked onto her — assessing, unreadable. The room felt ten degrees colder. Amara’s voice trembled. “Who… who are you?” The man stepped closer, stopping only a few feet from her. “I am Lucien Moretti.” The name punched the air out of her lungs. Everyone in Leicester knew that name. Rumours. Whispers. Crimes no one could prove. A family no one crossed. Mafia. Her throat tightened. “Why am I here?” she whispered. Lucien didn’t blink. His gaze drilled into her like he was peeling apart her entire life. “You’re here because your father made a deal,” he said calmly. “A debt he could never repay.” Amara stared at him, confusion flooding her. “My father? That’s impossible. He—” Lucien continued, voice low, deadly calm. “And since he ran from it… you are the payment.” Her heart stopped. “No,” she breathed. “No, this is a mistake, I swear—” Lucien stepped even closer, eyes unwavering. “There is no mistake,” he said. “You belong to me now.” Amara’s entire world collapsed in one breath. She wasn’t kidn*pped randomly. She was taken on purpose. For a debt she didn’t even know existed. She stared at him, heartbeat shaking her ribs. “I’m not yours,” she whispered, but it cracked in the middle. Lucien tilted his head slightly, observing the fear behind her eyes. “We will see.” And in that moment, Amara realised: He wasn’t letting her go. Not tonight. Not ever.