Kidnap

prologue

In a world full of cruelty, being alone is my best option. And I wouldn’t mind dying without looking back at the people who raised me. I am the writer of my own story—I build it, shape it, and create my own success, my own history. 

Others say that life is a cycle, and honestly, that’s pretty messed up. I might agree because that’s how my life goes—rolling over and over, repeating itself. But then again, I don’t mind. I am content and would never ask for anything more, not even someone to be by my side. 

But hell no. 

I am a woman. Not just a woman—I feel like a Goddess. 

I have everything I need to fulfill my desires. 

And love? 

That doesn’t exist in my story. 

After my photoshoot for Bvlgari, I didn’t hesitate to head straight home to rest. It had been a long day—I met countless people in the morning, and by the afternoon, I was in back-to-back photoshoots that would air in multiple countries the next day. 

I hurried back to my spacious, modern house, where only two maids and I lived. The exhaustion of the day weighed on my shoulders, but I never showed weakness. Not even to myself.

As I stepped inside, the scent of freshly cooked food greeted me, but instead of comfort, it only intensified my irritation. I had no appetite. I removed my heels, the sharp click-clack against the marble floor ceasing as I strode towards the grand staircase.

"Ma’am, would you like to have dinner now?" a soft voice called from behind me.

I turned to see Mira, one of my maids, standing by the dining table. She had set everything neatly—a steaming bowl of soup, grilled salmon, a fresh salad. It was an elegant meal, but I had no interest.

"I'm not hungry," I said, my tone as cold as ever.

"But you haven't eaten since morning," she hesitated, her concern evident.

I sighed, rubbing my temple. "And that’s my business, not yours."

She lowered her gaze. "Understood, Ma’am."

Without another word, I ascended the stairs, the sound of my silk dress brushing against my legs the only noise in the vast, empty house.

Once in my bedroom, I let my dress fall to the floor and stepped into the warmth of the bathtub. The lavender-scented water embraced me, but it failed to wash away the exhaustion buried deep inside. My fingers skimmed over the surface as my mind drifted back to that night.

The masked man.

A week ago, at a Chanel event, I was used to being the center of attention. I knew the looks men gave me, the way their eyes lingered too long. Most were harmless, some disgusting. But that night, an older man, a business mogul, thought he could buy me like one of his luxury assets.

I remembered his wrinkled hand gripping my wrist, the stink of his cologne invading my space. Just when I was about to push him away, a deep voice cut through the tension.

"Let go of her."

I turned—and there he was. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in an all-black suit, his face obscured by a sleek black mascara. Something about him was strange.

The older man scoffed but quickly backed off when my mysterious savior took a step closer.

"I suggest you leave before you regret it," the masked man had warned.

And just like that, the moment was over. He disappeared before I could even ask his name.

Now, sitting in my dimly lit bedroom, my fingers brushed over my wrist, the very spot where that man had shielded me.

I sighed.

"This is ridiculous," I muttered to myself.

Shaking off the thoughts, I grabbed my phone, only to see a missed call from Jennie. Before I could ignore it, it rang again.

I answered, already regretting it. "What?"

"Yah! Don't 'what' me," Jennie snapped. "You're coming to this party, end of discussion."

"I'm not in the mood," I replied, lying back on my bed.

"You never are. That’s why I’m forcing you. It’s Minho’s birthday, and literally everyone’s going to be there."

I frowned. "Choi Minho?"

"Yes! Don’t act surprised, you know you used to be friend on him, so c'mon." I could hear her teasing on the line, I know what's she's talking about.

"Tss," I scoffed. "That was years ago."

"Then come and prove it."

I hesitated. The idea of dressing up, smiling, mingling—it was exhausting.

"Fine," I muttered. "But I’m leaving early."

Jennie cheered. "I’ll believe that when I see it. Be ready by nine!"

As the call ended, I stared at my ceiling, my fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on my silk sheets.

Maybe, just for one night, I could pretend I wasn't in deep thought about that stranger.

CJayxz