The President's Daughter

Chapter Seventeen

I hear distinct footsteps in the gravel surrounding us. The bag is yanked off my head, and I squint from the blinding light to try to take sight of my surroundings. I hear voices in a foreign language I can't place, the only thing I know is that is sounds something European. I try to scratch an itch on my face, however, my hands are bound tightly and I cannot move them anymore than a hand span away from my back. An argument breaks out; the voices of the men escalating to a point where they are yelling at one another.

Still squinting from the light, I look up at the men and can make out feint outlines and shadows. The men seem to be in one group, the boisterous argument still raging between them. I glance over at Thomas, who is hunched over, agony showing on his face. I stare at the gravel around me, watching an ant crawl past with speed and ease. I become jealous of its freedom, after all, even the tiniest things can have their own freedom, yet, a human being such as myself can't walk out of her father's house, let alone her father's country. Now, look where everything had gotten me.

Despite my lack of language skills, I recognised a few words in the argument that would change absolutely everything...

"Scum President's daughter... Alexandra... money... kill!"

I would soon be locked away in someone's house, then beaten to the point of near death and my life would end so tragically. How would my father explain this? How would he explain it to the people of the nation, expressing how his tightly bound nature of not letting me go had resulted in me being kidnapped and killed? However, my father being the person he is, he would simply state that I had gone missing, or had taken permanent residence in Spain, or had died 'tragically' in a plane crash. He... would... lie!

Tears began to form in my eyes. After all, I believed I would be better off in Spain, away from my father, the press and the politics. However, I would have been better off if I had stayed put like Dad had wanted me to. Perhaps I underestimate politicians too much.

Or maybe this is the harsh way out.

I feel something sharp on the back of my neck and wince as it digs into my neck. I don't know what the object is; all I do know is that it is causing me grief. The arguing seems to have ceased for the meanwhile, only that a million pairs of eyes are now trained on me.

A voice directly behind me startles me. I jump, the sharp object pushing in even further into my neck. I let out a small scream. The voice seems to be getting more agitated by the second, the volume rising further and further. I do not understand anything the man is saying and begin to shut my eyes, wanting the moment to go past. Now I wish I was in a dream...

A familiar voice startles me.

The familiar voice is behind me, most likely the one holding the piercing object behind my neck.

The voice belongs to Nick.