Meet Scarlett Striker, a bold and quirky journalist for the Seattle Times. She's fun, confident, sassy, and just the right amount of weird. Scarlett is determined to rise to the top, no matter what it takes.
When her boss offers a golden opportunity...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I keep my eyes on James as he taps his fingers on his knee, a subtle rhythm that mirrors the quiet tension crackling in the car. He looks composed, the quiet calm of a predator waiting for the right moment to strike, but there's an impatience lurking there-a coiled energy I recognize all too well. The further we drive, winding through thick woods with nothing but shadows pressing in around us, the more my own nerves begin to fray.
Where the hell did Natalia take Elizabeth? It's all I can think of, the worry gnawing at me like an ache that won't go away.
Then, as if in answer, a dark, ominous building appears on the horizon. It looms in the distance, half-hidden by trees and shadow, its structure eerie and worn, with a chain-link fence surrounding it like a prison. Everything about it screams danger, its silence somehow louder than anything we've heard yet.
Chris is staring straight at the building, his eyes narrowing, his jaw set with grim determination. His usual charm and ease are nowhere to be found-this is Chris at his most fiercely protective, his intensity igniting in the face of what lies ahead.
"Are they in?" James's voice cuts through the silence, low and commanding.
Ron nods, eyes fixed ahead. "Just waiting for your word, sir." He starts to ease off the accelerator, slowing us down long before we reach the building.
I glance over at James, a knot forming in my stomach. "Why are we slowing down?" I ask, my voice laced with nervousness.
James turns slightly, meeting my gaze with his calm, piercing stare. "Because, princesa, it wouldn't be wise to announce our arrival." There's a hint of wry amusement in his tone, as though my impatience is mildly amusing but predictable.
The faintest hint of a smirk graces his face, a glint in his eyes that speaks to his steadiness, the way he can stay cool under pressure while I'm ready to jump out of my skin. He turns his gaze back to the building, his voice slipping into a more intense, ruthless register. "If she's in there, we're getting her out-but we're doing it my way. Understood?"
I feel Chris's gaze flick to me, a silent question in his eyes, as if daring me to push back. But I stay quiet, my restless energy simmering beneath the surface.
"Are your men already there?" Chris asks, his voice low, sharp, his gaze still fixed on the ominous building in the distance.
"Yes," James replies, his tone clipped, giving just enough to answer the question, but nothing more.
"What are they waiting for, then?" Chris presses, the frustration evident in his tone.
James sighs, a hint of impatience flickering across his face. "My orders," he says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. Without another word, he unbuckles his seatbelt, his movements calm and deliberate. His eyes flick to us, cool and unwavering. "Stay put. I'll be back." He shifts his gaze to Ron. "Make sure they don't get out of the car. You know what to do if they try."
