Blog

Chapter 4: The Silver Trap

Alistair had barely made it to the sidewalk when the silver-gray Aston Martin convertible rolled to a stop in front of him.

I watched from the second-floor mezzanine as he stopped dead in his tracks, circling the aggressive, beautiful machine. When the valet handed him the keys with the message that it was a gift from his wife, he looked up at the building.

I was standing by the glass. I gave him a small, apologetic wave and walked down to meet him.

“Consider it a peace offering,” I lied smoothly, leaning against the hood. “I lost my temper. I have to leave for Chicago tomorrow, and I wanted you to have a new toy while I’m gone.”

Greed eclipsed the anger in his eyes. He ran a hand over the steering wheel, intoxicated by the smell of new leather and horsepower. “You’re too generous, Tori. Listen, about Sienna… we were both emotional. Give it a few days. Let her come back to work.”

I smiled politely. “Have fun, Alistair.”

He fired up the engine, the roar echoing off the skyscrapers, and sped off. He looked like a king. I looked like the fool who had just bought him his crown.

The next day, I packed a suitcase, kissed Mia goodbye, and drove to the airport. I parked in long-term parking, walked out the back exit, and got into an inconspicuous rental sedan my lawyer had arranged. I drove straight to a secluded hotel on the outskirts of the city.

For three days, my PI sent me updates. Alistair’s routine was flawless. Dropping Mia off at her elite private school, teaching lectures, picking Mia up. He was playing the perfect father.

I called him on Wednesday. “The Chicago deal is tricky. I need two more days.”

“Take your time, darling,” Alistair said, the barely contained thrill in his voice vibrating through the phone. “Everything is perfect here.”

I thought I would have to wait until Friday to spring the trap, but on Thursday evening, my phone blew up.

It was a link from my PR director. [Tori, you need to see this immediately.]

I clicked the link. It was a live stream on a massive social platform.

Detective Brody Vargas—Sienna’s fiancé—was standing in front of my corporate headquarters, wearing his NYPD forensic jacket. He was holding the camera, his face red and streaked with tears.

“I’m Brody Vargas. My fiancé is Sienna Blake. Victoria Sterling, the CEO of this building, fired her without cause three days ago. Now Sienna is missing. She’s not answering her phone. Her apartment is empty. She told me Tori was destroying her life. If she hurt herself… Victoria Sterling is responsible!”

The live stream chat was a blur of vitriol.

Capitalist trash! Arrest the CEO! Poor Sienna, I hope she’s okay!

My phone buzzed. A text from my attorney: [The bait has been taken. It’s time.]

I requested a direct video feed into Brody’s live stream. Because I was a verified, high-profile account, the platform immediately split the screen.

The chat went berserk.

I stared into my camera, my face perfectly calm. “Detective Vargas. You’re looking for your fiancé? You claim she’s missing?”

“Where is she, Victoria?!” Brody yelled into his phone.

“I know exactly where she is,” I said coolly. “Keep your live stream running. Bring the media that’s camping outside my building. I’ll text you the address. Come see for yourself.”

The viewer count skyrocketed from 2,000 to 50,000 in sixty seconds.

I dropped the broadcast and texted him the GPS coordinates to my own estate.

At 10:00 PM, I parked my rental car two blocks away from my house and walked through the manicured hedges.

The Aston Martin was parked in the driveway, half-hidden by the massive oak trees. The windows were down, the autumn air freezing, but the occupants didn’t seem to care.

“Professor,” Sienna’s giggling voice carried perfectly in the quiet night. “Which one is better? The Range Rover or the Aston?”

Alistair chuckled darkly. “This one is tighter. Nowhere to hide.”

“My legs are cramping,” Sienna whined playfully.

“Put them over the console,” Alistair ordered softly. “Aren’t you worried she’ll come home?”

“Find out I’m screwing her husband in the half-million-dollar car she just bought him?” Alistair laughed, a cruel, ugly sound. “Tori is so desperate for my validation, she’ll just cry and ask what she can do to be better.”

Sienna laughed so hard the car shook.

From my pocket, I pulled out the secondary master fob I had specifically programmed for the Aston Martin.

I pressed the button.

With a mechanical whir, the Aston Martin’s convertible roof began to retract, pulling back to expose the interior to the freezing night air.

Alistair froze. He frantically began mashing the console buttons, trying to stop the roof. But the master fob had overridden the internal controls. The roof locked open.

Suddenly, the driveway was flooded with blinding, searing white light.

(Click ‘Next’ to continue)