Chapter 1
One day ago...
The Barcelona sun hit differently than I expected—sharper, more insistent, like it was trying to burn through the carefully constructed walls I’d spent the last year building. I stepped off the flight from Mumbai, my messy braid unraveling at my temple, eyes puffy from the kind of half-sleep that leaves you more exhausted than rested. The airport stretched before me, all clean lines and Spanish signage that might as well have been hieroglyphics.
I slid my new sunglasses over my eyes—less for the sun, more as a shield. Another barrier between me and the world.
My purple backpack dug into my shoulder as I made my way down the ramp, the last passenger off. Of course I was. My shrug had tangled itself around the armrest like it was trying to keep me trapped on that plane. Maybe it knew something I didn’t.
Mum and Dad waited by the bus, their postures relaxed in a way mine never was anymore. Mum—Indian, all sharp cheekbones and knowing eyes. Dad—Australian, sun-weathered and easy-going. Me? I looked like someone had split the difference and created something that belonged fully to neither. Green eyes from Dad’s side, dark hair and warm brown skin from Mum’s. Tall enough to stand out, pretty enough that people noticed, anxious enough that I wished they wouldn’t.
I’d stopped trying to make myself invisible sophomore year. It hadn’t worked anyway.
My black Adidas runners, olive-green shorts, and pink silk top weren’t going to win any fashion awards, but they were comfortable. Armor didn’t need to be elaborate—it just needed to work. The Mediterranean breeze carried salt and heat, heavy and foreign against my skin.
“Kathy, go get a trolley for us. Me and Pa will grab the bags.” Mum nodded toward the chaos of travelers wrestling with jammed carts near the wall.
I swallowed the familiar tightness in my chest—the one that showed up whenever I had to navigate crowds—and headed toward the line.
That’s when I saw her.
A little girl, maybe eight or nine, throwing her entire body weight against a baggage trolley that refused to budge. Her bob-cut hair bounced with each frustrated tug. People streamed past her, too busy or too irritated to stop.
Something in my chest loosened. Kids didn’t judge. Kids didn’t whisper.
“Would you like some help?” I knelt to her eye level, keeping my voice soft.
“No! I can do this on my own!” Her determination made me smile despite myself—a real one, the kind I’d almost forgotten how to make.
“What’s your name, princess?”
Her face scrunched up, torn between politeness and caution. “I’m not supposed to tell my name to strangers. I’m sorry.”
Smart kid. “Don’t apologize for that. You’re doing exactly the right thing.” I leaned closer, lowering my voice like we were sharing secrets. “But how about I give you a hint about getting this trolley out?”
She nodded, eyes wide.
“See the instructions on the handle? What’s the picture showing?”
Her small fingers traced the diagram. “Oh! The man is pushing the handle down when he moves it!”
“Exactly.”
She pressed her whole weight against the handle, and the trolley slid free with a metallic screech. Her face lit up like she’d just conquered a mountain.
“You did it! High five!”
Her tiny palm slapped against mine, warm and trusting in a way that made my throat tight.
Then everything shifted.
“Lady Amelia!”
Two massive men in dark suits materialized, their movements precise and predatory. They positioned themselves between me and the girl, human walls built from muscle and menace. The air changed—thicker, colder. I recognized that feeling. I’d felt it before, in college hallways when they’d cornered me.
My pulse kicked up. Fight or flight.
I chose to fight.
“Who are you? What do you want with her?”
The one on the left with half his hair tied up in a ponytail—all sharp edges and barely contained aggression—sneered. “It’s none of your business, kid.”
Kid. The word landed like a slap. I was twenty-two, not some naive teenager, but I knew what he was doing. Diminishing me. Making me small.
Not today.
When a suitcase crashed to the floor somewhere to the right, the guard’s attention flickered for half a second. That was all I needed. I ducked under his reaching arm and planted myself between them and Amelia, heart hammering but feet steady.
The little girl’s fingers found my shirt, gripping the fabric like a lifeline.
“Hey, princess?” I kept my voice calm even as my hands trembled. “Do you know these men?”
“Of course she does, La—”
“I didn’t know you liked to be called ’princess.’” I cut him off, meeting his glare with one of my own. “So don’t answer the questions I’m asking her.”
His jaw clenched. If looks could kill, I’d be a smear on the airport floor.
A small, shaking voice came from behind me. “Y-yes. I do know them. They’re my brother’s bodyguards.”
Brother. Bodyguards. The pieces clicked into place, but instead of relief, dread pooled in my stomach.
“Princess, are you sure they’re not forcing you? You don’t have to be scared—there are police everywhere. They can help.”
“Go ahead, kid.” The guard’s smile was all teeth, no warmth. “Call the cops. They all know us. It’ll be faster that way.”
Shit. That kind of confidence meant power. Real power. The kind that bought police and silenced witnesses.
I’d read about men like this. I’d studied them in my psychology classes, dissected their patterns, their control tactics.
And now I was face-to-face with them.
“It’s okay, princess. I’m here for you.” I squeezed her hand gently. “You can tell me the truth.”
“For God’s sake, she said she knows us. Move aside. We don’t hurt girls, but if you keep this up, we’ll make an exception.”
“For how many times you respond to it, are you sure you don’t like being called ‘princess’?”
The second guard—quieter, broader—coughed into his fist. Was that... a laugh?
The aggressive one took a step forward, his hand sliding toward the back of his jacket. My body went cold. A gun. He had a gun. In the middle of the airport.
I pushed Amelia further behind me, my mind racing through escape routes, pressure points, anything I’d learned from those late-night self-defense videos I’d obsessed over after—
Both guards froze mid-movement.
Their hands went to their earpieces simultaneously, a choreographed response that sent ice down my spine. They listened to whoever was on the other end, their expressions shifting from anger to something worse.
Fear.
No—not fear. Dread.
When they looked at me again, everything about them had changed. Backs straight. Hands clasped behind them. Eyes fixed somewhere over my head.
“You may not leave, ma’am.” The formal tone was somehow more terrifying than the threats.
“What? Why?” I grabbed Amelia’s hand. “We’re both leaving. Now."
They blocked our path, immovable. “Sir has requested you both stay put. He’s coming here.”
“Oh no...” Amelia’s voice cracked. She tore her hand from mine and ran to the guards, trying desperately to pull them away. “Please, no, we have to go—”
“Sorry, Lady Amelia. The master has given orders.”
Master. The word settled over us like a shroud.
Amelia whirled toward me, her eyes too old for her face. “You need to run. Now.”
“Amelia, what’s—”
“Don’t tell him your name!” She clapped her hand over my mouth, her small body shaking. “It’s better if you leave now. I like you too much for you to meet him.”
My chest constricted. What kind of child talked like this?
She turned to the quieter guard. “Lorenzo... birdy-birdy game?”
He hesitated. The other guard—Antonio, apparently—looked horrified. “Lorenzo, we shouldn’t—”
“What’s a birdy-birdy game?” My voice came out smaller than I intended.
Lorenzo’s eyes met mine. In them, I saw something unexpected: pity.
“Fine.” He looked at Amelia, then back to me. “Both of you. Run.”
Amelia bolted toward the shops without a backward glance.
“Antonio, go after Amelia. Now."
“God dammit, if we get in trouble, it’s on you.” Antonio snarled at me before taking off after the girl.
I stood frozen, trying to process what was happening.
“What’s going on? Why did she—”
“Trust me.” Lorenzo’s voice was quiet, urgent. “It’s better if Sir doesn’t find you. So run. I’ll chase you for a few seconds, then you’ll have gotten faster and I’ll have lost you. You’re quite fast.”
He was giving me an out. A scripted escape.
My psychology training kicked in: When someone offers you a way out of danger, you take it.
“You’re right.” I forced steadiness into my voice. “I am quite fast and agile. You won’t catch me.”
“Thank you, Lorenzo.” I whispered it like a prayer before I ran.
I didn’t look back until I’d put fifty meters between us. When I finally did, he’d stopped jogging, hands on his knees, playing his part perfectly.
I hope Amelia is safe.
I ducked into a side corridor, lungs burning, and pressed my back against the wall. My hands were shaking—not from the running, but from something deeper. Something I recognized from late nights in my dorm room, from panic attacks in bathroom stalls, from the feeling of being hunted.
Everyone was staring. Of course they were. I’d just sprinted through an airport like someone was chasing me.
Someone had been chasing me.
I forced myself to breathe—four counts in, seven counts hold, eight counts out—and made my way back to the baggage claim.
Mum and Dad stood by a fully loaded trolley, their expressions a mix of relief and annoyance.
Shit. The trolley.
“Where were you? You were gone for thirty minutes!"
“I’m so sorry! I got lost and distracted by the shops.” The lie tasted bitter, but necessary.
Mum’s eyes narrowed. She knew I didn’t care about shopping. But she let it slide with a muttered, “Don’t do it again,” before shoving the trolley handle into my hands.
Thirty minutes. That encounter felt like both an eternity and a heartbeat.
As I helped load suitcases into the taxi, Dad caught my arm.
“Kathy.” His voice was low, meant only for me. “What happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve been scanning the crowd since you got back. You’re jumping at every sound.” His eyes—those careful, knowing eyes—searched my face. “What happened when you got lost?”
I could tell him. I should tell him. Dad was the kind of man who’d march to security, demand footage, track down answers.
But that’s exactly why I couldn’t.
“Nothing, Pa. I’m fine.”
“I know something happened.” He squeezed my shoulder gently. “But if you can handle it, I’ll let you. I know you’re strong enough. Just... promise you’ll tell me if it gets too much?”
If it gets too much. Like the panic attacks I’d hidden. Like the nights I couldn’t sleep. Like the therapy sessions I’d begged them not to ask about.
“I promise.”
He didn’t believe me, but he let it go.
