The Wrong Ride
Elizabeth Winston slowly opened her eyes. The pungent stench of must and dampness immediately assaulted her senses.
She forced her eyes to focus on her surroundings. The amber glow of a small, bare bulb flickered weakly overhead. Four dingy walls enclosed her, with a small window set high into the corner, heavily boarded up with wooden planks.
As her consciousness fully returned, she realized her legs were tied to the rusted iron legs of an old chair. Her hands were secured behind the backrest.
Elizabeth tried to scream, but the sound was choked off by a thick strip of cloth gagging her mouth.
Where am I? What happened? Why am I here?
The questions violently collided in her head, demanding answers. The last thing she remembered was getting into her car service after a high-stakes client meeting.
She was certain she had gotten into the right vehicle. An Audi A8L. But she hadn’t paid any attention to the man behind the wheel; her eyes had been glued to the tablet displaying the minutes of the meeting.
Tom... it was him, right? It couldn’t have been anyone else. It can’t be...
She whimpered internally.
The door in front of her opened with a deafening screech that shattered the silence. A tall man stepped inside. Dark blond hair framed his sharp, chiseled features.
Instinctively, Elizabeth tried to recoil, though her bound hands and feet left her with nowhere to go.
“Hmph!”
She tried to scream with everything she had, but it came out as nothing more than a muffled grunt. Only her eyes could broadcast the sheer terror paralyzing her.
“Elizabeth Marie Winston.” The man’s voice was deep, devoid of emotion. His gaze swept over her face for a beat. “Good. You’re awake.”
Fear triggered a desperate urge to deny everything coming out of his mouth—even her own name.
The man stepped closer. Elizabeth tried to push herself back again, but it was futile. She thrashed against her restraints, trying to put any distance between herself and him.
The man leaned in, his face stopping a mere few inches from hers. Elizabeth didn’t recognize him, but there was an unexpected softness in his eyes that directly contradicted what he was doing to her.
He crouched down in front of her.
“I don’t intend to hurt you. Truly,” he said. “I just need you to sign this.”
From inside his leather jacket, he pulled out an iPad.
“Withdraw Winston & Co. from the Far Rockaway project.”
He thrust the iPad toward her. Elizabeth stared at the screen for a few seconds.
Her chest grew heavy. She recognized the document instantly.
It was a formal declaration of withdrawal, stating that Winston & Co. was voluntarily pulling out of the acquisition and development of the Far Rockaway waterfront due to irreconcilable internal constraints within the given deadline.
Elizabeth’s blood turned to fire.
She shook her head, this time with absolute defiance.
No.
She would never sign it.
“Fine,” the man said smoothly, rising to his feet. “Then you’ll stay here until you’re ready.”
He turned and began to walk away, his hand already gripping the door handle.
“Tomorrow morning at nine o’clock is the absolute deadline.”
He opened the door.
“I’ve done my homework on this project.”
His gaze drifted to the iPad, its screen still glowing on the table.
“If that document isn’t signed before the deadline, your company will face a crisis far worse than losing a single development.”
He paused.
“Or, you can sign it and go home tonight.”
He looked back at Elizabeth.
“The choice is yours.”
*****
Elizabeth had no idea how many hours she had spent trapped in the stifling room, but she knew night had fallen. The silence outside made the hairs on her arms stand up. A freezing wind seeped through the cracks of the wooden planks blocking the window.
My God... she wept silently.
Elizabeth hated the dark. She hated the silence. Quiet spaces always opened the floodgates to the very memories she fought to bury. It was the exact reason she refused to live in her family’s sprawling estate, choosing a compact studio apartment in Midtown instead.
The door whined open again. The tall man walked back in, carrying a brown paper parcel and a disposable cup.
Involuntarily, Elizabeth let out a sharp breath. A strange wave of relief washed over her at the sight of him.
At least she wasn’t alone.
Even so, her guard remained entirely up.
Elizabeth knit her brows. Her gaze shifted from the food to her bound hands, then to her gagged mouth.
“Right,” the man murmured. “My mistake.”
He stood up and untied the knot at the back of her head.
The moment the cloth fell away, Elizabeth drew in a ragged breath and immediately hurled the questions that had been suffocating her.
“Who are you?! Why did you kidnap me?! Why do you want to kill the project?!”
The man crossed his arms over his chest.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked casually.
“I don’t want your food! I just want you to let me go,” Elizabeth snapped.
The man acted as if he hadn’t heard a single word. He crouched in front of her again, holding the sandwich directly to her mouth.
“Eat. Everything I’ve done is pointless if you die of starvation.”
“Then I’d rather die,” Elizabeth growled.
He didn’t argue. The sandwich remained right in front of her face.
And as the rich scent of warm, melted cheese hit her, the ultimate betrayal came from her own stomach.
She ate. One bite, then another, until the paper wrapper in his hand was completely empty.
“Drink?”
Elizabeth nodded. The cold sting of the cola coated her parched throat. She couldn’t remember the last time a simple sandwich and a soda had tasted this incredible. Maybe when she was a child? Or perhaps during her university days? Back before the crushing weight of the corporate crown had dropped onto her shoulders. Back when her parents were still alive.
“Now answer me. Who are you? What is your stake in this project?”
The man stood up, shoving both hands into his pockets.
“Let’s just say I’m standing up for the little guys out there.” He let out a short breath. “The people your firm is displacing.”
“I’m not displacing them,” Elizabeth countered. “We offered more than fair compensation.”
The man shook his head.
“There are some things that can’t be bought, no matter how large the check.” He locked his sharp gaze onto her. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Then make me understand.”
His gaze lingered on her face for a long beat. Then, he pulled his phone from his pocket, opened the gallery, and held the screen up to her. Photos of children sprinting through the courtyard of an old building. The next slide showed them playing soccer on the shoreline, their faces bright with laughter.
They were all young kids, ranging from elementary to middle-school age.
“Who are they?” Elizabeth asked, her eyes glued to the screen.
He slid the phone back into his trousers pocket.
“Orphans. Runaways. Kids whose parents are battling addiction or serving time.”
Elizabeth stared at him, analyzing his face.
“And what is your connection to them?”
He went quiet for a moment, as if weighing his words.
“I run the foundation.”
Elizabeth couldn’t find her voice.
The images of those children briefly dragged her back into her own past. Back to the sprawling, hollow mansion that felt like a tomb after her parents died.
Alone.
With no one to hold her. With no one to wipe away her tears.
“They can be relocated. I’ll fund a brand-new facility—”
“You can’t.”
The rejection came so swiftly it cut her off entirely.
The man stared down at the floor.
“People like you always think everything can be substituted with a bigger building,” he said, his voice dropping to a low register. “A nicer house. Better amenities. More cash.”
He lifted his gaze back to hers.
“But not one of you bothers to ask what it is they are actually trying to hold onto.”
Elizabeth exhaled a long breath. “Because the world doesn’t run on sentiment.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“I’m the CEO of a corporation. I have investors, contractors, city officials, and hundreds of laborers whose livelihoods depend on that development.”
“And those kids depend on that sanctuary.”
Silence fell over the room like heavy fog.
Elizabeth had no counter-argument left.
The man turned toward the exit.
“I don’t give a damn about your balance sheets.” His tone remained entirely even. “I only care about them.”
He walked to the door. Just before stepping out, he glanced back over his shoulder.
“Maybe after a few more hours in here, you’ll start to see that not everything can be calculated in numbers.”
The door clicked shut with a heavy, final thud.
