Mia's Point of View:
These days, my life doesn't feel like my own anymore. The polished, always-put-together version of me—the one who reveled in luxury and freedom—is gone. In her place stands someone who barely recognizes her reflection, as if a gremlin has taken over, dismantling my carefully constructed facade.
The change started not long after I returned from Paris. For a brief, shining moment, I felt like I'd finally escaped the suffocating watchfulness of my family. I had a taste of freedom, of being an adult in charge of my own life. But that illusion shattered two weeks after I came back.
It happened over dinner with Christian, my overprotective older brother. He invited me to a restaurant under the pretense of catching up, but it didn't take long for his real agenda to emerge.
"You'll have a new close personal officer," he announced, pouring wine into our glasses with the same cool detachment he might use to discuss business mergers.
I blinked, his words taking a moment to register. "A bodyguard?" I asked, my voice sharp.
"A CPO," Christian corrected, his tone calm and unyielding.
I scoffed. "You mean a babysitter."
Christian's jaw tightened slightly, his only tell when his patience was being tested. "Call it what you want, Mia, but this isn't negotiable."
"I don't need a babysitter," I snapped, my frustration bubbling over. He always treated me like a fragile, clueless girl. "I can take care of myself."
Christian set the bottle down with deliberate precision, meeting my glare with his own unrelenting gaze. "You went to Paris to prove that, and yet you're back here under less-than-ideal circumstances. So yes, Mia, you do need one."
The conversation felt like a battle I couldn't win. I rolled my eyes, turning away from him in exasperation. My gaze landed on a man sitting alone in the corner of the restaurant. He was wearing a black hoodie and a scarf that concealed most of his face, but his eyes were unmistakable.
Those eyes.
A shiver ran down my spine. I'd seen him before—in Paris. And again, on the plane home.
I said nothing to Christian. Let him think he'd won this round. What was the point of arguing when my paranoia was already working overtime?
A few weeks passed, and to my surprise, Anastasia Steele—the CPO Christian had assigned—wasn't what I expected. She wasn't the gruff, distant type I'd envisioned. Instead, she was professional, calm, and surprisingly easy to talk to. She had this quiet strength about her, a kind of confidence that made you feel like everything would be okay.
At first, I resented her. I hated the idea of being watched over, of losing more freedom. But Ana was... different. She listened. She didn't try to smother me or treat me like a child. Slowly, I began to trust her.
But trust is fragile, and I didn't make it easy for her.
I pushed boundaries. Tested her patience. Lied about where I was going when the first threats started coming in. I don't know why I did it. Maybe it was my way of clawing back some sense of control, of proving to myself that I still had choices, even if they were the wrong ones.
Now, though, the guilt weighs on me.
Because the truth is, Ana didn't deserve any of that. If circumstances were different, I think we could've been real friends. The kind of friends who share secrets and lean on each other when things get tough. Instead, I turned her into a target for my misplaced anger and fear.
And now I'm not sure how to fix it.
I glance down at my hands, my plum-colored nails pressing into the skin of my knees, leaving faint crescents behind. Anxiety churns in my stomach, a relentless tangle of knots I can't seem to unravel. My breathing feels shallow, uneven, so I close my eyes and force a deep inhale, then an exhale.
The effort barely steadies me. My mind races with a storm of guilt and worry.
What have I done?
I pray silently, desperately, for everything to turn out okay—that Christian won't discover the mess I've made, that Ana won't lose her job because of me. I don't know how I'd face her if that happened.
My nails dig deeper as the thought lingers, a sharp reminder of my own mistakes. If Ana's dragged down, it'll be my fault. The weight of that realization is suffocating, but there's no turning back now. All I can do is hope the damage isn't beyond repair.
"We're here," the man mutters, his voice low and gravelly, as if trying to blend into the shadows that cling to his black hoodie. He doesn't meet my eyes, keeping his face obscured beneath the dark fabric.
I glance at him briefly, my heart pounding, before my gaze drops to the crumpled letter in my trembling hand. The words scrawled across the page burn into my mind—sharp, cold, and unmistakably a threat. My fingers tighten around the paper, the edges digging into my skin as if to remind me this is real.
The car slows, the hum of the engine fading as we come to a stop. I peer out the window, my breath catching. The location feels foreign and foreboding, even though I have visited the hotel countless times in the past.
A chill creeps up my spine, but I force myself to steady my hands, to project some semblance of composure. "What now?" I ask, my voice quieter than I intended.
The man doesn't respond immediately. Instead, he shifts in his seat, his movements deliberate but unreadable. "You know what to do," he finally says, his tone sharp, almost impatient.
I nod, clutching the letter tighter as I swallow the lump in my throat. My steps are hesitant as I prepare to leave the car, the weight of the threat anchoring me to the spot. I instinctively pull the duffle bag filled with the cash close to me.
The threat was scrawled hastily but with precision, each word underlined as though to hammer in its finality:
You have 24 hours to follow our instructions,
Deliver the money to Room 506 of the Heathman Hotel before midnight.
If you're even a second late, there will be consequences.
We're watching you. Don't even think about calling for help."
The air feels colder as I step out of the car, a sharp breeze slicing through my jacket and raising goosebumps along my arms. The Heathman Hotel looms before me, its facade a mix of old-world charm and intimidating grandeur. My legs feel like lead as I cross the threshold into the lobby, clutching the crumpled letter in my pocket as though it could offer some kind of shield. The bag is heavy on my shoulder, it feels obvious, like everyone around me knows what I am carrying around with me.
The lobby is quiet but not empty—business travelers on their phones, a couple checking in at the desk, the muted sound of classical music wafting through hidden speakers. It all feels surreal, like the world is carrying on as usual while mine teeters on the edge of collapse.
I glance around, half expecting to see someone watching me, but no one seems out of place. Still, the letter's words echo in my mind: We're watching you. My palms are slick with sweat, and I wipe them against my coat, forcing myself to keep moving.
Room 506.
The elevator ride feels endless, each floor a countdown to what waits at the top. My thoughts race with every passing second. Should I have told Ana? Would Christian have been able to fix this if I'd been honest from the start? The lies I told to feel in control have spiraled far beyond anything I can manage, and now I'm trapped, helpless, in the middle of my own twisted story.
I think back to Paris, to the decisions that led me here. I thought I was clever, spinning tales to keep everyone at arm's length, creating drama where there was none. It gave me a sense of control, a way to manipulate the narrative of my life when I felt powerless. The fake stalker was just a ploy to make them worry about me, to make them care on my terms. But now, I've invited real danger into my world, and the gravity of it is crushing me.
The elevator dings, and the doors slide open to reveal the fifth floor. The carpeted hallway stretches out before me, lined with muted gold sconces and evenly spaced doors. I count them silently as I pass: 500... 502... 504.
Room 506.
I pause outside the door, my hand hovering just above the handle. My breath catches, and I close my eyes, willing myself to stay calm. I think of Christian's disapproving glare, Ana's steady presence, and the guilt that gnaws at me.
What have I done?
The door swung open before I could knock.
A man stood there, his face shrouded in the dim light of the room. He was tall, imposing, his eyes gleaming with a cold, predatory light, the cherry of his cigarette glowing like an ember.
"You're late," he said, the smoke curling around his words, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down my spine.
"I'm not," I managed, my voice trembling. "It's still before midnight."
He gestured for me to enter, his movements fluid and predatory. I stepped inside, the room dark and oppressive, the air thick with the cloying scent of stale perfume and the acrid tang of cigarette smoke.
"Put the bag down," he ordered, his voice a low, menacing growl, the cherry of his cigarette glowing like an ember.
I hesitated, my hand hovering over the bag, fear tightening its grip on my throat. "I want proof," I demanded, my voice surprisingly steady. "How do I know…" My words trailed off, my courage faltering.
His expression hardened. "You're not here to make demands."
I placed the bag on the small table, my fingers trembling. He unzipped it, his movements deliberate, his eyes scanning the contents with a chilling intensity, the cigarette dangling precariously from his lips.
"You did well," he finally acknowledged, his voice cold and emotionless. "But this isn't over."
I frowned, my stomach churning. "What do you mean? I did what you asked."
A slow, cruel smile spread across his face, a chilling display of predatory satisfaction. "You think this ends with one delivery? This is just the beginning, Miss Grey."
The words struck me like a physical blow. I staggered slightly, my hands gripping the edge of the table for support.
"Wait," I gasped, my voice breaking. "What about the consequences? What happens now?"
He paused, his hand hovering over the doorknob, the cigarette ash falling in a delicate dance. "Now?" He chuckled, a low, menacing sound that sent a shiver down my spine. "Now, you wait. We'll be in touch."
The door slammed shut behind him, leaving me alone in the suffocating silence of the hotel room, the lingering scent of smoke adding to the oppressive atmosphere. I sank into the chair, my knees weak, the weight of my actions finally crashing down upon me.
I glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Midnight. The deadline had passed, and yet, I was still alive. For now.
The guilt, the fear, the crushing weight of my own recklessness threatened to consume me. I had played a dangerous game, and now, I was paying the price.
The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by the pounding of my own heart, a frantic rhythm against my ribs. As the first rays of dawn filtered through the window, I knew this was just the beginning. The nightmare had only just begun.
I glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Midnight. The deadline had passed, and yet, I was still alive. For now.
The guilt, the fear, the crushing weight of my own recklessness threatened to consume me. I had played a dangerous game, and now, I was paying the price.
The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by the pounding of my own heart, a frantic rhythm against my ribs. As the first rays of dawn filtered through the window, I knew this was just the beginning. The nightmare had only just begun.
And now, I was trapped, a pawn in a game I never meant to play, the consequences of my own deceit looming larger than ever before.
