2025-12-25 17:34:59
EmmanuelChapter 19 adds ideological depth to the kidnapping, transforming it from simple crime into commentary on wealth inequality. The captors' anti-capitalist rage feels genuine—they're not just criminals, but people broken by the system Ethan now represents. The revelation about 237 layoffs forces Ethan to confront the human cost of corporate decisions. His helplessness mirrors the powerlessness his captors feel daily. The social media explosion creates a new problem: what was meant as a private "lesson" becomes a public crisis. The captors' panic about moving Ethan introduces urgency while delaying resolution. Ethan's guilt deepens—Victoria was right about consequences. Next: The move and its complications.
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CHAPTER NINETEEN
The inside of the warehouse was colder than the alley had been.My eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness, shapes emerging from shadow—stacks of wooden pallets, old machinery covered in tarps, exposed rafters overhead with missing sections where skylights had once been. The floor was concrete, stained with oil and other substances I didn't want to think about.The linebacker pushed me forward, and I stumbled over something—a piece of pipe or rebar—before catching my balance. They led me deeper into the building, past rows of metal shelving that held nothing but dust and rat droppings, toward a section in the back where fluorescent lights flickered to life.Someone had set up what could only be described as a makeshift interrogation room. A metal chair sat in the center of a cleared space, positioned under the brightest light. Industrial zip ties lay on a nearby workbench, along with other tools I tried not to look at too closely."Sit," the Asian man said, gesturing to the chair.I sat.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The cold gun barrel pressed against my neck. Not in moviesque way, where it's this dramatic moment of clarity. Just cold. Uncomfortable.Scary. A circular pressure point that made my skin crawl and my shoulders want to hunch forward, which I couldn't do because that might be interpreted as sudden movement, and sudden movements seemed like a death sentence."Turn left at the next light," the voice said from the backseat.I turned left. My hands were slicksweaty on the steering wheel, sweat making the leather slippery. The turn signal clicked rhythmically, absurdly normal. A small sound in a situation that was anything but."You're doing great," the voice continued, conversational. "Very cooperative. That's good. Makes this easier for everyone."Everyone. As if this were some kind of group project.Traffic was moderate for Wednesday afternoon. We were still in the business district—corporate towers reflecting the late sun, pedestrians in suits checking their phones as they walked. A woman
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Wednesday started with a text from Olivia that I didn't expect.My sisters are in town. Lunch at Marcello's at 1 PM. You're coming.Not a question. A statement.I typed back: Is this optional?No. They want to meet you. I may have mentioned the mysterious new guy at Prestige.Why would you do that?Because they wouldn't stop asking. See you at 1. Don't be late.I stared at my phone, trying to decode what this meant. Meeting the family was a big step—the kind of step that suggested this was more than just casual coffee and intellectual sparring. But Olivia's tone was hard to read. Was she nervous? Excited? Treating this like another social obligation?Classes dragged. Professor Hartley lectured on the Volkswagen emissions scandal, dissecting how a company built on engineering integrity had systematically lied to regulators and customers for years. "Ethics aren't theoretical," he'd said, pointing at the class. "They're the choices you make when no one's watching. When profit conflicts wi
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Tuesday started better than Monday had.I woke up without an alarm, made coffee in my absurdly expensive espresso machine that I still didn't fully understand, and actually had time to eat breakfast while looking out at the city. For someone who'd spent eighteen years jumping at every demand, the luxury of a quiet morning felt almost decadent.My phone buzzed with a text from Olivia: Library café, noon. Don't be late. I have exactly one hour before Advanced Corporate Finance.I smiled and typed back: I'll be there at 11:55.11:50. I like punctuality.Noted.Classes went smoothly. Professor Hartley wasn't teaching today, so I had Introduction to Financial Markets (dry but informative) and Strategic Management (taught by a professor who spent more time name-dropping CEOs he'd consulted for than actually teaching). Between classes, I checked my phone compulsively for updates from Maya, but there was nothing.No news was probably good news. Or terrible news. Hard to tell.At 11:50 exactly,
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Professor Hartley was already in the classroom when I entered, and the first thing I noticed was that he looked exactly like someone who would make students cry on a regular. He was maybe sixty, with steel-gray hair pulled back in a small ponytail that somehow looked dignified rather than ridiculous. Wire-rimmed glasses perched on a hawkish nose, and he wore a rumpled tweed jacket over a black turtleneck—the uniform of someone who'd stopped caring about impressing people decades ago because he was busy being brilliant.He stood at the front of the class, arms crossed, watching students file in with an expression that suggested he'd already judged every single one of us and found us wanting.I took a seat in the middle of the room—not so far back that I looked disengaged, not so close that I looked desperate for approval. The other students filled in around me, most of them looking like they'd stepped out of a catalog for expensive casual wear. There was a palpable tension in the air,
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The alarm went off at 6:30 AM, and for the first time in my life, I didn't dread the sound.I stood in front of my closet, looking at the rows of expensive clothes that still felt like they belonged to someone else. Today was my first day at Prestige University. The suit my father had left—the charcoal gray one with the perfect tailoring—hung in its garment bag, but it felt too formal for a college campus.I settled on dark jeans, a crisp white button-down, and a navy blazer. Smart but not trying too hard. The kind of outfit that said I belong here without screaming I just got rich last week.As I adjusted my collar in the mirror, I caught sight of the fading bruise on my jaw from Marcus's punch. I'd covered most of it with some concealer the personal shopper had inexplicably included in my wardrobe haul, but up close, you could still see the yellowing edges.A reminder that good deeds came with consequences.My phone buzzed with a text from Olivia: Don't forget. Library, second floor,
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