Chapter 9 - Running Away
Elias carried Iris through the silent corridor, the elevator opening directly into what looked like a private penthouse overlooking the city. He crossed the space without hesitation and laid her gently on the bed, the mattress dipping beneath her weight. For a moment, he stood there, brushing curls from her face, tucking the duvet around her as if that alone could make what they had done acceptable.
"Finally," Jasper murmured, watching her sleep.
Elias pressed a brief kiss to her forehead and stepped out.
The door had barely closed when Jasper's phone rang. His jaw tightened as he answered. A meeting with the defense minister—non-negotiable, time-sensitive, the kind of connection that could secure power for years.
He didn't want to leave. Not now.
But power was protection, and protection meant control.
"We'll be there," he said, ending the call.
Elias understood without explanation. The drug would keep her unconscious for a while. Long enough.
"Peter," Elias said, motioning to the guard. "Keep an eye on her."
They left with one last glance toward the bedroom, certain of their timing.
---
Light stabbed behind Iris's eyelids when she woke.
Her head throbbed, pain blooming at her temples as she groaned and rolled onto her side, disoriented.
She cracked one eye open.
Not her ceiling.
That was… unfortunate.
The room was unfamiliar—too large, too quiet, too polished—and understanding hit her all at once.
She pushed herself upright and immediately regretted it as the room tilted, nausea rolling through her. She waited for the sensation to settle, counting breaths, grounding herself the way her father had taught her years ago.
Then she looked down.
Clothes still on.
"Well," she muttered hoarsely, "points for restraint."
Her heart started racing anyway.
The room was immaculate. Too immaculate. No restraints. No chains. No ominous torture rack.
Which, frankly, made the situation worse. What the hell is going on?
She slid off the bed and tested the door.
Unlocked.
"Oh," she whispered. "That's… suspiciously generous."
She stepped out—and froze.
A man stood in the hallway, broad, armed, and very clearly not part of the interior design.
Her scream ripped out of her before she could think better of it.
"Ma'am—!" He raised his hands immediately.
"DON'T," she yelled, backing up so fast she nearly tripped. "Do not move. Do not breathe. Do not exist near me."
"I won't hurt you," he said quickly.
She stared at the gun on his hip.
"Fantastic," she snapped. "Then you won't mind me leaving."
"You need to go back inside," he said, trying for calm.
"No."
His jaw tightened. He took one step forward, his hand on the hilt of his gun enough to scare her away.
She slammed the door and bolted back into the bedroom, heart pounding hard enough to bruise. Her breathing came in sharp bursts, vision tunneling.
Window.
She yanked the curtains open.
Glass. Sky. A very long, very terminal drop.
"…Of course," she whispered.
She staggered back and slid to the floor, hugging her knees, pressing her forehead against them as her hands shook. It's not the time to cry. Control yourself, Iris.
Okay, she told herself. You're not dead. Yet. That's a start.
She wiped her eyes aggressively.
"Crying later," she muttered. "Escaping first."
She paced the room, steps fast and erratic, brain cycling through options like a malfunctioning search engine. Jumping was out. Screaming was pointless. Reasoning was optimistic.
Then she stopped.
The idea was terrible.
Which usually meant it might work.
She opened the door again.
Her posture changed instantly—shoulders slumped, eyes downcast, voice small.
"I'm hungry," she said.
The words came out smaller than she intended, thin and carefully placed, as if saying them too loudly might shatter whatever fragile balance was holding the situation together.
Peter hesitated.
It was subtle, but she saw it: the fraction of a second where his brows drew together, where his mind clearly scrambled to locate the correct response protocol. There was no handbook for this. No training module titled What to Do When the Kidnapped Woman Politely Requests a Snack.
"I'll… get something," he said at last, uncertainty creeping into his voice as he turned toward the kitchen.
That was all the opening she needed.
She didn't hesitate. Hesitation was a luxury for people who weren't being held against their will forty floors above ground.
Her gaze flicked to the side table. The lamp stood there innocently enough—sleek, modern, far heavier than it looked. She wrapped both hands around it, the cool metal biting into her palms, and lifted.
For a split second, doubt flared.
Then she swung.
The impact sent a shock straight up her arms, rattling her teeth and making her hiss under her breath. The sound was dull, unpleasantly solid, the kind of noise that lingered in the air longer than it should have.
Peter turned, eyes wide, confusion written plainly across his face—followed swiftly by the moment gravity decided to intervene.
He stumbled, knees buckling, balance abandoning him entirely as he hit the floor with a heavy thud that echoed through the apartment.
Iris flinched despite herself.
"Oof," she muttered, wincing. "Sorry."
There was no time to dwell on it. Apologies wouldn't fix anything, and guilt could wait.
She dropped to her knees beside him, hands trembling as adrenaline surged through her veins. Her fingers fumbled through his pockets, movements clumsy but urgent, her pulse loud in her ears.
ID card.
Cash. Wads of hundreds. Thank you, Lord.
She exhaled sharply in relief, clutching both like lifelines.
"Thank you for your service," she murmured, more to steady herself than anything else, already pushing herself back to her feet.
The lamp lay discarded on the floor, the man unconscious beside it, and the path ahead—terrifying, uncertain—finally open.
She didn't look back.
The ID card was warm in her palm, slick with sweat. She wiped her hand on her jeans, then did the same with her face, dragging her fingers down until the tremor in them eased into something manageable. Panic could come later. Right now, she needed to look like someone who belonged.
She cracked the door open and peered into the hallway.
Empty.
The silence felt heavy, the kind that pressed against her ears. Somewhere deep in the building, something hummed—electric, constant, indifferent. She slipped out, pulling the door closed behind her with exaggerated care, as though noise itself might snitch.
The elevator stood at the end of the corridor, sleek and private and very much not designed for escape attempts. She approached it slowly, every step deliberate, rehearsing calm the way she rehearsed code in her head.
Normal people do this all the time, she told herself. Normal people leave penthouses. Perfectly legal behavior.
She swiped the card.
The panel lit up immediately.
Relief punched the air out of her lungs.
She stepped inside and turned just as the doors slid shut, sealing her in a mirrored box that reflected her wide eyes and flushed face at her from every angle.
"Okay," she murmured to her reflection, gripping the rail as the elevator began its descent. "No screaming. No fainting. We're doing great."
The numbers ticked downward—slowly, painfully—each floor passing with agonizing patience. Her heart raced anyway, thudding against her ribs like it was trying to escape first.
She forced herself to breathe evenly, smoothing her hair, wiping her cheeks again. By the time the elevator chimed and the doors opened onto the lobby, she had rearranged her expression into something neutral, something forgettable.
She stepped out.
No alarms. No shouting. No men in black suits lunging at her from behind marble pillars.
A receptionist glanced up, barely sparing her a second look.
Good. Perfect. Excellent.
She walked—not ran—across the lobby, posture straight, pace unhurried, as if she did this every day. The revolving doors opened for her with a soft sigh, and then she was outside, the cool night air hitting her face like a splash of water.
She didn't stop moving.
A taxi idled near the curb, engine humming. She opened the door and slid inside before the universe could reconsider.
"Where to?" the driver asked.
She swallowed. "Somewhere… far," she said, then corrected herself quickly. "A hotel. Quiet. The farthest one you know."
He glanced at her in the mirror, suspicion flickering—then she placed the cash into his hand.
Suspicion vanished. The only reason she loved money this and that she could buy special edition books with it.
The car pulled away from the curb, the building shrinking behind them until it was just another tower among many.
Only then did she allow herself to slump back against the seat.
Her hands shook now, uncontrollably, adrenaline finally spilling over. She pressed them together, then laughed once—short, breathless, a sound that surprised even her.
"Well," she muttered to the empty car, staring out at the passing lights, "that was not on today's to-do list."
Her phone was gone. Her bag was gone. Her sense of safety was very much gone.
But she was moving. She was free. And for the moment, that was enough.
She closed her eyes, letting the city blur into streaks of light, already planning her next steps, already rewriting her life in her head.
Because if there was one thing Iris knew how to do, it was disappear.