11: SAVIOR IN BLUE JEANS

It felt like my brain was being split in half. My eyes felt extremely heavy and my body felt like I had been crushed by a truck.

The feeling of the soft mattress against my body gave me a little relief, only, this wasn't my bed and I had never made it home last night.

I vaguely remember getting into a taxi but I have no idea if I made it out of the club.

I turned and writhed in the large bed until I found the energy to stand up.

The very unfamiliar room was tactfully decorated with large wooden furniture and floor length curtains that blocked sunlight from entering the room.

Aside the standard decoration, there was nothing else.

Nothing to give me a clue as to who owned the room I was in. No pictures or paintings or even a jacket or sweater.

I sighed and said a short prayer as I grabbed the shiny doorknob..

Locked.

I really need to find a way to stop getting locked in.

I yanked the door knob severally, my frustration rising each passing minute.

Who the fuck had done this?

I folded to my knees and tried to recollect my memory from the previous night.

I had spent the evening with Vincent and I lost track from when I got into the taxi.

Vincent had no reason to take me hostage, all these must be a very big misunderstanding.

I yanked at the doorknob again, harder this time, shouting, "Vincent! Vincent, if you're out there, open the damn door!" My voice echoed, but there was no response. My chest tightened, panic bubbling just beneath the surface.

I turned to the windows. Floor-length curtains hung heavy over them, and when I pulled them aside, I found the windows sealed shut, the latches snapped off. My reflection stared back at me in the glass, pale and disheveled, my eyeliner smudged from the night before. I tried pushing against the glass, but it didn’t budge.

The room was immaculate, almost eerily so. I tore through drawers and checked under the bed, but there wasn’t a single thing that could help me. No tools, no personal belongings—nothing. It was as if the room had been staged to be intentionally empty.

Frustrated and exhausted, I sank to the floor, tears stinging my eyes. My head pounded, and my limbs felt leaden. I pressed my hands to my face, choking back sobs, but the panic overtook me. The tears came in hot, silent streams, and before I knew it, I was curled up on the cold wooden floor, the weight of fear dragging me into an uneasy sleep.

---

A loud argument jolted me awake. My eyes snapped open, and I scrambled to sit up, my heart racing. Voices—angry and sharp—echoed from outside the room. I pressed my ear to the door, straining to listen.

"Where the hell is she, Vincent?" a familiar voice growled.

Ethan.

My heart leapt in relief.

"I told you, Sir. There's no one here except me" Vincent retorted.

"I'm not stupid. Her last location was here before her phone went off" Ethan barked as he slammed the doors in the hallway.

"You don’t understand," Vincent snapped, his tone defensive. "She came here willingly!"

"Don’t lie to me!" Ethan's voice thundered, filled with rage.

I banged on the door with all my might, shouting, "Ethan! I’m in here! Ethan!"

The voices paused for a moment, and then there was the sound of hurried footsteps. The door rattled violently before a deafening crash sent it splintering to the ground. I shielded my face from the debris, and when I looked up, Ethan stood in the doorway, his fists bloodied, his chest heaving with fury.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice softer now as he stepped toward me. I didn’t answer, just ran into his arms, my body trembling with relief. He held me tightly, his warmth and strength grounding me as I sobbed against his chest.

Vincent appeared in the hallway, his face pale but defiant. “She was fine! She passed out, and I—”

“She what?” Ethan interrupted, his tone icy. He turned to me. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” I stammered, my voice trembling. “He gave me a drink, and I started feeling dizzy. I don’t remember anything after that.”

Ethan’s jaw clenched, and he turned back to Vincent. “You drugged her?” His voice was low, dangerous.

“I didn’t drug anyone!” Vincent protested, backing away.

But Ethan didn’t wait for an explanation. He lunged at Vincent, landing a punch squarely on his jaw. Vincent stumbled backward, blood spraying from his lip. Ethan didn’t stop. He hit him again and again, his rage unrelenting.

“Ethan, stop!” I cried, grabbing his arm. “Please.”

Breathing heavily, Ethan finally pulled back, his knuckles dripping with blood. Vincent lay on the floor, groaning, his face a mess of bruises and cuts.

Ethan pulled out his phone and dialed. “You’re going to jail,” he said coldly as he spoke to the 911 operator.

Within minutes, the sound of sirens filled the air. The police arrived, cuffing Vincent and dragging him out of the house. I clung to Ethan as we watched them leave, my body still trembling.

Ethan wrapped his arms around me and pressed his lips to my forehead. “You’re safe now,” he murmured.

"I know" I whispered as I leaned into his touch.