Secret Desire

Chapter One

Liesl

The afternoon sun glints off a glass building just ahead of me on Fifth Avenue, causing me to momentarily pause in the flow of the crowd’s traffic as I adjust my sunglasses. A man bumps into me and then continues on without apologizing, and I laugh softly under my breath as I keep walking. Never change, New York, I think to myself as I turn left toward the street that will take me to the new juice bar where I’m supposed to meet my friend, Isabelle, for a post-workout drink. She just got out of spin class, and I’m on my way from Pilates. This place is supposedly outrageously expensive for juice, but I'm the one who spent two hundred dollars on a yoga class package last week, so I don't exactly have room to talk about overpriced wellness trends.

I reach up, patting a gleam of sweat from my forehead as I walk. Summer in New York is stifling and hot, but honestly, I’d take it over any other season. I love the bright sun, the fun clothing, the people milling about outside in the park and on rooftop bars as the evenings stretch out endlessly, the daylight hanging on as long as it can.

My playlist shuffles to an up-tempo song, and I bounce my head as I walk, a smile spreading across my face. I turn the volume up a bit to drown out the sounds of the city all around me, ensconced in my own little bubble. My phone buzzes in my bag, and I reach for it as I sidestep a woman with a stroller and a man in a suit who's walking too fast and staring at his phone. 

It’s a dance I’m very familiar with by now. I moved here as soon as I left boarding school, taking a job as a buyer for some of the top brands using, admittedly, some of my father’s connections. But that’s better, I think, than the alternative—just going to exercise classes and out to lunch and dinner and coffee and endlessly spending my days in nothing but hedonistic pursuits while I live off of my father’s money until I inherit the rest of it. At least I’m working, unlike a lot of my classmates now. I don’t really want brunch to be my lifestyle… I like meeting new people, talking about fashion and trends, and being responsible for some of the beautiful displays in the well-known stores of this city. At least my upbringing feels like it means something… a shallow something, maybe, but at least I’m contributing to beauty. 

My life is good. Privileged, yes, but good. I'm aware of how lucky I am.

The light ahead turns red, and I stop at the crosswalk, pulling out my phone to check Isabelle's message. Three texts. She wants to know if I’m almost there, because she’s running a few minutes late, and also, did I see that her ex posted a photo with someone new? I'm typing a response, something sarcastic about her ex's terrible taste in both women and Instagram filters, when I feel a sudden, prickling awareness at the back of my neck.

It’s that kind of awareness that I think all women know, to a certain extent. In a city like this, especially where there are people everywhere, there’s a specific feeling that comes with knowing someone is watching you. It feels like someone is too close behind me, and I turn instinctively, my phone still clutched in my hand as I sweep the crowd parting around me. 

And then a hand clamps over my mouth.

The shock of it freezes me for a split second—just long enough for another arm to wrap around my waist, iron-strong and lifting me off my feet. My phone drops as I reach up to grab the hand on my face. I hear it clatter on the concrete, and then I'm being dragged backward.

All around me, people are ignoring whatever is happening—or maybe it’s just happening faster than it feels. I’m being dragged back toward an alley, I realize, in the instant before I’m in the alley, and the light turns dim all around me. I can smell the stench of garbage and pee and who knows what else. 

I try to scream, but the hand is pressed so tightly against my face that I can barely breathe. I kick wildly as I try to struggle, and my heel connects with something solid… the man’s leg, I think, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care. 

I’m twisted around as I scratch at the hand and try to bite at it, and I see what’s waiting at the other end of the alley, parked in the service drive there.

A van. There's a van with its side door open, the interior dark, and they're shoving me toward it.

No. No no no—

I thrash harder, wild with panic, trying to bite the hand over my mouth, trying to wrench myself free, but they're professionals. They know what they're doing. One of them has my wrists now, and he twists them behind my back with enough force that pain shoots up my arms, and I gasp against the palm pressed to my lips.

Never go to a second location. Women are always told that, but no one ever mentions how impossible it is not to go once someone bigger and stronger has you in their grasp. No matter how hard I writhe or kick or struggle, I can’t get free. It’s like thrashing against iron bars.

“Be easier if we drugged her,” I hear a voice say, and cold fear turns me numb for a brief second, rendering my struggle even more useless.

“Boss wants her in good shape. Doesn’t want to risk a reaction to drugs. You think we can’t handle one scrawny girl?”

Scrawny? I try to spit out a response to that, because I work hard for the muscle tone I have, but everything just comes out as a series of babbles behind the palm pressed to my lips. The man behind me chuckles, and then I’m shoved forward, into the darkness. 

The van swallows me whole.

I fall to the floor, and I feel metal ridges digging into my hip and shoulder. Before I can even process what's happening, something plastic bites into my wrists. Zip ties, I realize. They're zip-tying my hands behind my back, pulling them tight enough that I can’t get much movement in my hands, although they don’t cut off the circulation.

“Careful with those,” that one voice says again. “Remember, no damage.”

What the fuck is happening? “Please—” I start to gasp, but then something is yanked over my head, cutting off my vision completely and briefly stealing my breath away with the shock of it. It’s a soft material, but I feel it being tied off at the back of my neck, leaving just enough room for some air but not enough for me to shake it off.

I’m effectively blind now. The van door slams shut, and the engine is already running. I feel the van start to move, and I let out a scream. I can’t help it. Terror lashes through every part of me, making it impossible for me to think clearly about what might be happening. All I know is one moment I was going about my normal day, going to meet a friend, enjoying the heat and the soreness in my muscles from my workout, and then…

Then I was… kidnapped?

The word doesn’t feel real. But what else could be happening? I’m hooded. I can’t move my hands. I’m in a strange van with strange men…

I can feel my lungs seizing, desperate for air. Breathe. Breathe, Liesl. You need to breathe.

But I can't. The hood is making it worse, the fabric pulling against my mouth every time I try to inhale, and the panic is rising in my throat like bile. I'm going to suffocate. I'm going to pass out. I'm going to—

"Breathe through your nose," a voice says. It’s clearly male, with an American accent, flat and professional. "You're hyperventilating. Breathe through your nose, or you'll pass out."

I don't want to listen to him. I don't want to do anything he says. But my body overrides my defiance, because he's right. I'm on the edge of passing out, black spots dancing behind my closed eyelids, and if I lose consciousness, I lose any chance of figuring out what the fuck is happening.

I force myself to slow down. In through my nose. Out through my mouth. In. Out. In. Out. My heart rate doesn't slow, but at least I'm not drowning in my own panic anymore.

I’m pulled upright, into a seat. As the van takes a turn, I slide, and a strong hand closes over my arm. It’s clear they want to keep me from being banged up too much. Think. You need to think.

But thinking is almost worse than panicking because when I think, I come up empty.

I don't have enemies. I'm careful about who I let into my life, careful about who I trust, but I'm not important enough to have enemies. I'm not involved in anything dangerous. I don't know any secrets. I'm just… me. Liesl Baumann, twenty-two years old, living a quiet life that happens to come with a trust fund. 

The trust fund. My father.

Is this about him?

My mind races through what I know about my father's business. He made his fortune in real estate and tech companies, and some other things he talks about at dinners, which I don’t fully listen to. It’s all investments that are boring and legitimate… and thoroughly vetted by armies of lawyers. He's not involved in anything shady. He's not the kind of man who makes enemies—or at least, not the kind who would resort to kidnapping someone's daughter.

But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe there's a side to his business I don't know about. Maybe someone thinks he wronged them, or owes them, or—

Or maybe this isn't about him at all. Maybe this is about me.

But that makes even less sense. I don't have the kind of money that makes kidnapping worthwhile, not in my own name. Everything's in trusts and investments I can't touch without lawyers and signatures. I get an allowance from it every month, and when I turn twenty-five, more of it will be unlocked for me. I’ve never lacked for anything, and if I want something, my father almost always lets me access enough to get it, because I’ve never been reckless or irresponsible with my inheritance. But I can’t just give it over to anyone. 

There are plenty of valuables in my apartment… but they didn’t break into my apartment. They took me. Unless they’re taking me back there to threaten me until I let them in and let them ransack it… But it feels like we’ve been driving too long. My apartment building isn’t that far away. 

These men are clearly good at this. They know what they’re doing. But I can’t begin to fathom why. 

I try to focus on details. There are at least two people in the back of the van with me that I heard when I was being kidnapped. The driver makes three. There could be more that I didn’t see. We're still in the city. I can hear it—the stop-and-go of traffic, the occasional horn, the rumble of other engines close by. But I've already lost my sense of direction. We've made too many turns, and without being able to see, I can't orient myself. Are we heading toward the bridges? The tunnels? Are they taking me out of Manhattan entirely?

"How long?" one of the men asks. His voice is different from the first one. He sounds younger, and there’s an edge to it that the other one didn't have. He sounds nervous. 

"Twenty minutes," someone else responds. "Remember, boss wants her clean. No marks."

Clean. No marks.

The words echo in my head. They should be reassuring—they don't want to hurt me, they want me undamaged—but they're not. It just tells me that I'm a commodity. A thing to be delivered in good condition.

If they didn’t want damage, they should have tried harder, because the zip ties are cutting into my wrists. I try to shift position, to relieve some of the pressure, but it's impossible with my hands bound behind me and my body wedged against the side of the van. Every turn throws me off balance, and every bump in the road sends a jolt of pain through my shoulders.

You're smart, Liesl. You're capable. Dad always said you were the smartest person he knew.

But smart doesn't matter when you're zip-tied in the back of a van. Capable doesn't matter when you're outnumbered and overpowered and completely at someone else's mercy. 

The panic tries to claw its way back up, and I shove it down. I can't afford to fall apart. Not yet. I need to stay aware, look for any opportunity that might present itself.

The van slows and then stops. I hear muffled voices outside—the driver talking to someone. My heart leaps. If we're somewhere with security, maybe I can—

But we're moving again before I can finish the thought. The van drives a little further and then stops again. The engine cuts off.

I brace myself, every muscle in my body tensing. Whatever happens next, I need to be ready. I need to—

The door slides open, and hands grab me, hauling me upright. My legs have gone stiff from the ride, and I stumble, but they hold me up, their grips firm on my upper arms. My feet hit what feels like gravel underneath my sneakers, and I can feel the heat of the sun on my shoulders. We’re outside, but not for long. The two men seem to be half-carrying me up a set of stairs so that I don’t trip. I hear the sound of a door opening… 

Cold, conditioned air hits me, and the door closes behind us. Everything smells different in here. I can smell wood polish and the light floral scent of freshening spray or candles, something like that. I’m half-escorted, half-pulled along hard flooring until I’m jerked to a stop, and then another door opens.

This room smells like leather and paper. I’m shuffled forward and then pushed down into a comfortable chair. I feel buttery leather under my palms. My feet touch a rug. And then I feel my wrists being unbound, and hear someone curse in a foreign language. Russian, I think. I feel the sudden rush of blood back into my hands, painful and tingling.

“You were told not to hurt her. Her wrists are all red. Idiot.”

“We tried—”

There’s another sharp curse, and the second man stops talking. My arms are firmly taken and placed on the arms of the chair, and for one wild, desperate second, I think about fighting. About ripping off the hood and running. But before I can even tense my muscles to try, something that feels like some kind of padded restraint is being wrapped around my chest and my forearms, binding me to the chair. They’re still tight, but not biting into me or cutting anything off.

Then the hood comes off. 

I blink against the sudden light, my eyes watering and adjusting. For a moment, I can't process what I'm seeing because it's so far from what I expected.

I'm in an office.

Not just an office. A beautiful office. Floor-to-ceiling windows show a view of perfectly manicured grass as far as I can see. The desk in front of me is massive, made of dark wood that gleams. There's a closed laptop sitting next to a monitor, and a leather chair behind the desk and another in front of it. There’s a fireplace to my right. The door is behind me, I think. There are bookshelves filled with books and a bar cart with crystal glasses and top-shelf liquor. Everything is expensive and tasteful, reeking of power.

The smell hits me fully now that the hood is gone. Expensive cologne, something woody and complex with notes of bergamot and cedar. The leather of the furniture is buttery soft and well-maintained. There’s a faint ghost of cigar smoke in the air. This is someone's private office. Someone very wealthy and very powerful.

The three men who brought me here are standing nearby. Now that I can see them, they're not what I expected. There are no ski masks, no obvious weapons. They're wearing suits—nice ones that are well-tailored, the kind my father wears to important meetings. They look like bodyguards or corporate security. Professional and cold.

One of them meets my eyes for a brief second. There's something there—not quite guilt, but close. Discomfort, maybe. Then he looks away. He looks young, so I think he must be the nervous one I heard in the van. 

"What do you want?" My voice comes out steadier than I expected, and I'm grateful for that. I won't give them the satisfaction of my fear. Not if I can help it. "If this is about money, my father will pay. Whatever you're asking, he'll pay it."

None of them responds. They're not even looking at me now. They're waiting. For what? Or who?

The silence stretches out, thick and suffocating. I try again.

"I don't know what you think I did, or what my father did, but I'm sure we can work this out. Just tell me what you want."

Still nothing.

I test the restraints. They're secure but not painful. I can move my fingers and rotate my wrists, but there's no way I'm getting free without help. I can’t move away from the back of the chair or lift my arms up at all. 

The windows are behind the desk, too far to reach even if I could get out of the chair. The door is behind me, guarded by these three men who are definitely armed even if I can't see the weapons. I'm trapped.

I’m not sure how much time passes. It feels like it could be forever. The men don’t move or speak. They're just waiting, and their patience is somehow more unnerving than violence would be. I always thought kidnappings were violent affairs, but this calm, professional waiting suggests a level of organization that terrifies me.

I study the office, looking for anything that might tell me who these people are. The art on the walls is modern and expensive. The books on the shelves are in English and another language I can't read. Russian, I think. 

My stomach drops. Russian.

The Bratva. The Russian mob. Could that be who kidnapped me? 

But that's insane. My father doesn't have connections to organized crime. He's legitimate and boring. He’s the kind of businessman who gets profiled in the Wall Street Journal, not investigated by the FBI. There's no reason the Russian mafia would have any interest in me.

Unless I'm wrong about my father. Unless there's a whole side to his business I don't know about.

Or unless this isn't about my father at all.

"Please." I hate the way my voice wavers this time, but I can't help it. The fear is leaking through despite my best efforts. "Please, just tell me what you want. I'll cooperate. I'll do whatever you need. Just tell me what this is about."

The younger man shifts slightly, and for a second I think he might answer. But then he goes still again, his eyes fixed on something past my shoulder.

We wait.

My mind keeps spinning through scenarios, each one worse than the last. They're going to ransom me, and my father will pay, and I'll go home, and this will be a terrible story I'll never tell anyone. They're going to kill me because I've seen their faces, seen this place. They're going to sell me to someone worse. They're going to use me as leverage for something I can't even imagine.

And then I hear footsteps outside. Heavy, measured footsteps, getting closer by the second. 

The three men straighten immediately, their postures shifting from casual waiting to something more alert. The younger man looks more jittery and unsettled than ever. Whoever's coming, he's in charge.

My mouth goes dry. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my temples, in every part of my body. This is it. This is the moment I find out what this is really about.

The footsteps stop outside the door. The handle turns, and I hold my breath.

Someone walks in and stops before I can see him, other than a vague masculine outline from the corner of my eye. But I can feel his presence… whoever he is, he’s the kind of person who takes up all the space in a room when he walks in, who commands attention wherever he goes. That scent of bergamot and cedar intensifies, and I realize it’s his cologne that I smelled before. I can feel the confidence wafting off of him, the absolute power that comes from knowing that every person in this room will do exactly what he says without question.

And then, he speaks, and I feel the temperature in the room drop. His voice is low and cold, with a faint Russian accent. And my heart nearly stops at the words that come out of his mouth.

"This isn't the right woman."