<You’re not Fitz.>

The man’s eyes hold disappointment, one fist gripped around the fabric of her father’s collar. Her father’s stranded; the perpetrator could shoot at a moment’s notice.

Cordelia’s steel blue eyes radiate in terror. Her nerves spike. She’s scared to move, diverting her gaze to the shiny metal weapon in his hand—one wrong move and she could be fatherless.

<Fitz was here only moments ago—there’s no way he could have disappeared so fast. Where is he?> He commands.

<I don’t know who Fitz is.> Her nerves choke her. <We’ve never heard of him.>

<You have to know, he’s Aleck’s son.>

<No, he’s not. I’m an only child.>

<Aleck doesn’t have a daughter.> He growls, his grip tightening around the cloth—her father coughs—the friction around the man’s neck overwhelms him.

“Cordelia, leave!” Her father pleads. He’s too gun shy to make a move. As scared as she may be, she needed to act. Her father’s life depends on it.

<God dammit Aleck, just do as I say and give me the watch. I don’t want to hurt you.>

Her father’s confused; he doesn’t understand Antillan. The perpetrator curls his lips in irritation.

“Give him your watch—that’s what he wants!” Cordelia spits out.

The man’s brows furrow—violet eyes squinting in annoyance. He turns to Cordelia.

<Why isn’t he talking in Antillan? I know he can understand me!> Cordelia freezes when the dark-haired stranger shakes her father. She eyes his gun carefully, the barrel pointing to the ground. <Fitz was right about you.>

<Let him go!> She hollers.

Her words go in one ear, and out the other. The perpetrator stares at her father, his cool violet eyes examining his face. While he’s distracted, Cordelia could snatch the gun from his hand, and use it against the man. Or, she could scream for help—no—if she tries, he could either shoot her father or her if she tries to escape.

Fear courses through Cordelia as she confronts the tall man. Despite the texture of his jacket, it wasn’t hard to guess that the man’s arms were toned. He could knock her out in seconds. She had to act fast. Cordelia tiptoes closer—reaching for the handle of his gun—success! She swipes the gun from his loose grip—scrambling backwards. The one night she had to choose to wear these damn heels. Cordelia keeps her arm straight—she angles the gun between the perpetrator’s eyes.

<Now, unless you want me to call the cops, I suggest you get your ass moving.> Nerves tense and heart pumping, Cordelia stands her ground. She doesn’t notice her father stare at her in both horror and awe. She also doesn’t notice him break away from the perpetrator’s grasp, creeping behind the wooden desk. She hopes he texts for help—and soon.

<I don’t like your tone.> The perpetrator’s voice strikes her with fear. He lunges forward, the arm of his leather jacket sticks to the skin of her neck. He firmly holds her against the wall—her father gasps in terror as Cordelia struggles for air. With finesse, the perpetrator weaves his fingers around the gun she holds, sliding it into his pocket. <If you scratch, kick or punch me—you will regret it.> He’s referring to her hands, as she could move both quite easily. She wasn’t dumb enough to try her luck—he had the gun in his possession. She didn’t.

His violet eyes briefly travel to the portrait above her head.

<The girl in the frame—that’s you, isn’t it?>

Duh.

<Aleck never had that picture before…> He whispers under his breath. <It doesn’t make sense.>

<I told you—I’m his daughter.> Cordelia snarls.

<…You might be right.>

<I am right!> She hisses.

<And you say Fitz isn’t here.>

<I don’t even know a Fitz.> A true statement.

<Fuck.> The perpetrator loosens his hold, but not enough to escape. He remains silent, examining the woman in his grasp. His warm gaze lingers on her parted lips. Once he lost that menacing look of his—dare she say—he’s handsome. His strong jawline is framed with light stubble—connecting to neatly trimmed sideburns. A style that was more common in St. Antilla, but there was no mistake that’s where he’s from—his caramel skin and jet-black hair are key indicators—but that raises more questions. Why was a St. Antillan native so obsessed with this watch, and, a man named Fitz?

<Look, if you can give me the watch—I’ll leave. But you need to understand, if Aleck activates it, we’re as good as dead. If you’re really his daughter, you’ll understand the consequences of what he’s trying to do.>

<How about a civilized conversation.> She wriggles in his grip.

<I’m sorry—I can’t let you go. You’re my bargaining chip.> His tone relaxes—despite his hold on her remaining the same. Both he and Cordelia know, she’s not going to escape.

A whirl crosses her line of sight—her father ripping the perpetrator away from her, throwing him onto the rug beneath her feet.

“Dad!” She gasps. By a miracle, her father wrestles the gun out of the perpetrator’s hand, throwing it to the back of the study. How it didn’t go off was miracle number two.

“Grab the gun and get out of here!” With her senses returned, Cordelia rushes for the gun, but her father’s grunt of pain forces her to leap from the ground—oh god, that perpetrator was coming right for her. She throws her shoes off, increasing her mobility. She rushes for the doorway, but the man grabs her by the waist, yanking her back. Her back’s pressed against his chest.

<What don’t you get—we don’t have that flipping watch!> Cordelia panics as he pries the weapon from her hand. She expects him to raise the gun to her forehead, but he doesn’t.

<Listen,> The perpetrator whispers. <I have no intention of hurting you, but I need Aleck to hand over the watch. This is the only way I can save this reality from destruction.>

Cordelia winces. This man’s not only a robber—but he’s also a lunatic!

Her father’s whiter than porcelain. He wants to move but fears what the man might do in response.

“Dad, he’s crazy. He says he’s trying to save our reality from destruction!”

Panicked, her father fumbles for his phone. He takes it out, swiping through the pictures. He shows the man a picture of what looks like a fancy pocket watch—a cloudy blue jewel is in the middle. “This is the watch he’s talking about.”

His eyes widen in shock. <Tell him he needs to get rid of it—immediately.>

“He wants you to destroy it.”

“I’ll do one better. I’ll give it to him.” Her father says.

<My dad will give you the watch.>

To her surprise, the perpetrator lets Cordelia go. Her father wraps her in a protective hug. “I’m so sorry, my girl.”

She glances at the perpetrator, his arms crossed as he looks at the portrait. Right, he wouldn’t be leaving without the watch.

“Are we going to leave him here?”

“Help is on the way—I managed to get a text out when he let me go.”

“I knew you would.” Her father’s arms release her. “What are we going to do with him in the meantime?” He doesn’t answer Cordelia, instead, sending out another text.

“Working on it,” is his reply. “You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

“I’ll see if I can get the gun from him—since we’re giving him what he wants, he shouldn’t need it anymore.”

“Cordelia.”

“Dad, it’s fine. He said he wouldn’t hurt me.”

If Cordelia could chalk another act of bravery under her belt, it might add fewer years to her Firthe Hotels and Suites sentence.

<Hand over your gun.> She sticks her hands on her hips, arching forward as she addresses the perpetrator.

He raises a brow. <Why, so you can use it against me?>

<It’s insurance that you won’t use it against us.> She squints.

A smile escapes his lips. <Perhaps, but I want something in exchange.>

<You’re in no position to be bargaining.>

Why does his laugh sound pleasant? Did the perpetrator forget the terror he struck into her and her father? He looks at her hand, his smile grows wider. <I hope you’re not a prude like Fitz—that’d be a waste.> His tender voice speaks as his eyes travel downward.

She ignores his comment, sticking out her hand. <Don’t get comfortable—hand it over.>

<I told you, I want something in exchange.>

Cordelia—despite her better judgement—entertains him. <Fine. What do I have to hand over in exchange for your gun?>

<Your name.>

<That’s it?> He’s St. Antillan—they had a thing with names down south. Even while living there, she never learned why that was.

He smiles, leaning his arm out. In his hand is the gun.

Here it goes. <My name’s Cordelia.>

<Ah.> His smile’s wide, showing off his white grin. He stretches out his fingers, leaving the gun in his palm. <It’s yours.>

She stares at him while she carefully takes it from his hand, backing up before she had the chance to be swept up by his charms. Lunatic or not, if she met this man in Hidden Treasures—damn. Her gut tremors thinking about it.

The immersion breaks—a team of individuals wearing black flood the room, surrounding the perpetrator immediately. One of the men forces the perpetrator to the floor, handcuffing his wrists together. His violet eyes meet Cordelia’s, his lips remain sealed.

Cordelia can’t help but smile.

Payback’s a bitch.

“You want him detained?” A woman speaks, addressing her father.

“Yes. He knows about the watch.”

“Of course. We’ll pry it out of him, and ensure he doesn’t spread any unnecessary gossip.” The woman’s cool hazel eyes linger on Cordelia. “I implore you to encourage your daughter to do the same.”

“I will.”

“You believe that crazy guy?” Cordelia’s stuck on her father’s words. “You said he knew about that watch—hell—you even had pictures of it! What would the Special Forces Unit need to know about some trinket?”

“My dear, they weren’t members of the Special Forces Unit.” He helps her off of the ground. “Who you just saw—they’re from Willa Corp.”