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The Billionaire's Daughter in Danger

The Billionaire's Daughter in Danger

Eunice write

5.0
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5
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Emma had always thought of herself as untouchable. With her sharp tongue, enviable beauty, and spoiled rotten demeanor, she had managed to stay several steps ahead of anyone who dared to challenge her. But somehow, Will Knight-cocky, impatient, and slightly dimwitted-had managed to kidnap her and her best friend not once, but twice. How? She was still trying to wrap her head around it. The first time had been a chaotic mess. Will had bungled the plan, getting caught halfway through, and yet, somehow, he still managed to pull it off. The second time was almost laughable. Emma had expected a more elaborate scheme, but instead, Will had used his brute force and complete disregard for any semblance of intelligence. It was absurd, really. He had no finesse, no strategy, and yet here they were, locked in his uncomfortably shabby hideout for the second time. "Seriously?" Emma muttered, pacing the room, hands on her hips. "How does someone this clueless get away with kidnapping?" Will shrugged with that stupid grin of his. "Dunno, guess I'm just lucky." Emma shot him a withering look. Maybe luck had something to do with it, but she had a feeling there was more to Will than met the eye. Perhaps he wasn't as dimwitted as she'd thought. That idea made her stomach twist in an unsettling way.

Chapter 1 01

You know how people in movies always seem to know when their lives are about to change? Yeah, that doesn't happen in real life. You don't wake up one morning and think, "Oh, my God, I'm going to get kidnapped today."

The day I got kidnapped, I didn't wake up with some otherworldly premonition about what was about to happen. I woke up barking orders at the air, still stuck in party-planning mode even when I was half-asleep. I had no idea my life was about to change. If I had, I would've run for the hills. I would've even been willing to abandon my party-planning. But I didn't have a premonition, and I didn't run. I just kept obsessively planning my best friend's birthday party.

"No, no, no! I said gardenias. First Love gardenias. What is so impossible to understand about that?" I snapped into the phone, cutting the man off every time he tried to speak. He was obviously just your average worker. He was too flustered to be anyone of power. "No! No! I don't want to hear talk of tulips! Or lilies! I said gardenias. We want First Love gardenias. No. No!"

People these days were so incompetent. Why would this man even think to suggest tulips or lilies when I was so clear about our desire for gardenias? It was ridiculous.

"Ma'am, you must understand-"

"There's nothing to understand," I exclaimed. "My client said she wanted First Love gardenias, and that's what I'm getting her. Not tulips. Not lilies. Gardenias."

My client wasn't just any client; I wouldn't have been doing this for any old person. My client just so happened to be my best friend, Taylor Williamson, and this wasn't just any party. It was her eighteenth birthday party, and it had to be absolutely perfect. Taylor had entrusted me with this job, assuming I would do it to the best of my ability, and that was exactly what I was going to do. No imbecile was going to ruin this for me or for her.

"But we don't-"

"I don't care! I'm not asking for some endangered flower from Africa. My request is so simple. Gardenias. We just want gardenias."

Well, I was definitely never ordering flowers from this business ever again. This was absolutely ridiculous. Horrible service. Just horrible.

"But we don't have-"

"You are living proof that evolution can go in reverse. Haven't I made myself more than clear? We. Want. First. Love. Gardenias."

"Ma'am, I'm sure there are plenty of other very beautiful flowers-"

"No," I snapped, shaking my head even though the man couldn't see me. "I don't want to hear talk of these other flowers! You have two choices: either get the gardenias for this party, or count on losing our funding and patronization."

He sounded much more nervous the next time he spoke. "There's no need to take such drastic measures. Ma'am-"

"You're making me take drastic measures!" I interrupted, grinding my teeth. "If you don't figure this out, we'll be moving to another flower shop. And I promise you, that's going to cost you. My clients are not the type who take kindly to delays. Do you understand that? I don't have the luxury of playing games."

The silence on the other end was thick, but then I heard the unmistakable sound of hurried typing. I had him now. He knew he was losing my business, and I was the kind of customer who didn't forget these things.

"Okay, ma'am," he stammered. "I'll check with our stock and get back to you as soon as I can."

"That's better. You'd better hurry up. If you're not calling me back within the next hour, I'll be taking my business elsewhere." I ended the call with a firm snap of the phone. I needed to focus. The party had a million moving parts, and I wasn't about to let one incompetent flower vendor ruin everything.

With a deep breath, I turned to the party-planning binder I had been obsessively curating for the past six months. It had every detail covered: color schemes, guest lists, catering options, and the ever-important flower arrangements. Taylor had been clear about what she wanted. Gardenias. Not just any gardenias, but First Love gardenias. There was no substitute. If I couldn't get those flowers, the whole event would fall apart. It was as simple as that.

I scrolled through the guest list next. The guest list was critical. We couldn't have too many people crowding the space, but at the same time, we needed to make sure Taylor's friends and family were all accounted for. Taylor wasn't just any girl-she was the type who expected the best, and she trusted me to deliver. We'd been best friends since kindergarten, and when she asked me to plan this monumental event for her, I couldn't have said no. I knew how important it was.

It was then that I noticed the time. I had been up for hours already, planning and making calls, and I still hadn't had breakfast. My stomach growled, but I pushed the thought aside. There was no time for food. Not now. I was in full-on party-planning mode, and nothing could derail me.

The next few hours were a blur of calls, emails, and frantic running around. The caterer confirmed the menu, the decorators assured me that the venue was coming along, and the entertainment had been booked. Everything seemed to be falling into place... except for the damn flowers.

I had already contacted three other florists in the area, and none of them carried First Love gardenias. It was starting to feel like a lost cause. The frustration gnawed at me, but I refused to give up. Not after all this effort. Taylor deserved perfection.

Around midday, I made the mistake of glancing at my phone again. The screen lit up with a message from Taylor: I'm so excited for the party! Thanks for planning everything. You're the best! I smiled at the message. Of course, I was the best. I always delivered.

But as I tapped out a quick reply, my phone buzzed with another call from the flower shop. I groaned and answered it, my patience wearing thin.

"Ma'am, I've managed to secure a shipment of First Love gardenias," the voice on the other end said, the relief evident in his tone. "They'll be arriving at your venue within the hour."

I could feel the tension in my shoulders melt away, and for the first time today, I allowed myself to smile. "Thank you," I said, a little more graciously than I had been all morning. "I appreciate your persistence."

"Of course, ma'am. Thank you for your understanding. We look forward to working with you again in the future."

I hung up, feeling a wave of triumph wash over me. The flowers were taken care of. Now, I just needed to focus on the final details. The guest list, the seating chart, the music. I was nearly there.

As I reviewed my checklist, I heard a knock on the door. At first, I ignored it. But when the knocking continued, I rose from my seat, irritation creeping back in. I opened the door to find a delivery driver holding a package.

"Package for Alexander McKinley," he said, handing me the clipboard to sign.

I raised an eyebrow. "I didn't order anything."

"Not sure, ma'am. Just says to deliver it to this address."

I signed without asking too many questions, curious about what could possibly be inside. The box wasn't large, but it felt heavier than expected. I moved to my desk and carefully cut through the tape. Inside was an assortment of odd items: a few bundles of cheap, garish ribbons, a set of miniature candles, and a note.

I unfolded the note, and my heart skipped a beat as I read the single line scrawled across the paper:

You should have been more careful with your plans. We're watching.

I froze. Something in my gut twisted. My pulse quickened. It wasn't just a prank. It couldn't be.

I glanced around, suddenly hyper-aware of every little sound. The silence in my apartment felt suffocating.

I had no idea what was happening, but something told me I had just crossed a line. A line I wouldn't be able to uncross.

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