Blackmailed

Adaline Poole pushes open the heavy oak door of her Marylebone apartment.

The cold London wind slips in behind her, but inside, the silence is what hits her first. It is a suffocating, empty silence. She drops her keys onto the marble console table. The metal clatters loudly, echoing in the vast, high-ceilinged hallway.

Usually, a flash of orange fur greets her before she even takes off her coat.

"Monty?" Adaline calls out.

Her voice sounds thin in the empty space. She kicks off her Prada loafers. The leather shoes hit the hardwood floor with a dull thud. She frowns. The apartment is too quiet.

She walks into the living room, carrying a paper bag filled with expensive organic cat food. She drops the bag onto the Persian rug. It tips over. Tins of wet food roll out, clinking against each other, but Adaline does not care.

She bends down and lifts the edge of the cashmere throw blanket draped over the velvet sofa. It is Monty's favorite hiding spot.

Nothing.

Her breathing speeds up. A cold knot forms in the pit of her stomach.

She turns and runs into the kitchen. Her bare feet slap against the cold tiles. She yanks open the bottom pantry door. The hinges squeak.

The shelf is completely bare. The fifty-pound bag of dry kibble is gone. The litter box in the corner is gone. The ceramic water bowls are gone.

Her pupils dilate. The knot in her stomach twists into a sharp, physical pain.

Her hands start to shake. She reaches into the pocket of her Burberry trench coat and pulls out her iPhone. Her fingers are trembling so badly she almost drops the device onto the tile floor.

She unlocks the screen. Her thumb hovers over her contacts. She presses the name of the housekeeper back at her family's estate in Long Island, New York.

The phone rings. Each long beep feels like a needle scraping against her eardrums.

Finally, the line connects.

"Miss Adaline?" Mrs. Gable's voice is hesitant, thick with guilt.

"Who touched my apartment passcode?" Adaline demands. Her chest heaves. She does not ask how the housekeeper is doing. In the world of the New York elite, pleasantries are discarded the moment property is violated. "Where is my cat?"

"I... I am so sorry, Miss. Your father ordered it."

Adaline's jaw clenches so hard her teeth ache. Her fingernails dig into the soft flesh of her palms, leaving deep crescent-moon indentations. Her eyes burn with sudden, hot tears.

Green Poole. Her father. The man who runs his family like he runs his corporate acquisitions-with ruthless, cold-blooded efficiency.

She hangs up on the housekeeper without another word.

She scrolls down her contact list and presses the number saved as 'Green Poole (Dictator)'.

He answers on the first ring.

"Bring him back," Adaline yells the second the line opens. Her voice bounces off the pristine white walls of her kitchen. "Bring my cat back right now!"

A low, humorless chuckle comes through the speaker.

"You are wasting your time in London, Adaline," Green says. His voice is smooth, arrogant, and entirely unbothered by her panic. "Playing house with a stray animal while ignoring your responsibilities."

"My responsibilities?" Adaline laughs. It is a harsh, broken sound. "You mean my responsibility to be sold off to the highest bidder? Your reach is too long, Green. You have no right to touch my things."

"I have every right. I pay for that apartment. And as for the stray," Green pauses, letting the silence stretch to maximize her anxiety. "He has been relocated to a shelter. One much more suited for a street cat."

All the blood drains from Adaline's face.

The kitchen spins. She stumbles backward and her spine hits the edge of the granite kitchen island. She slides down until she hits the floor.