The flannel shirt is on the sink. Put it on. Take as much time as you need. Minutes ticked by. Aiden stood in the hallway staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling listening to the rustle of fabric.
Finally, there was a soft thud. Victoria? Aiden called out. No answer. He pushed the door open.
Victoria was curled on the fluffy blue bath mat fast asleep. She had managed to discard the ruined silk dress into the bathtub and had pulled Aiden's massive flannel shirt on. She had only managed to fasten two of the middle buttons. But the thick fabric swallowed her entirely covering her from her collarbones down to her knees. A profound sense of relief washed over him.
He wasn't sure how he would explain any of this tomorrow. But for tonight, she was safe. Aiden bent down scooping her up once more. She curled instinctively into his chest seeking warmth. He carried her into his small bedroom gently laying her down on his mattress.
He pulled the thick quilt up to her chin making sure she was completely bundled. He placed a glass of water and a spare trash can by the nightstand just in case. Before leaving the room, he checked her pulse. It was steady. Her breathing had deepened no longer ragged.
The worst of the drug seemed to have passed through her system. Aiden quietly closed the bedroom door. He walked into the living room collapsed onto the lumpy sofa pulled a scratchy throw blanket over his legs and stared at the ceiling. Tomorrow was going to be the most dangerous day of his life. Sunlight harsh and unforgiving pierced the gap in the bedroom blinds striking Victoria Harrington directly in the eyes.
She groaned, throwing an arm over her face to block the intrusion. Her head throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache, and her mouth tasted like ash and bile. Slowly, the fog of sleep began to lift, replaced by a sharp, terrifying wave of disorientation. She felt the mattress beneath her. It dipped in the middle and smelled faintly of fabric softener and cedar.
This was not the customized, temperature-controlled memory foam of her Manhattan penthouse. She opened her eyes, squinting against the light. The walls were painted a dull eggshell white. A framed poster of a vintage train hung on one wall, and a stack of bedtime storybooks sat on a cheap IKEA nightstand. But the real panic set in when she looked down at herself.
She wasn't wearing her emerald gala gown. She was buried under a heavy quilt, wearing a massive, faded red flannel shirt that smelled distinctly of men's cologne and rain. Victoria bolted upright, her heart slamming against her ribs like a trapped bird. Memories from the previous night hit her in jagged, chaotic fragments. The gala.
The bitter champagne. The terrifying realization that her body was shutting down. Tristan. Tristan's cold eyes in the stairwell, telling her she was being removed. And then, a voice.
A broad-shouldered man in a cheap tuxedo. She threw the quilt off, her legs trembling as she stood up. The flannel shirt fell halfway down her thighs, completely obscuring her undergarments. She frantically checked herself. No pain.
No strange marks. Whoever had brought her here had changed her clothes or let her change them, but she felt physically untouched. Still, her survival instincts, honed in the vicious boardrooms of corporate America, screamed at her to go on the offensive. She crept out of the bedroom, her bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. She needed a weapon.
She grabbed a heavy wooden toy train from a shelf in the hallway, clutching it like a club. She edged toward the smell of coffee and bacon drifting from the main room. Peeking around the corner, she saw him. He was standing at a small stove wearing gray sweatpants and a tight black T-shirt, using a spatula to flip pancakes. In the daylight, without the tuxedo, she recognized him more clearly.
Aiden Dempsey. He had presented a supply chain optimization plan to the executive board 6 months ago. She remembered him because he was one of the few employees who hadn't stuttered when she aggressively questioned his profit margins. Was he in on it? Had Tristan paid him to hold her hostage?
"If you move so much as an inch, I will smash this over your head," Victoria snapped, her voice raspy but dripping with its usual aristocratic venom. Aiden jumped, nearly dropping the spatula. He spun around, eyes wide, before letting out a long, heavy sigh of relief. He looked at her standing barefoot in his oversized shirt, wielding a toy train like a medieval mace. "Good morning, Miss Harrington," Aiden said, his voice remarkably calm.
He set the spatula down and raised his hands slowly, showing he was unarmed. "I see you found the Thomas the Tank Engine Express. It's very dangerous in close quarters combat." "Don't patronize me," she hissed, taking a step forward, her eyes darting toward the front door. "Where am I? Why am I in your clothes?
And how much is Tristan paying you for this little kidnapping stunt? Aiden's calm demeanor vanished, replaced by a flash of genuine insult. Kidnapping? I saved your life. If I hadn't followed you out of that ballroom, Tristan would have shoved you into a private clinic or worse.
You were drugged. You passed out in my car. And the clothes? She demanded, crossing her arms defensively, still gripping the toy. You got sick, Aiden said.
His gaze remaining respectfully fixed on her face, never dropping to her bare legs. Very sick. You ruined your dress. I handed you my shirt through a cracked bathroom door, and you put it on yourself. Then you passed out on my bath mat, and I carried you to my bed.
I slept on the couch. Victoria stared at him, her sharp mind processing his words, searching for a lie. The bitter taste in her mouth, the lingering nausea, the vague memory of cold porcelain, it aligned. But trust was a currency she didn't possess. Where is my phone?
She demanded. On the coffee table, Aiden pointed. It's been buzzing since 5:00 a.m. Victoria lunged for the table, snatching up her device. She had dozens of missed calls, but her eyes locked onto a text from Arthur Pendleton, the oldest and most loyal member of her board of directors. Victoria, where are you?
Tristan has called an emergency session for noon. He's presenting evidence of erratic behavior and substance abuse at the gala to trigger the moral turpitude clause. He's pushing the Sterling merger through today. Call me immediately. The blood drained from Victoria's face.
She dropped the toy train onto the floor with a clatter. Her legs gave out and she sank onto the lumpy sofa, burying her face in her hands. He did it, she whispered, the icy CEO persona finally cracking, revealing the terrified woman underneath. He actually did it. By noon, I'll be voted out of my own company, my father's company.