In a remote mountain valley untouched by people, Emily Dawson was sprawled out on a thick tree branch, soaking up the morning sun with her eyes closed, looking way too comfortable.
She wore a tight leather outfit that hugged every curve, with her combat boots casually tapping against the bark in rhythm — she was clearly still in the afterglow of last night’s clubbing and that skull-rattling EDM.
A full night of partying left her left eyelid twitching all morning.
"Left eye twitch means good luck's coming... maybe a hot guy in my bed who just won’t leave — abs, V-line, rich, hot, and not clingy..."
She murmured to herself dreamily, totally lost in her fantasy until — bam! That sudden chill down her spine signaled danger fast approaching.
Her eyes snapped open, laziness gone in an instant. She glanced up, unimpressed, at the massive net falling from above.
In one fluid move, she sprang up and leapt to another thick branch before the net could catch her.
But she missed the dart coming from the other direction.
Her body stiffened as pain hit her spine, and in the blink of an eye, her strength vanished like smoke.
Her knees gave out, and she plummeted off the hundred-meter-tall tree.
She fell fast, her small frame crashing straight into the net with a sickening thud.
Dozens of men — all tall, muscular, and dressed like pros — burst out of the bushes, surrounding the net from all sides.
Dizzy from the landing, Emily took a couple of seconds to get her bearings before snapping back into her fierce queen mode.
"Hey boys, you out here fishing for mermaids?"
Her voice was sugary sweet, but the rebellious bite in her tone couldn’t be missed.
The bodyguards shot looks at each other, none daring to smart-mouth her back.
Emily let out a mocking chuckle and slowly ran her fingers through her messy hair like she had all the time in the world.
Her hand slid behind her, fingers tracing down until she hit the dart stuck in her left shoulder blade.
She clenched her fist, took a sharp breath, then yanked the thing out — fast, clean, brutal.
The whole time, her eyes flashed with this lazy contempt that was just... classic her.
"Next time, try being a little gentler with a lady. Use pink darts. And a pink net, maybe?"
She winked playfully, struck a flirty pose — then passed out.
...
When she woke up again, her head was pounding and her vision was a blur — everything around her a smudge of light and shadow.
The first thing she saw was a pair of glossy black leather shoes walking closer step by slow step.
"Awake?"
The man's voice was crisp, like glass tapping marble — emotionless, but heavy with tension.
Emily tried moving her arms and realized she was strapped to some sort of cross. Her whole body felt like jelly — couldn’t even lift her head. All she could see was his shoes, his trousers.
Dust-free. Designer.
She snorted and licked her lips. "Alright, spill it. What’s the beef, grudge, or heartbreak that got me here?"
Yeah, she was the prisoner, but every word came laced with cockiness.
His eyes darkened just a little. That voice, that smug vibe — even without looking at her face, even if she was ashes — James Lawson knew exactly who she was.
"618."
He said it calmly, just dropped the number like it was a password. But those digits hit her like a truck. Her heart skipped. Blood rushed to her face.
James Lawson.
Three years ago. Hotel Room 618. The guy she drugged and had her way with.
The panic and shock only lasted a second. She took a deep breath, pulled herself together.
"618... hmm... rings a bell." She frowned, muttering, thinking hard for a few seconds before — bingo! Her eyes lit up like she just figured out world peace.
"618! Ohhh, you mean the shopping festival!"
She looked him dead in the eye, full of mock-serious excitement. “What, you dragged me here to teach you how to coupon-hunt or empty my cart for me?”
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