Chapter 9: Darkness and Dawn
2497words
The air smelled of rust and stagnant water, industrial and abandoned. My wrists burned where rope bit into flesh, secured behind my back with practiced efficiency. My ankles too were bound, though less tightly—an oversight or deliberate choice, I couldn't determine which.
Memory filtered back through the chemical haze—the parking garage, the cloth against my face, the darkness that had swallowed me whole. Kidnapped. The realization should have triggered panic, yet I felt oddly calm, as if part of me had been expecting this inevitability.
In my previous life, death had come slowly through poverty and illness. This time, it seemed, my enemies had chosen a more direct approach.
Footsteps approached—light, measured, familiar. I remained motionless, breathing deep and regular, feigning continued unconsciousness.
"I know you're awake, Elara." Vivienne's voice, stripped of its usual affected sweetness. "Your breathing changed. Always the poor actress."
No point in pretending further. I opened my eyes, blinking against the harsh overhead light. The room materialized around me—concrete walls, rusted machinery, broken windows revealing pre-dawn darkness outside. An abandoned factory or warehouse, isolated enough that screams would go unheard.
Vivienne stood several feet away, transformed from the polished socialite I'd known. Her designer clothes had been replaced by practical dark attire, her perfectly styled hair pulled back severely, her manicured hands encased in latex gloves. Only her eyes remained unchanged—cold, calculating, filled with a hatred that had transcended death and rebirth.
"Kidnapping," I observed, my voice raspy from the chloroform. "Quite the escalation from character assassination."
She smiled, the expression never reaching her eyes. "Desperate times, desperate measures. You've left me with so few options, sister dear."
I tested my bonds subtly, assessing their strength while maintaining eye contact. "Where's Dominic? I assumed he'd want front-row seats to whatever you're planning."
"Dominic," she spat the name like poison, "has proven himself a coward. He's distancing himself, trying to salvage what's left of his reputation." Her fingers tightened around the object she held—a hunting knife, its blade catching the light. "Men are so predictable in their self-preservation."
The knife explained the purpose of the latex gloves. No fingerprints, no evidence. She'd planned this meticulously.
"What's your endgame here, Vivienne?" I asked, buying time as I worked at the ropes. "Killing me won't restore your social standing or bring Dominic back."
She circled me slowly, the knife dangling from her fingers with deceptive casualness. "This stopped being about social standing the moment you took everything from me. Now it's about justice."
The word hung between us, heavy with irony. Justice—my motivation for returning to this timeline, now twisted into Vivienne's justification for violence.
"And Thorne?" I questioned, noting how her expression hardened at his name. "Where does he fit into your justice?"
"He'll be joining us soon," she replied, checking her watch with theatrical precision. "I sent him coordinates. Men like Thorne are so predictably heroic when it comes to women they desire."
My blood ran cold. She'd lured Thorne into a trap—using me as bait. Despite our argument, despite the distance I'd placed between us, I knew with bone-deep certainty that he would come. Alone, as she'd undoubtedly demanded.
"He'll bring security," I bluffed. "Police. You won't get away with this."
Vivienne laughed, the sound echoing harshly against concrete walls. "He won't risk your life with reinforcements. Men in love make such foolish decisions." She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Did you know he's been obsessed with you for years? Even before you were with Dominic? Pathetic, really."
I kept my expression neutral despite the painful twist in my chest. Thorne's feelings for me—feelings I'd only recently begun to understand and reciprocate—weaponized against him by Vivienne's machinations.
"What happened to you?" I asked softly, genuinely curious despite my predicament. "We were children together. You were my sister."
Something flickered across her face—a momentary hesitation, quickly suppressed. "Step-sister," she corrected coldly. "And you always had everything. The family name, the inheritance, the adoration. I was the afterthought, the charity case your father took in when he married my mother."
"That's not true," I protested. "My father loved you like his own."
"He tolerated me," she snapped, the knife slashing through air for emphasis. "Just like everyone else. Always Elara this, Elara that. Perfect Elara with her perfect grades and perfect manners. Do you know what it's like living in someone's shadow your entire life?"
The raw pain in her voice suggested a wound deeper than I'd realized, festering for years beneath her polished exterior. In my previous life, I'd never understood the depth of her resentment. Now it stood revealed—ugly, visceral, and deadly in its intensity.
"So you took Dominic," I concluded, pieces falling into place. "Not because you loved him, but because he was mine."
"He was easy enough to seduce," she admitted with a dismissive shrug. "Men usually are. But you're wrong—I did love him, in my way. He understood ambition, the hunger to be more than what you were born to be."
The distant sound of a car engine cut through our conversation. Vivienne's head snapped toward the broken windows, a smile spreading across her face.
"Right on schedule," she murmured, moving to peer outside. "Your knight in expensive armor has arrived."
Panic surged through me, lending strength to my efforts against the ropes. Thorne was walking into a trap, and I was the bait. Whatever Vivienne had planned, it wouldn't end with just my death—she wanted to destroy us both, to make Thorne witness my execution before killing him too.
The rope around my wrists had begun to loosen, the fibers stretching from my persistent movement. Not enough to free myself yet, but progress. I needed more time.
"He'll never forgive you for this," I said, loud enough to recapture her attention. "Even if you kill us both, you'll spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder. The Blackwood empire doesn't forgive."
Vivienne turned back to me, contempt evident in her expression. "You still don't understand, do you? I don't plan to kill Thorne. I'm going to make him kill you."
The statement was so absurd I almost laughed. "That's insane. He would never—"
"Not willingly, no," she agreed, reaching into her pocket to withdraw a small vial. "But with the right chemical persuasion, combined with some carefully edited evidence suggesting you've been plotting against him all along..." She smiled, a terrible, triumphant expression. "Imagine the scandal. Billionaire Thorne Blackwood murders fiancée in drug-induced rage. His empire would crumble overnight."
The plan was as elaborate as it was deranged—yet I couldn't dismiss it entirely. Vivienne had always possessed a manipulative intelligence that bordered on brilliance. If anyone could orchestrate such a scenario, it would be her.
Footsteps echoed outside the main entrance—measured, deliberate steps that I recognized instantly. Thorne had arrived.
Vivienne moved swiftly, pressing the knife against my throat as she positioned herself behind me. "Not a word," she hissed, the blade biting just enough to draw a thin line of blood.
The warehouse door slid open with a metallic groan, revealing Thorne's silhouette against the pre-dawn sky. He stepped inside cautiously, his gaze sweeping the space before locking onto me. Even from a distance, I could see the barely contained fury in his posture, the deadly focus in his eyes.
"Right on time," Vivienne called out, her voice echoing in the cavernous space. "Close the door behind you."
Thorne complied, his movements controlled and precise. He wore dark clothing—practical rather than his usual bespoke suits—and carried nothing visible in his hands. But something in his stance suggested readiness, a coiled tension that reminded me this man hadn't built an empire through boardroom negotiations alone.
"Let her go," he stated, his voice carrying the absolute authority that made corporate rivals quake. "Your quarrel is with me."
Vivienne laughed, the sound brittle and sharp. "My quarrel is with both of you. But primarily with dear sister Elara, who's taken everything from me—twice now."
The word caught my attention. Twice. A slip of the tongue, or something more? I filed it away, focusing instead on the rope that was finally beginning to give way beneath my persistent efforts.
"Whatever you want," Thorne continued, taking another measured step forward, "we can negotiate. Money. Safe passage out of the country. A new identity."
"Stop there," Vivienne ordered as he approached the halfway point of the warehouse. When he complied, she continued, "What I want can't be bought, Thorne. I want justice. I want Elara to suffer as I've suffered. I want you to understand what it feels like to lose everything you value."
Throughout this exchange, Thorne's gaze had never left mine, communicating volumes in silence. The slight narrowing of his eyes when he noticed the blood at my throat. The imperceptible nod when he saw my hands working at the ropes behind my back. The subtle shift in his stance that positioned him between me and the nearest exit.
He was creating a plan without words, and I needed to be ready.
"You won't leave here alive if you harm her," Thorne stated, his voice dropping to a register that sent chills down my spine despite the circumstances. This wasn't the controlled businessman speaking, but something older, more primal—a predator promising retribution.
Vivienne seemed unaffected by the threat, her confidence bolstered by the knife at my throat. "Bold words from a man with no leverage. But I'm not planning to kill her myself." She shifted, keeping the blade pressed against my skin while reaching into her pocket with her free hand. "You're going to do it for me."
She withdrew the vial I'd seen earlier, holding it up for Thorne to see. "Synthetic hallucinogen, developed in Winters Pharmaceuticals' own labs. Causes extreme paranoia, violent tendencies, and complete memory loss of actions taken under its influence. By morning, you'll have murdered your beloved fiancée in a drug-induced rage, with plenty of evidence pointing to your guilt."
Thorne's expression didn't change, but I caught the slight tensing of his shoulders—the only indication that her words had affected him at all.
"An ambitious plan," he observed with deadly calm. "With several flaws."
"Oh?" Vivienne's voice dripped with mock curiosity. "Do enlighten me."
"First," Thorne began, taking another subtle step forward, "you assume I came alone and untracked. Second, you believe I would ingest an unknown substance at your command. And third—" his gaze locked with mine, a silent message passing between us, "—you've underestimated Elara. Again."
In that moment, the rope around my wrists finally gave way. Without hesitation, I drove my elbow backward with all my strength, connecting with Vivienne's solar plexus. She gasped, the knife wavering just enough for me to duck away from its edge.
Thorne moved with explosive speed, covering the distance between us in seconds. Vivienne recovered quickly, slashing wildly with the knife as she backed away. The blade caught Thorne's forearm, tearing through fabric and flesh, but he didn't slow—his focus absolute as he positioned himself between Vivienne and me.
"Run," he ordered without looking back, his attention fixed on Vivienne, who had retreated several steps, knife held before her defensively.
I worked frantically at the ropes binding my ankles, finally freeing myself as Vivienne lunged at Thorne. They engaged in a deadly dance—her wild, desperate slashes against his calculated movements. Despite his bleeding arm, Thorne maintained control, evading most of her attacks while maneuvering her further from me.
The vial had fallen during our struggle, rolling across the concrete floor. I spotted it near a rusted machine, its contents still intact. Evidence—we would need it to prove Vivienne's plot.
As I moved to retrieve it, Vivienne noticed my intention. With a cry of rage, she abandoned her attack on Thorne, pivoting toward me with the knife raised.
"You don't get to win this time!" she screamed, her composure shattered completely. "Not again!"
This time. Again. The words echoed strangely, triggering a terrible suspicion. Could Vivienne somehow remember the previous timeline? Was it possible I wasn't the only one who had returned?
The thought distracted me just long enough for her to close the distance between us. The knife descended in a vicious arc toward my chest—only to be intercepted by Thorne's hand, closing around her wrist with bone-crushing force.
The sickening crack of breaking bones filled the warehouse, followed by Vivienne's shriek of pain. The knife clattered to the floor as Thorne twisted her arm behind her back, forcing her to her knees.
"It's over," he stated, his voice devoid of emotion despite the blood streaming down his arm.
Vivienne's laughter bubbled up, hysterical and broken. "It's never over," she gasped through her pain. "Don't you understand yet? We've done this dance before. All of us."
My blood ran cold at her words, confirmation of my impossible suspicion. Somehow, Vivienne remembered—or believed she remembered—the previous timeline.
Before I could question her, the warehouse doors burst open, flooding the space with flashlight beams and shouted commands. Police and Thorne's security team poured in, weapons drawn, surrounding us in seconds.
"Secure the suspect," Harrison barked, officers moving to take Vivienne from Thorne's grip.
As they handcuffed her, she locked eyes with me one final time. "Ask him how he knew," she hissed, nodding toward Thorne. "Ask him how he really found you. This isn't over, sister dear. Not by a long shot."
Then she was gone, escorted out by officers while paramedics rushed toward us, focusing first on Thorne's bleeding arm.
In the chaos that followed—statements given, wounds treated, evidence collected—Vivienne's parting words echoed in my mind. Ask him how he knew. What had she meant?
Dawn broke as we finally emerged from the warehouse, the rising sun painting the industrial wasteland in shades of gold and amber. Thorne's arm had been bandaged, his ruined shirt replaced with a tactical jacket borrowed from his security team. Despite everything, he looked formidable, unbroken.
He approached where I sat on the back of an ambulance, a shock blanket draped around my shoulders despite my protests that I was unharmed.
"We need to talk," he said simply, extending his uninjured hand to me.
I took it without hesitation, allowing him to lead me away from the bustling crime scene toward a quiet corner where his car waited. The weight of unspoken truths hung between us—my knowledge of my previous life, his unexplained ability to find me, Vivienne's cryptic statements suggesting she too remembered a timeline that should have been inaccessible to her.
As the sun climbed higher, casting long shadows across the abandoned industrial complex, I realized the time for secrets had passed. Whatever came next would require complete honesty, however impossible my truth might seem.
The question was whether Thorne's truth would prove equally impossible.
