This Isn't Cabo Anymore

ROWAN

I'm awoken by bright rays of light and warmth on my cheek as my eyes slowly open. A throbbing migraine makes it impossible to see, but I know instantly that I haven't woken up at the hotel. I quickly sit up in a large four-post bed that I'm not familiar with, kicking off a thick grey comforter. A nervous glance down my body makes me realize I'm wearing only a short satin nightgown. And there's a chain cuffed around my left ankle, glittering in the sun. My chest tightens, and my blood turns cold.

I've been kidnapped!

I slide down from the bed in a panic, planting my feet on plush white carpet to find where my left ankle is chained to the bed post. The chain rattles as I explore the room, noticing dark grey walls with luxurious paintings and crystal light fixtures.

I follow the slice of sunlight on the floor, peeking through a pair of thick purple velvet drapes. When I throw them open, I'm stunned at what I see out the large bay window. Miles and miles of greenery and hills below stretch out before a burning sun. There are no bars on the window, but why would there be? I'm up too high, and I'm chained up, so I can't escape.

A daunting realization slices through me.

I'm not in Mexico.

The scenery is different, and the sun is even more beautiful than the Cabo sun was, big and bright in the watercolor sky below thick swirls of clouds.

Where am I?

How did I get here?

Where is here?!

I wish I could remember the night before, but my head feels foggy, as though I've just emerged from a long slumber, and I'm not talking about a good night's sleep. I feel different, fatigued. I feel like I'd lost hours of my life last night, and I don't know how or why it happened.

Why can't I remember anything?

I keep the drapes open while I continue to explore the room. The ceiling is high, with Victorian molding and high arches. The furniture is old but updated with dark Italian craftsmanship. A tall armoire located next to what I can only assume is a bathroom calls my attention.

The chain at my ankle supplies more than enough slack to walk anywhere I want to, but I do feel it when I throw open the doors of the armoire. Inside, I'm shocked to find it loaded with my own clothes, organized by color, hanging up in an orderly fashion. As I begin to open the drawers, I feel my heart sink, bile bubbling up in my throat. My jeans, sweaters, shirts —  even my bras and panties —  are folded neatly and displayed in the dresser.

Why are my clothes here?

Where is here!?

My heart pounds, and I feel my palms sweat.

This is not good.

I bolt into action around the room to search for my cellphone, frantically tearing the covers off from the nicely made bed. Nothing. Next, I rummage through the nightstand beside the head of the bed, but all that's inside is a small pad of paper and a mechanical pencil without any lead. Nope. I pull open the dresser drawers again, tossing item after item of my clothes on the floor until all the continents are scattered in a mess, looking like a tornado has ripped through the house and tore it all apart.

I'm more than desperate to find the only form of contact to the outside world so I can call for help that I don't pay attention to the long chain cuffed to my ankle. It gets tangled around the bed, and I trip and fall backward.

Just as I'm soothing the sudden shooting pain in my foot, the bedroom door opens and in walks a tall man. He has jet-black hair and a perfectly sculpted face, with hard lines and strong bones. He's dressed in an effervescent blue suit — the shade as rich as a sapphire. The thick ridges of his pectoral muscles are clearly visible beneath his buttoned-up shirt, an alarming showcase of the strength he has. His eyes are gold like the rising sun outside the window, but his lips are flat. He's beautiful but dangerous, and the ice in his stare is terrifying, the chill traveling deep inside my bones to freeze me in place.

I remember him.

I kissed him.

I've been abducted by Gabriel Hart.

But why?