Page 4

Inside are handwritten and highlighted passages from every dark romance novel I’ve devoured, notes on “safe” kidnapping techniques, fantasies scribbled in margins during sleepless nights. The pages fall open to the most referenced section—“Taking Her”—where I’ve sketched out tonight’s plan down to the minute. My pulse thunders in my ears as I check my watch. Any moment now, she’ll walk through that door, and everything I’ve dreamt about will finally begin.

For one night only, she’ll be mine.

From under the seat, I retrieve the small brown bottle I paid for in cash at a sketchy store under a fake name. I tried it once—to make sure I looked the part when it came to this day—and the chloroform smells sharper than I expected—chemical and sweet simultaneously.

My hands won’t stop shaking. I stuff them between my knees, squeezing until it hurts, then practice the breathing exercises I use before shows. Four counts in, hold for seven, out for eight. The stage fright never goes away completely, not even after fifteen years of performing.

This is just another performance. The most important one in my life.

In the rearview mirror, I check my appearance. The cheap eyeliner is mostly gone now, smudged during the concert. My natural face looks too vulnerable for what I’m about to do, but like this, I look… a bit wild? I run my fingers through my hair, pushing the black strands off my forehead. The roots are starting to show blond at the temples. I’ve been meaning to touch them up. Would Vivian prefer me blond again?

“Focus,” I mutter to myself. I rehearse what I’ll say when I approach her.

“Vivian? Hey, amazing show, right? You need a ride?” Too casual.

“Vivian Jackson? I’ve noticed you at our shows.” Too creepy.

“Vivian... I’ve been waiting for you.” That’s worse.

I grip the steering wheel hard enough for my knuckles to turn white. Why am I overthinking this? Once the chloroform hits, it won’t matter what I said. But I want everything to be perfect. I want her to look at me, really see me, before I take her.

Movement by the side door catches my eye. My breath hitches as Vivian steps out alone, her phone illuminating her face with an ethereal glow. Her friend must have stayed behind. Perfect. Under the security light, her hair looks almost burgundy, her skin pale and flawless. She’s frowning at her phone, tapping the screen with growing frustration.

“Trying to call a taxi,” I murmur, watching her. I know her routine from previous concerts. She always calls a ride rather than drive when she’s been drinking.

I tuck the notebook away and grip the chloroform and a small cloth, folding it carefully. There isn’t much movement in the parking lot, save for a couple or two having sex inside their cars.

It’s time.

I carefully pour some chloroform onto the cloth; not too much, just enough to knock her out for the drive to the cabin. The video tutorial on the dark web was specific about dosage. Too little and she’ll fight too hard; too much and well, I don’t want to think about that.

I drive closer to where she’s in the driveway, as she’s busy calling someone. I park to the side of the street and slip out of the car, my boots barely making any noise on the tarmac. My heart hammers so hard, I’m certain she’ll hear it from meters away. The cloth is hidden in my left hand, facing my thigh. With my right, I run my fingers through my hair one more time—to ensure I look my best when she sees me.

“Fuck,” she says as I approach, her Chicagoan accent mixed with a posh Londoner accent making such a normal word sound exotic. “Can anyone in this country pick up their damn phone?”

Twenty feet away. Fifteen. Ten.

“Vivian?” I call, pitching my voice to be casual, friendly, with a certain seductive edge to it. Not the growl I use on stage, not the hesitant stammer of my teenage self.

She turns, surprise clear in the widening of those green eyes. A flash of recognition swiftly shifts into confusion. “Oh, hi?”

“Hey… I believe we were never introduced to each other, but I’m Andrew. I… I’ve seen you at our shows…” And now what? I close the distance between us, smiling in what I hope is a non-threatening way.

My palms are sweaty. How do cool guys in dark romance act? I’m drawing a blank now, at the worst time ever.

Her expression shifts to pleased surprise, and a hint of a blush creeps up her cheeks. “Yeah, great show tonight. By the way, I loved the new song.”

My chest swells with idiotic pride. She liked my song. The one I wrote for her.

“Thanks.” I take another step closer, casually, like this is a normal backstage fan encounter. “Need a ride? Taxis are shit this time of night, especially on Halloween.”

She hesitates, glancing down at her phone. “I should probably wait for my friend...”

Good instincts, Vivian, but tonight we need to tell them to fuck off.

I don’t give her time to finish. In one fluid motion—practiced dozens of times on a pillow in my bedroom tied to a chair—I move my clothed hand up to her mouth and step behind her while my right arm locks around her waist.

Her reaction is immediate and violent. She bucks against me; her elbow driving back hard into my ribs. The pain is sharp and unexpected. She turns around and punches my jaw, just shy enough from knocking me out. For a split second, I think I’ve lost my consciousness, but no, I’m okay. Just dizzy. But as I’m centering myself, she lands a punch on my nose and I think I’m bleeding. None of the novels mentioned how strong a fighting woman would be. Or that a woman would fight back this viciously. Or that fucking chloroform would take so long to work. It always seems so easy in the novels. She tries to pull away, but I don’t let go of my hold on her torso. Fucking hell, she’s tough as nails. I’m proud of her but also, I need her to cooperate a bit. Still holding her, I turn her away from my face. Her scream is muffled by the cloth as I try to knock her out, but she manages to twist her head enough to make eye contact. The betrayal and terror in those green eyes hits me like a physical blow.