Kidnapped - A Beautiful Blessing

The car rolled to a smooth halt outside Sasha's building, but she remained frozen in her seat, her fingers curled tightly in her lap. For a moment, she simply stared ahead, the looming facade of her apartment offering no comfort, only an echo of emptiness she had grown far too familiar with.

Her hand hovered over the door handle, hesitant, almost reluctant. The weight of her thoughts pressed heavily against her chest, like a vice tightening, making it difficult to breathe—let alone acknowledge the presence of the man seated silently beside her.

Samuel said nothing.

But his gaze lingered, she could feel it—an unspoken question hanging thickly in the air between them. It wasn't demanding, nor pushy, but it was *there*, heavy and expectant. Maybe he was waiting for a polite invitation inside, maybe just a glance, a nod, a sign that she'd noticed him. That she cared.

But Sasha wasn't in the mood for pleasantries.

Not today. Not when her mind felt like a battlefield, littered with wreckage she hadn't yet learned how to clear.

Without another word, she unlatched the door and stepped out, the cool metal handle briefly grounding her as she shut the door with a muted thud.

"Bye," she said, her voice flat, void of anything soft or lingering. She didn't spare him a glance, didn't offer a smile. She couldn't.

"Bye," Samuel echoed, and though he forced the word out with a smile, it didn't quite meet his eyes. His voice held something tentative—something that faltered in the silence left behind as she turned away.

She didn't wait for him to drive off.

Didn't watch the taillights fade.

She didn't have the energy to.

The moment she stepped into her apartment, she clicked the lock shut behind her and leaned heavily against the door, her forehead resting against the cool wood. A breath escaped her lips, shaky and uneven, as though she'd been holding it all day.

The air inside felt stagnant—thick, oppressive.

It smelled faintly of cleaning detergent and something older, something more familiar, the scent of long days spent merely *existing* within these walls. It wrapped around her, clinging, suffocating.

Dragging her body toward the bedroom felt like wading through molasses, every step weighed down by something intangible. Once inside, she peeled off her clothes mechanically, discarding them in a pile on the chair without thought.

She reached for a soft cotton salwar kameez, slipping into its loose comfort. The fabric hung lightly on her frame, offering a temporary reprieve, but it did little to ease the tension that had burrowed beneath her skin, coiled tight like a spring ready to snap.

Her fingers gathered her hair into a haphazard bun, stray strands already slipping loose around her face. She caught her reflection briefly in the mirror—dark eyes rimmed with exhaustion, lips pressed thin—and quickly turned away.

Padding over to the bathroom sink, she splashed cold water over her face, again and again, letting the droplets trickle down her cheeks, past her jaw, and disappear into the hollow of her throat. Each splash stung against overheated skin, but the chill barely made a dent in the heaviness weighing her down.

The exhaustion clung stubbornly, like a second skin she couldn't shed.

When she stepped into the kitchen, the silence greeted her like an unwelcome guest.

Too quiet.

Too still.

She moved automatically, reaching for something—anything—to do. Something to keep her hands busy, to drown out the spiraling thoughts circling like vultures in her mind.

She rinsed the rice under running water, watching the milky liquid swirl down the drain. Again. And again. She repeated the action until the water ran clear, her motions mechanical, methodical, almost obsessive.

She set the rice to boil, then reached for the dal, measuring lentils with practiced precision. The scent of turmeric soon filled the space, earthy and warm, mingling with the thick steam curling from the pot.

For the sabzi, she opened the fridge without much thought, selecting vegetables at random. She chopped them quickly, the knife moving with sharp efficiency against the cutting board.

*Chop. Chop. Chop.*

The repetitive sound echoed in the otherwise empty apartment, the only proof that she was still here, still moving, still breathing.

Oil sizzled in the pan as she heated it, the sharp scent of mustard seeds making her eyes prickle. She added cumin, dried red chilies, waiting until they crackled and popped before tossing in the chopped vegetables.

The familiar dance of spices followed—coriander, red chili powder, a pinch of garam masala. Each sprinkle, each stir, was muscle memory now. Once, the blend of aromas would have tugged at her hunger, coaxed a smile.

Now, it barely registered.

The kitchen felt like an oven, the oppressive summer heat seeping in through the cracked window, clinging to her skin like another unwelcome weight. Sweat gathered at her hairline, a thin sheen forming on the back of her neck, trickling down the curve of her spine.

A few strands of hair stuck to her damp skin, but she made no effort to fix them.

She reached for a plate, ready to finally sit, but before her fingers could close around it—the world abruptly shifted.

It happened all at once.

The floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet, an unexpected, sickening lurch.

The walls swam at the edges of her vision, warping, distorting.

Her breath caught sharply in her throat.

Her pulse surged, erratic and too loud, pounding in her ears like a warning drum.

The counter under her palm felt miles away as her grip tightened desperately, knuckles bleaching white.

*Breathe, Sasha. Breathe.*

But the air felt thin, uncooperative.

Her stomach twisted violently, nausea rolling through her like a wave crashing over brittle rocks.

She shut her eyes tightly, as if that could somehow will the dizziness away. But it clung to her stubbornly, the sickening churn in her gut refusing to loosen.

Seconds stretched unbearably long.

Every beat of her heart thundered against her ribs, a frantic, hollow echo.

When the dizziness finally receded, leaving her legs weak and trembling beneath her, her body was slick with sweat. A cold sweat, chilling despite the sweltering heat.

Her fingers fumbled for a glass, the tremor in them making it hard to grasp.

She filled it with water, her breaths shallow as she forced herself to take slow, measured sips.

The cool liquid slid down her throat, grounding her slightly. But not enough.

*It's nothing,* she told herself, swallowing hard.

*Just the heat. Just exhaustion.*

The words rang hollow in her ears, brittle and fragile.

And she wasn't sure if she was trying to convince herself—or lie to herself.

Forcing herself to sit upright, she reached for her plate with trembling fingers. The simple, mechanical action felt foreign, as if her body moved on autopilot while her mind frayed at the edges.

She scooped up a spoonful of rice and dal, bringing it to her lips. The first bite barely registered on her tongue before a heavy lump lodged itself in her throat, thick and unmovable.

Her fingers clenched tightly around the spoon, the metal biting into her palm. It was the only way to keep her hands from shaking.

A dull, spreading ache unfurled in her chest—a slow, suffocating pressure that tightened around her ribcage, making each breath feel like a battle. The air itself seemed too dense, too heavy to pull in.

She had killed him.

Darius.

The name alone cracked something inside her, sharp and unforgiving, reverberating through her mind like a cruel echo.

The memory surfaced unbidden, brutal and vivid—the way he'd looked at her in that final moment. Shock flashing across his face, raw and unguarded. The betrayal sinking into his eyes like a blade. And beneath it, the unmistakable flicker of something darker. Hatred.

It hit her like a physical blow, slamming into her chest so hard she had to squeeze her eyes shut, as if blocking out the memory could ease the pain.

Tears slipped down her cheeks before she could stop them, hot and relentless, carving silent trails over her skin.

But she didn't put the spoon down.

She didn't stop eating.

Instead, she forced another mouthful past the knot in her throat, chewing mechanically even as her chest felt like it might split open. Swallowing past the searing ache lodged deep in her heart.

She missed him.

*God, she missed him so much it physically hurt.*

Her entire body felt hollow, like she was crumbling inward under the weight of everything she could never take back. The words she never said. The lies she'd fed herself.

She had spent so long weaving that narrative—that he was a monster. That his blood deserved to stain her hands.

But the truth clawed at her now, brutal and undeniable.

He wasn't the monster.

He had always shielded her from the darkness. Always stood between her and the things that could harm her.

Always looked at her like she was *his*. Like she belonged to him in a way that defied logic, reason, and the very world they'd been born into.

And she had thanked him with betrayal.

With a bullet.

A broken sob ripped from her throat before she could smother it, sharp and raw, the sound of it echoing too loudly in the quiet room. Desperate, she slapped a hand over her mouth, biting down hard on the inside of her cheek to stifle the noise.

Her shoulders quaked violently, her entire frame trembling under the weight of grief she no longer had the strength to contain.

The tears kept falling, unrelenting. She felt like she might drown in them.

But when her plate was finally empty—when every bite had been swallowed through sheer force of will—she pushed herself away from the table.

Her legs felt leaden as she dragged herself to the bed, each step heavier than the last.

Without bothering to turn off the light, she collapsed onto the mattress, curling in on herself instinctively, as if making herself smaller might shield her from the hollow, gaping wound in her chest.

The second her head hit the pillow, the facade shattered.

Fresh sobs wracked her body, tearing through her like a storm, violent and unstoppable. She buried her face into the sheets, clutching the fabric as if it could anchor her to something real.

Her throat burned from the force of her cries, her limbs aching from how tightly she curled into herself.

She cried until her body gave out, muscles sore from trembling, eyes swollen and stinging.

And when exhaustion finally pulled her under, it offered no relief.

Her dreams were jagged, disjointed, haunted by Darius's piercing gaze—those dark eyes filled with betrayal and something far worse.

Not hate.

But devastation.

When she finally stirred awake, the sky outside her window was already painted in shades of gold and orange, the sun dipping low on the horizon as if the day itself had grown weary.

The soft glow spilled into the room, casting elongated shadows across the wooden floor, pooling in the corners like forgotten memories.

Sasha sat up slowly, her limbs feeling heavy, her head aching with the dull throb of too much sleep and too many unshed tears. Instinctively, she rubbed at her swollen eyes, the skin beneath them tender to the touch.

Dragging her feet toward the window, she pushed aside the thin curtain and let her gaze drift outward.

The world beyond remained frustratingly unchanged. The same quiet street stretched before her, the same trees swaying gently in the breeze. Somewhere nearby, birds chirped their evening song—a melody light and carefree, painfully at odds with the hollowness twisting tight inside her chest.

The sky, though, was breathtaking. A masterpiece of nature's own hand—deep purples bleeding into fiery oranges, soft pinks melting into fading blues, as if the heavens themselves were on fire. It should've stirred something within her.

But Sasha felt… nothing.

Numb, like her emotions had dried up and cracked away, leaving her hollow.

Her hand fumbled toward the bedside table, fingers closing around her phone almost by reflex. The screen blinked awake as she checked the date.

The seventh.

Her brows knitted, a faint crease forming between them as she stared at the number.

Last month had come and gone without her period, but she'd brushed it off easily, blaming the relentless weight of stress. One more thing she couldn't afford to care about.

*It's nothing,* she told herself firmly. *It'll come this month. It has to.*

Still, a nagging unease curled at the edges of her thoughts.

Her thumb swiped the screen lazily, and a notification popped up at the top.

Samuel.

She didn't even need to open the thread to know what it would say.

Sure enough:

*"Hi."*

*"Did you eat something?"*

Her lips twitched, a faint curl of irritation forming, though it lacked any real fire.

*What is he, my mother?*

Another scroll revealed more.

*"Are you free this weekend?"*

*"Can we go somewhere?"*

She stared at the screen for a moment, her fingers hovering indecisively over the keyboard. The weight of his persistence, though well-meaning, pressed down on her like a stone she had no strength left to lift.

Finally, she typed a curt reply—

*No.*

Without giving it another thought, she tossed the phone onto the mattress, the device bouncing slightly before falling still, just like her heart.

Later, when the last strands of sunlight had faded into darkness, she forced herself back into the kitchen, driven more by habit than hunger.

The flour dusted her fingers as she worked the dough, kneading it firmly, almost aggressively, as if trying to mold something stable in a world that felt like it was unraveling. The motion was automatic—press, fold, turn—repeated until she shaped them into thin, even circles.

They puffed faintly as they hit the hot tawa, the scent of toasted wheat wafting up, filling the empty kitchen.

She moved on to the sabzi—paneer crumbled between her fingers, onions sizzling in oil, cumin seeds popping, the sharp bite of green chilies stinging her eyes. Tomatoes softened in the pan, spices folding into the mixture.

A meal coming together effortlessly.

But she barely noticed the aroma, the colors, the texture. She ate mechanically, forcing the food down, chewing without tasting, her mind somewhere far away.

Sleep didn't come easily when she finally returned to her room.

She lay in bed, the sheets rumpled around her, one arm flung over her eyes as the ceiling above blurred and shifted. Minutes dragged into hours as she scrolled through her phone aimlessly, searching for distraction, for noise, for anything.

Inevitably, her thumb hovered over *his* name.

Darius.

His contact stared back at her, cool and unchanging.

His display picture was the same—calm, composed, untouchable.

But she knew better.

She had seen the cracks, the shadows behind those eyes. She had touched the edges of his control and tasted the storm beneath. No one else knew him like she did.

Without thinking, she opened her gallery and clicked on the lone video she kept tucked away—her guilty secret.

In it, he stood by the window, phone to his ear, his deep voice filling the space as he spoke to someone on the other end. His shoulders were relaxed, his jaw sharp with focus.

Then, as if sensing her presence, he turned. Just for a second. His gaze flicked to her, something unreadable flickering there—something only she had seen.

She watched it once.

Twice.

Again and again, the video looping, each time leaving her emptier than the last.

Her thumb trembled over his contact name. The call button glowed invitingly beneath it, far too easy to press.

*Maybe… maybe he'll answer,* a desperate whisper echoed in her mind.

Maybe he missed her. Maybe there was a part of him—no matter how small—that didn't hate her entirely.

The hope was a cruel thing, fragile and dangerous.

But then, reality hit her like a slap.

*He hates me.*

Of course he did. How could he not?

The phone slipped from her fingers, landing somewhere between the sheets as her breath hitched sharply.

A broken sob tore free, her throat tightening painfully as she buried her face in her hands. She curled into herself instinctively, drawing her knees to her chest as if making herself smaller would somehow make the ache less unbearable.

This time, there was no one to pull her back.

No firm arms, no heated words, no piercing gaze reminding her she wasn't as alone as she thought.

Just silence.

And the sound of her own ragged breathing as she wept—silent, broken, completely, utterly alone.