When I arrived at the house, the first thing that hit me was the silence. The place was dark, no lights, no sound of workers preparing, no clatter of glasses or footsteps. Just stillness.
“What the hell is going on?” I barked, storming inside. My shoes echoed against the marble floors, the grand chandelier above unlit, casting the room into shadows.
The butler hurried after me, looking nervous.
“Why is the place dark? Where’s everyone?” I demanded.
“I-I don’t know, sir…”
“You don’t know?” My voice thundered through the hall. “Are you insane? Then start knowing! Find out what the hell is happening right now!”
We scoured the rooms. Nothing. Not a single staff member. The house was in chaos, furniture unpolished, dishes unwashed. My stomach churned as I realized the investors were due in mere hours, and the house looked like a deserted ruin.
I pulled out my phone, dialing Amara’s number. Straight to voicemail. Again. And again. No answer.
My rage boiled. Where the hell was she? This was her responsibility. She couldn’t even do one thing right.
Then the butler returned, holding a folded note. “Sir… I found this.”
I snatched it from his hands. The handwriting was unmistakable.
“Sir, Ms. Amara said we could all have the night off. She dismissed us.”
My grip tightened, the paper crumpling in my hand. “She dismissed them? On the eve of the most important night of the year?!” I threw the note across the room. “Damn it, Amara!”
Before I could rage further, the doorbell rang. Relief flickered for a second. Maybe it was her. Finally.
I yanked the door open.
It wasn’t her.
A delivery boy stood nervously, holding a medium-sized box. “Package for Mr. Jones.”
I tore it from his hands, shoving him away before slamming the door. Setting it on the table, I ripped it open.
My world stopped.
Inside was an urn. Cold, gray, heavy. And a letter taped to the side.
“Since you failed to deliver the money, here are the ashes of your daughter.”
My knees weakened. The room spun.
“No…” My voice cracked. My hands trembled violently as I held the urn. “No, this isn’t real… this is a joke. A sick joke.”
My breath came in shallow gasps. My daughter. Sienna. My baby girl.
Dead?
I refused to believe it. They were bluffing. They had to be. Kidnappers used fear—it was their weapon. They wouldn’t just kill her. They wouldn’t—
But what if they had?