Amara sat on the edge of the sprawling four-poster bed, her knees drawn up to her chest.
In her hand, her phone felt like something that might go off at any second.
She had spent the last hour staring at the contact name, Hansen. It was a name that, until twenty-four hours ago, had been synonymous with safety. Hansen was the man who knew her favorite roast. He was the man who had sat with her during her lowest points, offering a quiet space and a warm cup of chocolate milk when the rest of the world felt like it was moving too fast. But now, that image was being overwritten by the grainy surveillance photos she'd seen in Darien's office.
She needed to know.
With a trembling thumb, she pressed the call button.
The ringtone felt like a hammer striking an anvil in the quiet room. One. Two. Three. Her heart was beating so hard she could feel it in her throat. She was almost ready to hang up, convinced he wouldn't answer, but then…
"Amara?"
