Chapter Text
(Trevor’s POV)
Trevor’s first thought was: This is a really nice room to be kidnapped in.
The ceiling had crown moulding. The walls were pale gold with ornate frames holding oil paintings of dead-eyed ancestors who looked like they’d committed several tasteful murders in their day. Everything smelled like old money, antique furniture, and just a hint of something floral.
He tried to move. Bad idea.
His wrists were bound — silk rope, classy — and his ankles were zip-tied. Less classy. He was slumped in a velvet armchair that probably cost more than his last bonus check. His head throbbed, and his favourite Rolex was gone.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered. “They took the watch?”
The double doors creaked open.
Trevor straightened, as much as one can straighten while tied up. Expecting goons, he was not prepared for her.
She walked in like she owned the place — which, judging by the look on her face, she did. Her hair, a deep, burnished red, was swept into a perfectly structured twist, not a strand out of place. She wore a forest green dress that made her look like some dangerous heiress out of a noir film, and her heels clicked like a metronome of doom.
Her eyes swept over him — dismissive, calculating, unimpressed — and Trevor had the very real sense that she’d already decided whether he was worth killing
Trevor blinked. “Okay. If this is a dream, it’s weird, but I’m not mad.”
She didn’t blink. “Mr. Lefkowitz.”
He grinned despite the throbbing in his skull. “Miss...?”
“Woodstone. Henrietta Woodstone.” She crossed the room with measured grace and took a seat opposite him, legs crossed, posture perfect. “But you may call me Hetty. If you behave.”
“Oh, I love when kidnappers give pet names.”
Hetty didn’t smile. “You were warned. You involved yourself in matters that didn’t concern you.”
“I clicked on a file,” he said. “It was labelled ‘2021_Taxes.pdf’. That’s not exactly Ocean’s Eleven material.”
Hetty reached into a drawer beside her and slid a photo onto the table. It was grainy, taken from a security camera. Trevor, outside a bank. Talking to someone. Smiling.
He leaned in. “That’s just me being friendly.”
“Friendly,” Hetty repeated, her tone unreadable.
Trevor sighed. “Look, whatever this is, I can explain. I’m not a narc. I’m a hedge fund manager. Worst thing I’ve done is charge my company’s Amex for a Vegas trip and lie about it being a ‘networking event.’”
She tilted her head. “Charming.”
“You’re not the first woman to say that,” he said, flashing a grin.
Her expression didn’t change. “You have until tomorrow to convince me you’re not a threat to this family. If I’m satisfied… you’ll be allowed to leave.”
Trevor narrowed his eyes. “And if you’re not satisfied?”
Hetty rose to her feet with the elegance of someone who never rushed. “Then you’ll be leaving in pieces.”
She turned and walked toward the door.
“Wait,” he called after her. “Don’t I at least get a lawyer?”
She paused, glancing over her shoulder. “You’re in our house now, Mr. Lefkowitz. The only law here is mine.”
The door closed with a soft click. Trevor slumped back in the chair, muttering to himself.
“…Still better than jury duty.”