Page 95 of Where Angels Fall

“Zeke,” my father’s voice rumbles through the speaker, harsh and cold.

“Hello, Howard,” Zeke drawls, watching me as he says every word with purpose.

His eyes crinkle with delight, as I’m sure my face shows exactly how I’m feeling. If I could move my arms, I’d lift them to cover my ears. Whatever is said over this phone call, I have a strong suspicion that it’s something I don’t want to hear. Something I can’t hear. But I can’t move my arms, strapped to the chair, bound and useless.

“Did you get the video I sent you?” Zeke asks casually.

My stomach drops. He saw the video Zeke filmed to send to Ash. The one of him torturing me.

“I saw,” is all he replies.

He gives nothing away, zero emotion bleeding into his words, his voice that same, monotone, cold thing as usual.

Zeke pauses for a moment, and all I can hear is my rapid breaths soaring in and out of me.

“You did?” Zeke asks. “I guess I expected some sort of response. But if you want to play hard to get, I’ll bite.”

My father is silent on the line, and a lump forms in my throat. Part of me wants to scream for him, scream for him to help me.

Another part whispers in my mind that he won’t help, which is confirmed when my father stays silent on the other end of the line.

Zeke lets out a low chuckle. “I guess I underestimated how far your carelessness goes when it comes to your daughter. Probably should have realised it when you let her go to the event with me.”

This pulls a response out of my father, who huffs an impatient breath.

“You’re wasting my time,” he says coldly through the speaker, like I’m not strapped to a chair bleeding out in some underground nightmare. Like he didn’t just watch a video of me being hurt.

Zeke’s smile deepens, slow and satisfied, as though he’s been waiting for that exact tone. He paces a lazy half-circle in front of me, phone gripped in his hand, the other sliding into his pocket.

“Oh, Howard,” he drawls, almost fond. “That’s the thing about time. It’s only valuable when you’re the one running out of it.”

My stomach rolls. I swallow hard, throat scraping against the rope, and a small sound escapes me. Half sob, half breath. My father doesn’t react to it.

Zeke glances at my face, dark eyes flickering over my expression.

“I think you’ll find I don’t respond well to threats,” my father spits. “Especially not from the likes of you. I gave you my business, and I can just as easily take it away. Now get to the point.”

Zeke goes completely still, and that makes me nervous. He makes me nervous. Then he laughs quietly, and not with humour.

“Your business?” he repeats. “Oh, Howard, I really don’t think you understand what’s happening here.” Zeke’s tongue darts out to wet his lips before he continues. “I don’t want your business. In fact, when I found you, you were haemorrhaging serious money trying to keep your extracurricular investments quiet. Do you remember that?”

My father remains silent as the words echo in my mind. Extracurricular investments?

Zeke’s gaze drifts to me for a moment before returning to some invisible point on the wall, pacing slowly as if he’s outlining a presentation instead of standing over his bound captor.

“You know where to send the money. And for giving me a headache, it’s just gone up to two billion. Before midnight, or pretty little Miss Maddison’s brains will paint the wall.”

This time my father laughs.

“Go ahead. She made her decisions, and I won’t be paying for them,” he grits out.

Even Zeke’s brows raise at the words, as a ragged sob breaks free. I’m so damn stupid for thinking my father gives even a fraction of a worry about me. That I thought he’d care if I died. But to him, I’m nothing but an inconvenience. A burden. Tears blur my already limited vision as my body goes numb.

“Dad,” I whimper, shocked at the word before it even leaves my lips. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve called him dad, but something inside of me is cracking open, bleeding heavier than the wound in my leg. “Dad! Please...”

I feel small. So small. Like the little girl who used to cry herself to sleep, wishing her parents would bother to come in and read her a bedtime story. Or even kiss her goodnight. And here I am, crying over the same thing. Fracturing down the middle, over something I knew a long time ago.

His heavy breath through the speaker sounds irritated.