The following morning, Emma awoke to the sound of her phone buzzing insistently on her bedside table. Blinking groggily, she reached for it and saw Nate's name flashing on the screen. Her pulse quickened as she answered.
"Emma, we have a problem," Nate's voice crackled through the line, urgency lacing every word. "Marissa's gone."
Emma sat bolt upright, the remnants of sleep evaporating in an instant. "What do you mean, gone?"
"She didn't show up for her meeting with our legal team this morning. I went by her place, and it's been cleaned out. No sign of her anywhere."
"No," Emma whispered, panic tightening her chest. "She wouldn't just run. Not after everything she's risked."
"Maybe she didn't have a choice," Nate said grimly. "You need to come to the office. Now."
When Emma arrived at the Chronicle, the newsroom's usual hum of activity felt more frenetic, the air charged with unease. Nate was waiting for her in the corner by the coffee machine, his expression grave. He handed her a manila envelope.
"This was left at the front desk for you," he said. "No name, no return address."
Emma opened the envelope with trembling fingers. Inside was a single photograph: Marissa, sitting in the back of a black SUV, her face pale and tear-streaked. The timestamp in the corner was from less than six hours ago.
"They have her," Emma breathed, her heart sinking.
Nate nodded. "And they wanted you to know."
Emma's mind raced. She needed to act, but recklessness would only put Marissa in greater danger. "We have to find her. Do we have any idea where they might have taken her?"
"Not yet," Nate said. "But I've got some contacts digging into the Devereaux's private security operations. If anyone's keeping tabs on their movements, it'll be them."
Emma nodded, her resolve hardening. "In the meantime, I'm going to confront Lucas. He has to know something."
Lucas' apartment was on the upper floor of a sleek, modern building in one of the city's most exclusive neighborhoods. Emma's anger simmered beneath the surface as she rode the elevator up, clutching the photograph of Marissa in her hand. When Lucas opened the door, he looked startled to see her.
"Emma, what—"
She pushed past him into the apartment. "Where is she, Lucas?" she demanded, her voice trembling with fury.
Lucas' brows knitted in confusion. "What are you talking about?"
"Marissa," Emma snapped, holding up the photograph. "Your family took her. Don't you dare tell me you don't know anything about this."
Lucas paled as he took the photograph from her, his eyes scanning it. "I swear, Emma, I didn't know. This isn't me. This is my father."
"Then do something about it," Emma said. "You said you're with me. Prove it."
Lucas hesitated, and for a moment, Emma thought he might refuse. Then he nodded, his jaw tightening with determination. "I'll see what I can find out. But if my father's behind this, it's going to be dangerous for both of us."
"It already is," Emma said. "But I'm not backing down."
That evening, Emma sat in her apartment, staring at her laptop screen. She had combed through every piece of information she had on the Devereauxs, looking for any hint of where they might be holding Marissa. But the answers remained frustratingly out of reach.
Her phone buzzed, and she snatched it up, hoping for news. It was a message from an unknown number:
Stay out of this, or you'll be next.
Emma's grip tightened on the phone. Fear coiled in her stomach, but it was quickly overtaken by anger. The Devereauxs thought they could intimidate her into silence. They were wrong.
She opened her laptop and began typing, channeling her fear and fury into words. If they thought she'd back down, they didn't know her at all. The story was far from over—and she was just getting started.