The rain had turned into a deluge, a curtain of water that blurred the world into gray static. Imogen huddled deeper into her jacket, checking her phone again. 3% battery.
She had ordered an Uber. It was a reckless expense, twenty-five dollars to get to a Motel 6 on the other side of Queens, but she couldn't stay here. Chad knew where this bus stop was.
The app said her driver, Mohammed, was driving a black Toyota Camry. Arrival in 1 minute.
Headlights cut through the darkness, blinding her. A sleek black car pulled up to the curb, its engine purring with a low, expensive rumble. Imogen squinted through her rain-spattered glasses. It was black. It was a sedan. It had to be him.
She didn't wait. Panic was a cold hand pushing her forward. She grabbed the handle of her suitcase and wrestled it off the curb, splashing through a puddle that soaked her sneakers instantly.
She yanked open the back door of the car.
"Thank God," she gasped, shoving her heavy, waterlogged suitcase into the footwell. It didn't fit well; she had to jam it against the pristine leather of the front seat.
She dove into the backseat, slamming the door shut against the storm.
The silence was instant. The roar of the rain vanished, replaced by the soft hum of climate control and the faint, woodsy scent of cedar and expensive cologne. It was warm. It smelled like safety.
Imogen collapsed back against the seat, wiping the water from her glasses with her wet sleeve, which only smeared them further. "I am so sorry about the wet luggage," she breathed out, her chest heaving. "The rain is insane. Thank you for coming so quickly."
There was no response.
Imogen frowned, putting her glasses back on. Her vision cleared enough to take in her surroundings.
This was not a Toyota Camry.
The interior was vast, upholstered in butter-soft cream leather. There was a console between the front seats with a touchscreen glowing with climate controls. And in the seat next to her-not the driver, but a passenger-sat a man.
He was in the shadows, illuminated only by the passing streetlights. He wore a dark hoodie pulled up, but his posture was rigid. He had been in the middle of typing on a tablet, his fingers now hovering over the glass.
He turned his head slowly to look at her.
His eyes were dark, intelligent, and utterly cold. He looked at her dripping hair, her muddy sneakers on his custom floor mats, and the suitcase jamming his legroom. He didn't look scared. He looked... inconvenienced.
"You," the man said. His voice was deep, a baritone that vibrated in the quiet cabin. "Are not supposed to be here."
Imogen's heart stopped. She looked to the front. The driver was a large man with a thick neck, his face obscured by a dark baseball cap pulled low, staring at her in the rearview mirror with wide eyes.
"Boss?" the driver asked. "security breach?"
The man in the hoodie-the Boss-didn't break eye contact with Imogen. "Wait."
Imogen scrambled backward, pressing herself against the door. "I... I thought this was my Uber. It said a black car."
"This is the wrong car," the man said dryly, his tone leaving no room for argument.
The realization hit her like a physical slap. She had jumped into a stranger's car. A rich, powerful stranger's car. In Queens. At night.
"Oh my god," Imogen whispered. She fumbled for the door handle. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
The door was locked. Child lock? Security lock?
Panic spiked. "Let me out!"
The man signaled to the driver with a slight nod. Click. The lock disengaged.
Imogen didn't hesitate. She threw the door open and tumbled out onto the pavement, slipping on the wet asphalt. She scrambled up, her knees screaming in protest.
She saw headlights approaching behind the large black car. A beat-up Toyota Camry with an Uber sticker in the window.
"Wait!" she yelled at the Toyota, waving her arms.
She ran toward the Uber, diving into the backseat just as the driver unlocked it. "Go! Just go!" she yelled.
"Lady, you okay?" the Uber driver asked, looking at her terrified face.
"Just drive!"
As the Toyota pulled away, merging into traffic, Imogen slumped against the window, watching the taillights of the sleek black car fade into the distance.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Her suitcase.
She sat up, patting the empty seat beside her. She looked at the floorboard. Nothing.
"Stop the car!" she screamed.
"What?"
"My bag! I left my bag in the other car!"
But it was too late. The black luxury sedan had turned a corner and vanished into the rain, taking with it her clothes, her shoes, and the only thing that mattered more than her life-her sketchbook.
