Page 2 of Ruined By Capture

"You should know what you're marrying into," he said, voice dripping with self-importance. "Not many women are fortunate enough to have a husband with such... resources."

Raymond unlocked his desk drawer and pulled out a small black device.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked, holding up the USB device like it was the crown jewels.

"A flash drive?" I said, feigning ignorance.

He laughed, that condescending chuckle that makes my skin crawl. "This little device holds more money than your father will make in his lifetime. Thirty-five million in cryptocurrency. Untraceable. Untaxable."

I widened my eyes in practiced awe while my mind raced. Three years studying cybersecurity in London. Top of my class. My professor said I had a natural talent for breaking security protocols.

"How does it work?" I asked, touching his arm in fake fascination.

The makeup artist busts into my daydream/nightmare as she applies highlighter to my cheekbones. "Your skin is glowing. Are you using a new serum?"

"Just getting plenty of rest," I lie.

Rest. As if I could rest after what I found last night. As Raymond tucked his precious mechanical wallet back into his desk drawer, I deliberately slipped my mother's ring off my finger and gasped.

"My ring! I've lost my mother's ring!"

The panic in my voice wasn't entirely fake. That ring is the only thing I have left of her.

"It must have fallen off somewhere," I said, already searching around the floor. "Please, Raymond, I can't lose it."

He sighed, annoyed at the interruption of his wealth display. "I'll check the dining room. You keep looking in here."

The moment he left I went straight to his desk. The drawer wasn't even locked—such arrogance. Men like Raymond never expect women to understand their toys, let alone steal them. I slid the small device into my pocket.

Back home in my room I accessed the drive using the admin tools I'd developed during my final year. What I found made my blood freeze. Not just cryptocurrency transactions, but records too. Photographs. Ledgers. Names and dates of girls who'd disappeared. Organ harvesting operations. My father's signature next to Raymond's on documents authorizing ‘shipments’.

The makeup artist applies a rose-colored lipstick to my mouth, again jolting me into the now. "Almost done. You'll be the most beautiful bride."

I force another smile, feeling the weight of the knowledge that the USB is hidden in my bag in the car. Not just my ticket to freedom but evidence that could bring down Raymond Stone,respected politician and secret monster. And my father along with him.

I glance at my phone again, confirming that the message went through to my father's account. Technology has always been my ally—the one thing the men in my family never bothered to understand. They're still using the same passwords they created years ago, thinking their secrets are safe behind digital walls I learned to scale when I was sixteen.

"Miss Lombardi, we need to get you into your dress now," the wedding planner says, checking her watch.

The text to the driver looked exactly like something my father would write—curt, demanding, brooking no argument.Change of schedule. Pick up my daughter at 2 p.m. instead of 1 p.m..

No one questions Antonio Lombardi, especially not his employees.

If the driver somehow ignores the message or double-checks with someone else, I'll need a backup plan.

"I need a moment alone," I say, standing up. "Just five minutes to collect myself."

The wedding planner looks concerned. "We're on a tight schedule?—"

"Five minutes," I repeat, my voice firmer.

She relents, ushering the stylists out. The moment the door closes I grab my phone and open the encrypted messaging app I installed last night. The profile is blank—no name, no photo, just a number. The kind of service that exists in the shadows, where money can buy anything from fake passports to getaway drivers.

I delete the conversation and set the phone aside. I won't need it anymore. Raymond hasn't discovered the USB is missing yet—I'm certain of that. If he had there would be armed men breaking down this door, not makeup artists cooing over the perfect shade of blush.

I look at the wedding dress again, all that white silk and lace meant to symbolize purity. There's nothing pure about this arrangement. Nothing innocent about the money that paid for these crystals and pearls.

What would these people say if they knew their beloved Senator Raymond Stone trades in human lives? That my father helps him transport ‘merchandise’ across state lines? That the charitable foundation Stone chairs is a front for organ harvesting?

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