Chapter 5 I Am Not A Spy

Amanda’s POV He dragged me down the corridor with an urgency that seemed mismatched to the serene, throbbing pulse of the club's music fading behind us. My mind raced as I stumbled alongside him, the grip on my arm firm yet not cruel. The dimly lit hallway led to a door, which he unlocked swiftly before pulling me into a room that felt worlds apart from the chaos outside. The office was lavish, with dark, polished wood furniture and plush carpets that muffled our steps. A large desk dominated the space, flanked by towering bookshelves filled not with books, but with an impressive collection of fine wines and aged spirits. A crystal decanter glinted under the low-hanging light, and a tray of assorted cigars lay neatly beside it. He let go of my arm and leaned against the desk, folding his arms as he fixed his gaze on me. The intensity of his stare made me feel vulnerable, exposed. I fidgeted, biting my lip in a nervous reflex. "Are you a thief or a spy?" he asked, his voice calm but carrying an edge that made it sound like a threat. As he spoke, he began rolling up his sleeves, revealing strong forearms. It felt like a prelude to something dire, and I flinched involuntarily. "No!" I shouted, more out of fear than defiance. Words tumbled out of me in a frantic stream. "I was in a foster home, then I had a place with a friend who... who scammed me. Left me with nothing but bills, debts. I’ve been on the streets, working menial jobs that barely pay anything—two, maybe five dollars at the most." My voice cracked as I spoke of the meager earnings I used for the bare essentials: menstrual care, water, food. He didn’t interrupt, just listened with a stern expression that didn’t change. I could feel my strength waning, the emotional toll of recounting my hardships mingling with the physical fear of the moment. As my gaze darted around the room, trying to read his thoughts from his impassive face, it landed on something chilling—a gun, resting within an easy reach on the desk. The sight of it, so casual yet so lethal, sent a jolt of fear through me. My breath hitched, and my head spun. The room felt too warm, too close. I didn’t hear the sound of the wallet and bills hitting the floor because, at that moment, everything went black. I slumped forward, fainting, the last thing I felt were his arms around me, catching me as I fell. ***** When my senses returned, the dimly lit room felt like a cage ….an exotic cage, as if every breath was a struggle. I opened my eyes slowly, disoriented, my head throbbing in tune with my pulse. He was still there, watching over me, his expression now softened slightly, concerned with etching lines around his eyes. "Easy," he said gently as he helped me to sit up. His hands were steady, his touch surprisingly gentle. "You passed out." I nodded, trying to steady my breathing. "I’m sorry... I just... It’s been hard." He sighed, stepping back to give me space, which I appreciated. He poured a glass of water from a bottle on the desk and handed it to me. His demeanor had changed, no longer imposing but somewhat protective. "Why are you really here?" he asked again, this time his tone less accusatory, more curious. I took a deep breath, the water helping to calm my nerves. I sat there, my story hanging heavy in the air. He didn't say anything for a while. I just needed something to eat, and then I'd be out of his life for good. That's all I wanted. He studied me for a moment, his eyes narrowing as if trying to read my mind. Then, suddenly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his smartphone. With quick movements, he dialed a number and spoke in a low, urgent voice. I couldn't catch the words, but the seriousness in his tone was unmistakable. Within minutes, the door opened and a bartender walked in, balancing a plate in one hand and drinks in the other. The plate was piled high with a whole fried chicken, steaming rice, and a rich-looking sauce. Beside it, a chilled bottle of water and a glass of orange juice glistened with condensation. My stomach growled so loud it was embarrassing. The smell was incredible, savory and inviting. "Eat," he said simply, nodding toward the food. I didn't need to be told twice. I smiled, a small, grateful one that I couldn't hold back. Picking up the fork, I started eating. I was so hungry that I barely tasted the first few bites. The chicken was crispy and perfectly seasoned, the rice fluffy and the sauce added just the right kick. "You might want to slow down," he said after a moment, his voice laced with a hint of amusement. I paused, realizing I had been practically inhaling the food. "Sorry," I mumbled, feeling a bit embarrassed. I took a deep breath and forced myself to slow down, savoring the flavors more with each bite. We sat in silence as I ate. He watched me, his gaze thoughtful, almost calculating. When I was almost halfway through the meal, he leaned back in his chair and fixed me with a look that sent chills down my spine. "Now that you have the energy, I hope you tell me the truth about who sent you to spy on me. Or your corpse will be a bit heavier to lift since you have had enough food to eat," he said, his voice cold and deadly serious. I nearly choked on my food. Dropping the fork, I stared at him, my heart pounding in my chest. The room seemed to spin a little, and fear clutched at my throat. "I am not a spy," I managed to say, my voice shaky. "And did you poison me?!" I asked, suddenly terrified. The question hung between us, heavy and filled with my growing alarm.