Rebirth: Love me Again

[IRAYA]

I swallowed.

Alright. Time to assess my situation.

Kidnapping?

Obviously.

Ransom?

Possible.

Organ trafficking? God, I hoped not.

A deep voice cut through my thoughts.

"Are you Lyander's woman?"

My head snapped toward the source.

A man—tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in an expensive-looking black suit—stood at the front. Unlike the others, he wasn't wearing a mask, giving me a clear view of his dark skin, sharp jawline, and the ridiculous number of gold chains draped around his neck.

The man looked like someone who wanted you to know he was rich.

I blinked. "What?"

He took a slow step forward, his voice laced with an edge.

"Are you Lyander's woman?"

There was a distinct pause. A moment where my brain just . . . froze.

Lyander. Again.

I exhaled sharply through my nose, trying to ignore the way my hands twitched against the rope.

So this was Lyander's fault.

Of course it was.

That good-for-nothing, life-ruining, stress-inducing—

I let out a dry laugh, looking up at my captor like he had just told the funniest joke in the world. "Do I look like I'm Lyander's woman?"

The man stared at me, unimpressed.

Okay. Fair enough. I was tied to a chair in a warehouse of doom. Probably not the time for sarcasm.

I cleared my throat. "No. I am not Lyander's woman."

The man tilted his head, his dark eyes gleaming under the dim light. "Then why is your name plastered all over the news with the headline calling you Lyander's bride-to-be?"

Before I could blink, a newspaper was shoved into my face, so close I nearly went cross-eyed trying to read it. And there it was—bold, obnoxious, and completely ruining my life.

"LYANDER DE SANTIS ANNOUNCES HIS BRIDE-TO-BE!"

The accompanying photo? Me, standing at the infamous De Santis Christmas party, champagne in hand, looking like I'd just stepped on a Lego.

I cursed that night. Cursed it when it happened, cursed it again when I woke up with a hangover, and would probably continue cursing it until my final breath.

"That's a misunderstanding," I said quickly, letting out a nervous laugh. "Actually, there's a really funny story behind that—"

"I don't care about your story!" the man barked, his voice sharp enough to cut glass.

I flinched as a fresh wave of saliva hit my cheek. Oh god. Not to be rude, but his breath smelled like a mix of regret and yesterday's fish market. I discreetly turned my head to the side, trying to escape the biological warfare that was his mouth.

"Okay, okay, no need to get worked up," I said, waving a tied-up hand like I was trying to calm a feral dog. "I get it. You want proof that I'm not engaged to Lyander. But here's the thing—"

I hesitated. Should I tell him the truth? That this entire mess was just an unfortunate misunderstanding? That I had zero plans of marrying that rich, entitled, pain-in-the-ass of a hooligan?

Or should I pretend to be deeply in love with Lyander and pray these guys had a 'no harming brides-to-be' policy?

Before I could decide, the man slammed his fist onto the table, making me jump.

"Give. Me. The. Truth."

I sighed dramatically. "The truth is, I am way too exotic to be a De Santis bride."

That made him pause. A beat passed. Then another.

The man squinted at me, tilting his head like I was a puzzle missing half its pieces. Then, with a thoughtful frown, he muttered, "Your skin's too dark for Lyander's usual bitches."

I blinked. Excuse me?

Before I could process the sheer audacity of that statement, one of the other goons chimed in, scratching his chin.

"Yeah. He normally goes for those porcelain, airbrushed types. You look like you actually go outside."

Another snorted. "And survive off real food instead of green juices and influencer tears."

The first guy nodded sagely. "Are you sure you're his fiancée? 'Cause you don't have that 'Daddy paid for my nose job and emotional damage' energy."

I scoffed, shifting in my chair. "Wow, you guys sure know how to make a girl feel special."

A fourth guy, who looked like he hadn't slept in a decade, leaned in. "Honestly, she kinda gives 'rebellious side quest' energy. Like, the cool chick in a movie who teaches the rich guy how to enjoy the simple things before she dramatically leaves him for a life of adventure."

The leader held up a hand, silencing them. "Enough." He turned back to me, eyes sharp. "So? What's the truth? Because if you're Lyander's woman, we have a problem."

I sighed. "Trust me, buddy. If I was Lyander's woman, I would be the one with a problem."

"The name's Barkley. Not Buddy."

I pressed my lips tight. I wasn't interested to know.

The tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife. Or, in Lyander's case, probably a gold-plated dagger he kept for aesthetics.

The old warehouse doors swung open with a bang, and in strolled Lyander like he had just walked into a five-star lounge instead of a hostile kidnapping situation. Behind him, his goons followed, dressed in crisp suits but packing enough firepower to make a small country nervous.

Barkley, the dark-skinned man dripping in gold chains, threw his head back and barked—yes, barked—a laugh, his voice booming through the shipyard. "So you finally decided to grace me with your presence, Lyander," he said, grinning like he had been waiting for this moment all his life.

Lyander, in stark contrast, looked painfully bored. He barely spared Barkley a glance before lazily sticking a pinky in his ear, wiggling it like he had more important things to deal with—like a particularly persistent itch.

Got to hand it to this guy. He's fearless if nothing else.

"Yeah, yeah. Let her go." He flicked whatever imaginary debris he'd dug out of his ear.

Barkley raised an eyebrow, amused. "Just like that?"

Lyander sighed, as if this conversation was already testing his patience. "Just like that."