My Kidnapper Was My Secret Lover

The LA sun hit me like a slap when I walked out of LAX.

Three years. I'd forgotten how brutal the California sun could be, nothing like those shitty fluorescent lights in the basement near the Mexican border.

I instinctively shielded my forehead with my hand as FBI Agent Johnson spoke softly beside me: "You're safe now, Miss Winters. We got them all."

Safe? I laughed bitterly.

Ghost's expressionless face still haunted my thoughts, along with his final words to me: "You'll never escape." Even knowing he was dead, my hands trembled involuntarily.

"Aria!"

My mother's voice snapped me back to reality. She hurried toward me, but her embrace felt unfamiliar—her body was stiff, and her eyes darted away the moment they met mine.

No, this wasn't right. Mom never hugged me like this before.

"Oh honey, you're home..." Her voice broke, but I caught something flashing across her eyes—guilt? Fear?

"Mom, what's wrong?" I gently pushed back to study her expression.

"Nothing, I'm just... I'm so happy you're back." But her smile looked fake as hell.

Dad approached and awkwardly patted my shoulder, also avoiding direct eye contact. Something was off, but I didn't want to deal with it right now. Three years of hell taught me to pick my battles.

On the drive home, they asked a few questions about my captivity. I kept my answers brief. They didn't seem to want many details anyway, which only confirmed my suspicion that they were hiding something.

When the black sedan pulled up outside my apartment building, I took a deep breath. Three years later, my little nest was still waiting for me.

As I pushed open the apartment door, an unfamiliar perfume hit me—not my brand.

My heart began to race.

The living room layout hadn't changed much, but there were women's magazines all over the coffee table, and a pair of high heels I'd never seen before sat in the corner. I mechanically walked toward the bedroom, and when I pushed open the door, time seemed to freeze.

On the nightstand sat a framed photo: Dylan and Sophia locked in an embrace, her hand gently caressing her swollen belly, both of them looking so damn happy.

I picked up the photo, my fingers lightly tracing Sophia's face. She was my best friend. Now, apparently, she was Dylan's girlfriend, pregnant with his child.

"Aria?"

I turned around to see Dylan standing in the doorway, his face ashen. Behind him stood Sophia, visibly pregnant, her eyes flickering with something I couldn't quite read.

Three years had matured Dylan considerably, but that familiar guilty expression was one I knew all too well. Sophia hadn't changed much, except for her belly and that complex look in her eyes—a mixture of sympathy and triumph.

"How far along are you?" I was surprised how calm I sounded

Dylan lowered his head, clenching his fists: "Aria, I thought you... we all thought..."

"That I was dead?" I said. "Sorry to ruin your day."

Sophia stepped forward, her face plastered with fake concern: "Aria, you've suffered so much. We never expected you'd come back..." She paused. "Dylan was a mess. I was just trying to help him and..."

"Yeah, I didn't expect it either," I cut her off, gently placing the photo back. "So what happens now?"

The atmosphere in the room solidified into something terrible. Dylan opened his mouth several times but couldn't form words. Sophia's hands instinctively protected her belly, a gesture that stung my eyes.

Three years ago, Dylan and I had been discussing when to start a family. Now that child was coming—just not with me as its mother.

Dinner was awkward as hell. Sophia had prepared all my favorite dishes, playing the perfect hostess, making sure I knew whose house this was now. She ladled soup for Dylan with practiced ease, naturally discussed baby names, and even thoughtfully served me portions.

"You must have suffered terribly over there?" she asked with concern. "Thank goodness Dylan was here for me, otherwise I don't know what I would have done..."

I looked up at her, that fake-sweet look reminded me of people from the basement - all smiles on the outside, pure evil underneath.

"Thanks for keeping him warm for me," I said flatly.

Dylan's head snapped up, his eyes filled with guilt: "Aria, let me explain..."

"Don't bother," I interrupted, putting down my chopsticks. "Some things don't need explaining."

I stood up and walked to the bedroom to pack my things. There wasn't much to pack—three years was plenty of time for them to make this their place. I mechanically stuffed a few changes of clothes into my backpack. All that stuff I used to care about didn't matter anymore.

Dylan followed me into the bedroom, watching me pack: "Where will you go?"

"A hotel," I replied without looking back.

"This is your home..."

"No, this is your home now," I turned to face him. "Dylan, I don't blame you. Three years without word—you had every right to move on. I just never thought you'd pick my best friend."

Tears welled in his eyes: "I really thought you were... The FBI said that organization was dangerous, that missing people rarely came back alive..."

"But I did come back," I hoisted my backpack onto my shoulder. "Now it's my turn to start over."

As I left the apartment, I paused outside the door. There was a bouquet of white roses on the windowsill, still wet with dew. I stared at the flowers in confusion—this was the second floor, and unless someone had deliberately placed them there...

And these white roses were clearly fresh, but I hadn't been back for three days...

I reached out to touch a petal, and an inexplicable chill crawled up my spine. These flowers triggered unpleasant memories—Ghost had given me white roses too, before each torture session.

"It couldn't be..." I shook my head, dispelling the absurd thought. Ghost was dead. The FBI had told me so themselves.

But why was my heart racing again?

Los Angeles glittered with lights as I dragged my suitcase down streets both familiar and strange.

Three years ago, I was just some naive girl with big dreams. Now I didn't trust anyone or anything.

Dylan's betrayal hurt, but not as much as I'd expected. Maybe three years in that hellhole put things in perspective. Or maybe I was just too dead inside to care.

What truly unsettled me were those white roses.

I checked into a hotel on the corner, sitting on the bed and staring at the neon lights outside, my mind replaying everything that had happened today. My parents' strange behavior, Dylan and Sophia's betrayal, and those mysterious white roses.

If Ghost was really dead, who would leave flowers on my windowsill?

And if he wasn't...

I shook my head, forcing myself not to consider that possibility. I needed to look forward, to restart my life. Three years of hell were over—I couldn't let fear run my life anymore.

Everything will be okay, I told myself. Tomorrow, I would look for a job, find a new place to live, begin a new life.

Aria Winters had died in that Mexican basement. Whoever came back was tougher