only positive to being held hostage here is I’ve had some quality time with everyone.
Today, though, I’m stepping in front of all the crazy. They have advised me they’ll never go away if I don’t give them something. So, reluctantly, I agreed to hold a press conference. In an hour, I’ll spill my guts to a world of strangers. My stomach sours and I swallow back the nausea.
I can’t get sick. I can’t get sick.
Merde! My mouth waters and my body’s heat spikes. I dash to the bathroom and empty my stomach. Mila comes running in and holds my hair out of my face. Well, at least I won’t be spilling my guts in front of the nation, literally.
“Nothing says sisterly love like holding my hair so I don’t get vomit on it,” I joke, wiping my mouth with the washcloth she hands me.
She flashes a sympathetic smile as I fall against the cool tiled wall, taking a breath. “This sucks, there’s no other way to describe it. I hate this for you. But we will all be there with you, standing behind you if you need us.”
“You can finish anytime you wish,” Halli says, standing by my side, right inside the gates. “Just give me the look.”
“Well…” April, my PR rep, interrupts and Halli sends her a warning glare. “Try to get out everything we went over before you duck out.” She seeks Halli’s approval, and she does a curt nod in return. “Remember to find the reporters we discussed. We’ve already approved their questions.”
I bite my lip, repeating in my head what I’m supposed to look for.
Lady in a red scarf. Man with a red tie. Woman in a purple dress.
The black solid-metal gates open. I draw a deep breath, taking step after step toward my new life outside these gates. One that I have to expose to the public. I have to let them in the dark space in my head that makes my limbs shake when I enter it. I’ve never felt so vulnerable or flayed open. This feels like salt being poured on an open wound.
But I can do it. I’ve come this far.
Beatrice and Mila each slip their hand in both of mine and squeeze. And the guys stand behind us. A line of security people flank our sides and walk out first.
“Thank you,” I whisper to both, keeping my head held high as we walk toward a small podium. I pause when I take in the scene.
Holy smokes.
There are rows of chairs, filled to the max with reporters, but that’s not it. Police, with machine guns, stand at attention behind the rows of chairs. Their focus is on the crowd of at least a hundred people, cheering and waving signs behind the roped off area.
Nobody warned me about this. I squint to read some signs. Most say Welcome Home. When David goes up to speak, it reminds me that I’m next. My eyes jump from person to person looking for my marks.
Red tie.
Purple dress.
Where is the red scarf? A woman waving her hands up and down catches my attention in the back field, but I quickly return to searching for the damn red scarf. My eyes freeze on a man with black hair in the front of the crowd, standing right by a police officer. His lips tug to a smirk when our eyes meet for a moment. A familiar face, even though the rest of him looks different. I force my eyes to keep moving, not wanting to stay focused on the one man the entire country is searching for.
My dad.
The crowd silences when David steps aside, the only sounds around are flashes and clicks of cameras. I drop my chin, steadying my breaths. Why is he here? Why would he risk his life? For you. My inner voice answers. He’s here to make sure you’re okay. I give myself a minute before looking back up. By the time I step up to the podium, he’s gone.
But it’s okay. His presence gave me a renewed sense of strength that I can do this. He didn’t raise a weak woman and I won’t start being one now.
“Hi, everyone. I’m Aspen Foley,” I say, leaning toward the mic. My voice travels and it reminds me of when we would use a bullhorn to get the foreigners back to the boat. “You know me as Gabriella Malone. I was kidnapped when I was one and taken to live in Tahiti. The man who kidnapped me