Chapter 4 The Fluffy Hostage

• One week passed, and the tiny European principality remained legally registered in my name. I refused to sign the transfer documents because I suspected a trap.
• ​"Good morning, Your Highness," Frank said, bowing low as I set my coffee down on Monday.
• ​Lisa dipped into a dramatic curtsy right behind him. "Shall I polish your crown today, Princess Nora?"
• ​"I hate both of you," I said, hitting the power button on my monitor.
• ​Elias Mercer had spent seven straight days submitting increasingly absurd documents to prove he existed. I rejected every single one of them.
• ​Our department betting pool hit twelve hundred dollars by Thursday afternoon. Nobody worked on compliance anymore. Mr. Henderson looked like he had aged ten full years in a week. He spent most afternoon hours staring blankly at the breakroom wall.
• ​By six o'clock on Friday, my brain felt completely fried. Three separate international attorneys had called my desk extension during the day. A European diplomat tried to email me a map. I hung up on all of them.
• ​I trudged up the three flights of stairs to my apartment, balancing two grocery bags against my hip. "Billionaires," I muttered, kicking open my front door. "Living in cartoon land."
• ​I set the bags on the kitchen island and walked toward the living room.
• ​Movement caught my attention outside the glass door. My sheer balcony curtains twitched.
• ​I froze in place.
• ​A massive, incredibly fluffy creature sat on my outdoor patio chair. It was a giant Ragdoll cat with bright blue eyes, long white fur, and a posture that suggested it paid real estate taxes. It was larger than my neighbor's beagle.
• ​The animal stared straight through the glass at me, then opened its mouth in a slow, dramatic yawn.
• ​I walked closer and slid the door open. "Hello?"
• ​The cat did not move. It did not flinch. It looked at me like I was a trespassing tenant.
• ​Then light caught its neck.
• ​I squinted. Bright rainbow flashes bounced off the glass door and danced across my white wall.
• ​"No way," I whispered.
• ​An entire collar of large, sparkling diamonds encircled the cat's thick neck. The stones were real, heavy, and blinding. My balcony briefly resembled the window of a luxury jewelry store.
• ​I dropped to my knees beside the outdoor chair. "Okay, think, Nora. Nobody puts a small fortune on a domestic pet. This is contraband movement."
• ​I reached out my hand to inspect the metal clasp. "I am placing you under citizen arrest."
• ​The cat raised one large white paw, set it firmly over my knuckles, and pressed down.
• ​I stared at the paw. The cat stared back without blinking.
• ​"Did you just deny my authority?" I asked.
• ​The cat stood up, pushed past my leg, and strolled directly into my living room. It walked straight to my grey couch, jumped onto the center cushion, curled its long body into a circle, and closed its eyes.
• ​"You cannot just claim my furniture," I said, following it inside.
• ​The animal began cleaning its left ear with absolute calm.
• ​"Classic evasive behavior," I said, reaching for my phone. "You are clearly part of an international smuggling network."
• ​I opened the official Mercer investigation portal on my mobile device, opened a new attachment file, and took four close-up photos of the cat, the diamond collar, and the cat ignoring me.
• ​I filled out the description fields: EXHIBIT G: ABSURD EXCESS. The subject appears to own a luxury feline equipped with roughly one apartment building's worth of diamonds. Possible criminal explanation pending.
• ​I clicked upload. Satisfaction bloomed in my chest as the file synced to the server.
• ​The cat spent the next twenty minutes exploring my space. It drank water straight from my kitchen faucet, shed thick white hair over my rug, and watched me with total disdain from the kitchen counter.
• ​I searched three local lost-pet boards on my phone. Nothing. No missing luxury cat posts anywhere in the city.
• ​"Your crime boss is probably looking for you," I told the cat, pulling a small silver can from my grocery bag. "Well, he will not find you here."
• ​I grabbed a hand can opener, popped the metal lid off, and set it on the counter.
• ​My phone screen lit up on the granite surface. An unknown number flashed once before a text popped up.
• ​You have Barnaby.
• ​I frowned and picked up the device.
• ​A second text arrived instantly.
• ​This means war, Miss Carson.
• ​I stared at the screen, then looked at the cat sitting on the counter. The cat slowly blinked its blue eyes.
• ​My phone chimed a third time.
• ​Do not feed him supermarket tuna. He hates it.
• ​I slowly lowered my device. Beside my sink, the half-open can of cheap tuna sat on a paper towel.
• ​Barnaby had already leaned over the metal rim, sniffing the contents. He looked up at me with pure, unfiltered disappointment, let out a disgusted hiss, and flicked his tail.