Chapter 33
Chapter thirty-three
Carlo
The law offices of Holdan, Drake & Associates occupy the top three floors of a glass tower in Canary Wharf, all chrome and marble and the kind of understated elegance that screams expensive discretion.
I’ve never needed their services before, but they come highly recommended for sensitive matters that require absolute confidentiality.
The kind of matters that respectable men don’t want traced back to them. So much so that they can’t use their usual people.
“Mr. Benedetti,” the receptionist says with professional warmth, “Mr. Holdan will see you now.”
I follow her down a hallway lined with original art, my footsteps muted by carpet thick enough to muffle secrets.
Everything about this place is designed to make wealthy clients feel safe sharing their most embarrassing problems. Divorces, paternity disputes, blackmail situations that need to disappear quietly.
Annulments of marriages that should never have happened.
Holdan himself is exactly what I expected.
Mid-fifties, silver hair, Savile Row suit, the kind of man who’s spent decades cleaning up the messes of people with more money than sense.
He doesn’t bat an eye when I explain my situation, though I edit heavily.
A brief ceremony in a moment of... poor judgment.
No consummation. Obvious grounds for annulment.
None of it is true. My judgment wasn’t involved. Ginni decided we were getting married, and that was that. As for consummation… well, that happened several times and it was the best sex of my life.
But none of that is this man’s business. He doesn’t need to know. He just needs to do his job.
“These situations are more common than you might think,” Holdan says, making notes in careful script. “Particularly among men of your... background. The important thing is acting quickly before any legal complications arise.”
Legal complications. They can’t be as bad as the kind of complications that might emerge if anyone discovered Carlo Benedetti spent two weeks chained to a bed playing house with his femboy captor.
“How quickly?” I ask.
“A few months if you require absolute, untraceable discretion.”
“I can pay to make delays go away.”
“Very well,” Holdan says smoothly. “We’ll proceed on the basis of fraud or misrepresentation. A ceremony performed under false pretenses. It’s clean, efficient, and protects all parties involved.”
False pretenses. Yes, I suppose that covers it. Ginni’s delusion that I was a willing participant. My temporary insanity in enjoying my time in his basement. The whole beautiful, terrible mess we created between us.
I sign the initial paperwork with steady hands, my signature committing me to erasing the only marriage I’ve ever had. My first, and my last.
From Holdan’s office, I drive out of London to a different kind of consultation. Dr. Elizabeth Lyons runs the Meadowbrook facility in Surrey, a private psychiatric hospital that caters to patients whose families have both the means and the desire for discreet, compassionate care.
The grounds are beautiful. Lush lawns, carefully tended gardens, buildings that look more like a country estate than a medical facility. The kind of place where wealthy families send their inconvenient relatives to be cared for with dignity rather than simply warehoused.
“We specialize in treatment that honors the whole person,” Dr. Lyons explains as she shows me through the facilities. “Not just their symptoms, but their identity, their interests, their individual needs.”
She’s a small woman in her forties with kind eyes and an air of competent authority. The kind of doctor who actually listens to her patients instead of simply medicating them into compliance.
“LGBTQ patients are particularly welcome here,” she continues, apparently having read my emails carefully. “We understand that sexual and gender identity are not pathologies to be cured. Our treatment focuses on underlying mental health issues while fully supporting our patients’ authentic selves.”
Perfect. Exactly what Ginni needs. Somewhere he’ll be safe and cared for without anyone trying to change fundamental parts of who he is.
“The young man in question,” I say carefully, “he’s very artistic. Creative. Would those interests be supported here?”
“Absolutely. We have extensive art therapy programs, music therapy, even a small theater group. Creative expression is often crucial to healing.” Dr. Lyons stops beside a window overlooking a sculpture garden where patients are having some sort of lesson that involves easels and a lot of paint.
“Many of our residents find that artistic pursuits help them process their experiences in ways that traditional therapy alone cannot achieve.”
I can picture Ginni here. Painting in the garden, singing for other patients, finding ways to channel his intensity into something beautiful rather than destructive. He’d be safe here. Protected from his family’s disappointment and his own dangerous impulses.
“What about visitors?” I ask, though I’m not sure why. It’s not as if I’ll be visiting.
“Encouraged, with appropriate boundaries. Family involvement is often crucial to long-term recovery.” Dr. Lyons studies my face carefully. “Though we understand that family relationships can be... complicated. We work with each situation individually.”
Complicated. That’s one way to put it. How do I explain that Ginni’s family would rather he disappear entirely? That the person most invested in his welfare is the man he kidnapped?
That I can’t visit because seeing him again might shatter the careful walls I’m building around my own sanity?
“I’ll need to think about timing,” I tell her. “The young man is... currently in crisis. His family are exploring options.”
“Of course. We do have a waiting list, but our intake coordinator can work with you whenever you’re ready. These decisions should never be rushed.”
But they should be made, shouldn’t they? I need to get Ginni somewhere safe before he does something genuinely dangerous to himself. Before his family loses patience and sends him somewhere that will try to fix what isn’t broken while ignoring what actually needs healing.
The drive home takes me through Mayfair, past streets that should feel familiar but somehow don’t anymore. Everything looks exactly the same, but nothing feels right. Like I’m viewing my own life through glass, present but not really participating.
I stop at my usual coffee shop and order the same drink I’ve been ordering for three years.
The barista knows me, makes small talk about the weather and the football results.
Normal interaction with normal people living normal lives that don’t involve kidnapping or marriage or love letters left on kitchen counters.
But the coffee tastes like nothing. The conversation feels hollow. The whole routine that used to anchor my days now feels like performance art, like I’m playing the role of Carlo Benedetti while the real me is somewhere else entirely.
My phone buzzes with a call from Marco. I stare at his name on the screen for several long seconds before letting it go to voicemail. I’ve been avoiding his calls for days now.
I can’t talk to Marco without asking about Ginni.
Can’t ask about Ginni without revealing my interest. Can’t reveal my interest without exposing the whole impossible situation.
So I don’t answer. Don’t return the calls.
Don’t reach out to the one person who might be able to tell me if the boy I left sleeping in a basement is safe.
It’s the responsible thing to do. The smart thing. The only way to protect both of us from the consequences of what happened.
Besides, I vowed that Marco was dead to me, for the part he has played in destroying his little brother. I’m a man of my word. It’s right that I’m not talking to Marco.
So why does it feel like cowardice?
Back in my house, I try to settle into work.
Emails to answer, contracts to review, the endless administrative tasks that keep businesses running smoothly.
But I can’t concentrate. Can’t focus on profit margins and licensing agreements when my mind keeps drifting to silk pajamas and artificial sunrises and the way Ginni’s face looked when he sang for me.
I find myself checking my phone obsessively, though I don’t know what I’m looking for.
Messages from Holdan about the annulment progress.
Updates from Dr. Lyons about the waiting list. Anything that gives me the illusion of taking constructive action instead of just sitting here missing someone I should be grateful to be free of.
The rational part of my mind knows exactly what’s happening.
Stockholm syndrome doesn’t end the moment captivity does.
The psychological bonds formed in extreme situations take time to fade.
This constant preoccupation with Ginni’s welfare is just my brain trying to process trauma by maintaining connection to the source.
It’s not love. It’s not longing. It’s just my psyche trying to make sense of an experience that defied every assumption I had about myself and my life.
But if that’s true, why does everything feel so fucking empty?
I walk through my house, noting details that should be comforting but somehow aren’t.
My expensive furniture, chosen for style rather than comfort.
My pristine kitchen, barely used because I eat most meals at restaurants or the club.
My bedroom, functional and sterile, nothing like the warm cocoon of silk and candlelight where I spent two weeks learning what it felt like to be wanted.
Really wanted. Not just tolerated or useful or feared, but actively desired by someone who studied my preferences like they were sacred texts. Someone who remembered every small kindness I’d ever shown him and built a fantasy around the idea that I might be capable of love.
I pour myself a whisky and try to read, but the words swim on the page. Try to watch television, but the voices feel distant and meaningless. Try to listen to music, but every song sounds wrong, too harsh or too sentimental or just too much without Ginni’s soft commentary to filter it through.
When did I become dependent on his presence? When did his voice become the soundtrack I needed to feel settled? It’s disturbing how quickly I adapted to having him there, how natural it felt to have someone anticipating my needs and working to meet them.
That’s all it was, I tell myself. Convenience. Having someone devoted to my comfort and pleasure. Any reasonable man would miss that level of service. It doesn’t mean anything deeper.
But then I remember the way he looked at me when I asked him to sing. The pure joy on his face, like I’d given him the greatest gift imaginable just by wanting to hear his voice. The way he’d melted against me when I kissed him, soft and trusting and so fucking beautiful it made my chest ache.
I remember him drawing me that afternoon, the way I’d posed so patiently while he sketched, chattering about art and technique and his nonna’s lessons. The way his whole face had lit up when I told him I was honored to be his muse. As if being important to me was all he’d ever wanted.
When was the last time anyone looked at me like that? Like I was the center of their universe, the answer to every prayer they’d ever made? When was the last time someone was grateful just to be in my presence?
Never. The answer is never, because normal people don’t worship their partners like devotional objects. Normal relationships involve compromise and negotiation and the gradual erosion of romance into comfortable routine.
What Ginni offered was neither normal nor sustainable. It was obsession disguised as devotion, desperation dressed up as love. The fact that it felt good doesn’t make it healthy.
But Cristo, it felt good. It felt like coming home after a lifetime of wandering. It felt like finally being seen and known and valued for exactly who I was rather than what I could provide.
The whisky burns as it goes down, amber fire that does nothing to warm the cold spreading through my chest. I’m doing the right thing. The responsible thing. Getting the annulment, finding proper care for Ginni, returning to my real life before this temporary madness does any more damage.
But sitting here in my perfect house, surrounded by all the trappings of success that used to feel like accomplishments, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m making the biggest mistake of my life.
The world feels dimmer without Ginni in it. Quieter. More ordinary.
And maybe that’s the real problem. Not that I was traumatized by my captivity, but that I was spoiled by it. Two weeks of being someone’s entire world, of being loved with an intensity that burned away everything ordinary and safe and predictable.
How do I go back to normal after that? How do I settle for being just another successful man in an expensive suit when I’ve tasted what it feels like to be someone’s salvation?
The whisky bottle sits on the coffee table, catching the evening light streaming through windows that face the real world instead of projected fantasies. Everything here is real. Solid. Dependable.
So why does it all feel like scenery in a play I’m no longer sure I want to be in?
I close my eyes and try to imagine my life moving forward. The annulment finalized, Ginni safely settled in Dr. Lyons’s care, this whole episode buried so deep it becomes something that happened to someone else. I can see it clearly. Rational, responsible, exactly what any sane man would do.
But when I open my eyes, the empty house stretches around me like a mausoleum. Beautiful and lifeless and achingly quiet.
And for the first time since I escaped, I fully allow myself to admit the truth I’ve been running from.
I miss him. Really miss him. I miss my beautiful, broken, dangerous menace. I miss his laugh and his intensity and the way he made even the most mundane moments feel charged with possibility.
The world is darker without him in it. And no amount of rational thinking is going to change that.