Chapter 6
Izzy
It took me longer than I wanted to accept the truth.
He really thought I was a spy.
He genuinely believed someone had sent me to watch him. To listen. To learn. To report back. And somehow, that was worse than if he’d decided I was just a random inconvenience who’d wandered into the wrong night.
Because… did I look like a spy?
And what did a spy even look like, anyway?
I pictured a grey trench coat and a magnifying glass, which made absolutely no sense and somehow made it worse. As unglamorous as it got. I didn’t look clever or covert or predatory. I looked like a woman who’d made a bad decision after midnight and was paying for it in full.
And yet, my captor was deeply invested in the idea that I was exactly that.
He wasn’t afraid of spies.
He was… interested in them. Wary. Curious. The way a man studied a blade, not worrying about whether it would cut him, but inspecting it for balance, weaknesses, hidden faults. Measuring what it could do in the right—or wrong—hands.
I figured that out the moment he stopped threatening me and started asking questions.
Real ones.
Casually. Questions that didn’t sound like traps until you realized they circled back, overlapped, tested the edges of my answers. He watched my face more than he listened to my words, like he already knew the truth and was just waiting to see if I’d trip over it.
That was when it clicked. It would’ve been impressive if it hadn’t been terrifying.
The house itself was obscene in its comfort.
Clean lines. Expensive finishes. Windows that framed the property like art.
Guards stationed at every entrance, inside and out.
Men everywhere—alert and armed. Most of them ignored me entirely.
The ones who didn’t looked at me like I’d wandered in from another planet.
Like I didn’t belong here.
Maybe they weren’t used to seeing women in this place. Or maybe they just weren’t used to seeing one who wasn’t afraid of them.
They all deferred to him. Subtle changes in posture when he entered a room. Conversations stopping mid-sentence. Orders carried out without question. There was no shouting, no posturing. Just solemn obedience. The kind that came from respect, not fear.
That unsettled me more than the guns. Because I had absolutely no idea who this man was, but I could see that he was someone important.
I tested the boundaries carefully. Took the food when it was offered. Didn’t throw things or scream or beg to be released. I watched. I listened. I paid attention to who moved first when he spoke, who watched him even when he wasn’t talking.
Just like a spy would.
He was the one with all the power here.
And worse—he enjoyed this.
I saw it in the slight curve of his mouth when I pushed back instead of folding. In the way his eyes sharpened when I challenged him, when I met his questions head-on instead of shrinking. I wasn’t an inconvenience to him. I was a puzzle he wanted to solve.
The good news was, he wasn’t going to hurt me. Not while I was still interesting. Curiosity kept me alive, which meant I wasn’t entirely disposable.
The bad news was, he wasn’t letting me go until he was satisfied.
And I didn’t think he was the sort of man to rush satisfaction.
At night, when the sounds around the house faded and the guards changed positions outside my door, my thoughts spiraled.
That was when the guilt crept in. When I replayed the moment I’d decided to go looking for Nathan, like I could rewind time and slap myself out of the stupid, foolish ideas in my head.
What kind of idiot went wandering through that part of the city that late?
A desperate one.
I’d known it was shady as shit. I’d known better. But Nathan hadn’t answered his phone. He hadn’t come home. And despite everything—despite the lies, the half-truths, the habits he brushed off as nothing—I’d panicked.
He’d been the first good thing to happen to me in a long time.
Flawed. Messy. A shithead, honestly. He mooched off me, treated my tiny studio like a crash pad, and always seemed to be hiding something. But he made me laugh. Made me feel wanted. And when you’d been alone for long enough, that felt like enough.
So I’d gone looking for him. And now I was here.
Mixed up with a man whose name I barely knew, who commanded a small army like it was nothing, who lived behind gates and cameras and loyalty I couldn’t wrap my head around. I didn’t even know men like this existed. Not outside movies or news headlines that felt far away and unreal.
Compared to him, Nathan was a boy playing dress-up.
I wondered where he was now. If he’d gone back to my studio and found it empty. If he’d noticed my jacket gone, my shoes missing.
Would he come looking for me?
The thought almost made me laugh. Almost made me cry.
For a split second, I imagined him bursting through the gates, demanding answers, rescuing me like some sort of hero. And then I wanted to slap myself for even thinking it.
Nathan wasn’t a hero.
He never had been. He was a taker. A liar. A man who hoarded secrets the way other people collected excuses. When things got hard, he didn’t run toward the fire—he vanished. Slipped out the side door. Let someone else deal with the fallout.
Whatever story he told himself about my absence, it wouldn’t end with him searching the city or kicking down doors.
It would end with him crashing in my tiny studio, convincing himself I’d left him, and staying there until the landlord finally lost patience and evicted his pathetic ass over the rent he’d never bothered to pay.
Realizing that hurt more than the locked doors ever could.
So I adjusted.
I stopped trying to convince him—my captor—all at once that he was wrong about me.
Stopped laughing in disbelief when he accused me of things I barely understood.
I answered what I could. Carefully. I stayed honest where it didn’t cost me anything and vague where it might.
I let him believe he was peeling me back layer by layer, uncovering something calculated and destructive beneath the surface.
If he wanted a spy, fine.
I’d be the worst one he’d ever met.
Because as long as he was watching me—as long as I held his attention—he wasn’t killing me. And for now, that was enough.
The walk-in bathroom was bigger than my entire studio apartment.
Bigger than my kitchen, my bed, and my questionable life choices combined.
Everything was done in soft neutrals—stone, glass, brushed metal—and even without an education in obscene wealth, I knew this place had been built with the kind of budget that didn’t blink at five figures for a faucet.
He hadn’t made a rule about showering. Which felt like an oversight on his part, but I wasn’t about to point that out.
I stepped inside and locked the door behind me, grateful it actually had a lock. Privacy felt like a luxury lately. Especially when your captor had a habit of appearing without warning, like an expensive, brooding ghost.
The shower warmed almost instantly. No waiting.
No sputtering protest. Just heat. Real heat.
The water slid over me in a steady, unapologetic stream, washing away sweat, grime, and the faint sense that I’d been operating in survival mode for far too long.
I stood there longer than necessary, letting it soak into my shoulders, my spine, my thoughts.
There were bottles lined up on a stone ledge—shampoo, conditioner, body wash—all matching, all smugly minimalist. Something with pomegranate. I used it on my hair, then my body, lathering until the steam carried a scent that felt bright and foreign and indulgent. Clean. Expensive. Not me.
I didn’t want to leave the spray. It had been so long since I’d had a shower where I didn’t worry about the water turning cold, or someone pounding on the door, or the clock ticking down my comfort. Maybe I never had. When I finally stepped back, it felt like surrendering something.
Wrapped in a towel, I reached for my clothes—and froze.
They were gone.
Well. Not gone. Just sitting where I’d discarded them in a laundry basket in the corner, suddenly filthy by comparison. I stared at them, then at myself in the mirror, damp and bare and painfully aware of the problem.
I dried off quickly and slipped into the walk-in closet, hoping for a miracle. Instead, I found rows and rows of men’s suits. Dark, tailored, precise. The kind of wardrobe that suggested control issues and very good lawyers. Whoever they belonged to had opinions about power and presentation.
I grabbed a crisp navy shirt from a hanger and pulled it on. It swallowed me whole—fell almost to my knees, sleeves brushing my wrists. I wasn’t small, but this thing was built for someone broader, taller. Someone who filled rooms without trying.
It would have to do.
I rummaged through a drawer and found a pair of drawstring linen pants. Not exactly a fashion win, but better than nothing. I stepped into them and tightened the string as I walked back into the bedroom, focused entirely on making sure they stayed up.
Which was why I didn’t notice him until I was already there.
I startled, hand flying to my chest—and the pants chose that exact moment to give up on life. They slid straight down to my ankles.
Fantastic.
I froze. He didn’t move. His gaze flicked down, then back up, sharp with amusement he didn’t bother to hide.
“Nice shirt. It’s one of my favorites.”
Heat crept up my neck. I tugged the hem down instinctively, painfully aware of how thin the fabric felt against my skin. Of how nothing separated me from it. I crossed my arms, too late to be subtle.
“I couldn’t find anything else. Unless you’d prefer I wander around naked. Which feels like a boundary we should probably discuss before committing to.”
One corner of his mouth tipped upward.
“I’ll keep it in mind. Though for the record—you wear it well.”
My eyes narrowed. “You say that like it wasn’t designed for a man twice my size.”
“True.” His gaze lingered, unreadable. “But you’re improving it.”
I was suddenly hyperaware of the way the shirt clung, of the way the cool air brushed places I very much did not want him thinking about. I cleared my throat.
“You did tell me to make myself comfortable.”
A beat. Then, softer—almost amused.
“That, I did,” he agreed. “I just didn’t think you’d get that comfortable.”