Chapter 23
Birdie
That was a mistake. I knew it before Lorenzo voiced it. I glance at him as we walk up to the building. But hearing him admit it was a mistake hurt so much.
“Where are we?”
“This is where you will stay.”
“Right. Because I’m sure your wife is going to have a fit when she finds out I’m back.” I let out a laugh. “Are you sure you’ve thought this through?”
His jaw tics, and he doesn’t answer. Instead, he puts his hand on the small of my back and guides me though the glass doors. There are men stationed by the elevators, but none that I know.
In the elevator, Lorenzo uses his palm to activate the lift. We rise so quickly that I sway a bit. He reaches out to steady me, and I pull away.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not. You’re supposed to be taking it easy.”
“Guess you shouldn’t have fucked me in the back of a SUV, then,” I snap back.
The jerk has the nerve to smile.
When the doors open, I find myself staring at a beautiful living room.
It looks nothing like his other place. Where that one was all dark wood and old money and shadows, this is bright. Vast. Full of light.
The entire far wall is glass, stretching from floor to ceiling and framing Chicago like a living painting. The skyline glitters in the late afternoon, all steel and silver and cold blue sky fading toward dusk. Below, the city looks impossibly distant and harmless from up here.
It’s the kind of place designed to impress people into silence.
Wide-plank pale oak floors glow beneath recessed lighting.
Cream-colored sofas curve around a low marble table.
A sleek black fireplace cuts a sharp line into one wall, while the other holds built-in shelves filled with art books, sculptural objects, and carefully arranged crystal that looks too expensive to touch.
There are fresh white orchid arrangements placed with almost clinical precision, and a grand piano sits near the windows like someone expects the room to host elegant parties instead of emotional hostage situations.
I take a few steps in, slowly, trying not to let him see how breathtaking it is. And how lonely. Because despite all the light, the place doesn’t feel warm. It feels curated. Beautiful in the way a museum is beautiful—meant to be admired, not lived in.
I turn in a slow circle. “You bought me a gilded cage.”
Behind me, Lorenzo shuts the penthouse door with a soft click. “If that’s what you need to call it.”
I glance over my shoulder. “I call them like I see them.”
His mouth twitches, but there’s no humor in it. “Come.”
He leads me farther inside, one hand brushing my back like he can’t help himself. Or maybe like he thinks he can soothe the fact that he’s stolen my freedom by giving me prettier walls.
The kitchen opens off the living room, all glossy white cabinetry and brushed gold fixtures, with a waterfall island big enough to seat six. Beyond that is a dining area, then a hallway I assume leads to the bedrooms. Everything is pristine and untouched.
I stop walking. “How long have you had this?”
He pauses too. “Not long.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He turns his head just enough to look at me. “Long enough.”
Which means exactly what I think it means.
Something hot and uncomfortable slides down my spine, because there was a time not too long ago when I would have loved a gesture like this.
Now it means I’m under his watch, and he’s going to eventually notice that I’m further along than he thought.
What is he going to do when he puts two and two together?
I move toward the windows, wrapping my arms around myself as I stare down at the city. “It’s beautiful.”
“It is.”
I can feel his gaze boring into me, so I purposely don’t look at him.
Instead, I take in the rest of the penthouse.
To the left of the living room, a hallway opens into what looks like a second sitting area, this one softer and more intimate, with a deep sectional, another wall of glass, and a terrace beyond it.
To the right, I catch sight of a bedroom—huge, minimalist, draped in pale neutrals with another skyline view and a bed big enough to drown in.
It’s all stunning and none of it matters. Because somewhere under the beauty is the same hard truth waiting for me.
I turn back toward the elevator. The doors are already closed again, a seamless panel of dark metal set into the wall near the entry. No visible call button. No keypad on this side. No handle. Nothing.
A small, cold pulse starts in my chest and I walk toward it.
“Birdie.”
I ignore him and study the panel more closely. There’s a narrow black security plate beside the doors, the sort that looks sleek until you realize it exists to keep people exactly where they’re put.
I press where a button should be. Nothing. I try again. Still nothing. Slowly, I turn to face him. His expression gives away absolutely nothing, which is answer enough.
“You need a code,” I say.
He says nothing.
“You need a code,” I repeat, sharper now.
“Or authorized access.”
My laugh comes out hollow. “Authorized access.”
He leans one shoulder against the wall. “This floor is private.”
“No,” I say, my voice rising. “This floor is locked.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “For security.”
“Don’t insult me.”
I go back to the elevator and run my hand over the panel as if I can force it to reveal a hidden escape route through sheer rage. There’s nothing. No simple button to call it back. No way to send it down.
A cold certainty settles into my bones. Oh my god. I can’t leave this penthouse unless he allows it.
I spin around. “You brought me up here knowing I wouldn’t be able to get out.”
“Not without me,” he says.
“You are freaking unbelievable.”
“I’ve heard that.”
He pushes off the wall and walks toward me slowly, not like a captor approaching a prisoner, but like a man approaching something already wounded. I hate that the distinction matters. I hate that some weak part of me still notices the care in the way he moves.
When he stops in front of me, his voice is lower.
“You were poisoned in my house.”
“I know.”
“You nearly lost your baby.”
“I know that too.”
“And whoever did it knew enough to get close to you.” His gaze drops, just briefly, to my stomach before lifting again. “So until I know who’s coming for you, you stay where I can keep you alive.”
There it is. That ruthless certainty that makes everything sound so simple.
My eyes burn. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“I already did.”
The words hit like a slap.
I laugh once, because if I don’t, I might start crying again, and I am so tired of crying in front of him.
“Of course you did.” I glance around the stunning penthouse with its polished stone and impossible view. “You even picked out the cage in a nice neutral palette.”
“There are worse places to be trapped.”
“Spoken like a man who’s never had to ask permission to leave a room.” I fold my arms tighter over myself. “What happens if there’s a fire? Or I need air? Or I decide I’d rather jump than spend another second with you?”
His eyes flash black. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not? You built a prison in the sky. I’m just trying to understand the emergency exits.”
His voice goes colder. “You want out, you ask. Someone will bring the elevator.”
I stare at him. There it is. The final humiliation. I don’t just need him physically present. I need permission because despite it all, he still doesn’t trust me.
“Your room is this way.”
I let out a thin laugh. “How generous.”
He doesn’t answer. He just turns and heads down the hallway, expecting me to follow like he expects everything else from me.
I do follow, though mostly because standing in the middle of that bright, awful living room with the locked elevator behind me feels too much like being on display.
The hallway is quieter than the rest of the penthouse. The floors are covered by a runner in muted cream and gray, and the walls hold abstract art in pale, expensive colors that mean nothing to me. Every few feet, another recessed light glows warm overhead.
Lorenzo stops at the second door on the left and pushes it open.
The bedroom beyond is huge. Floor-to-ceiling windows line one wall, framing the city in a wash of twilight blue and glittering gold.
A king-sized bed sits low and wide against a paneled wall the color of warm sand, layered with ivory linens and a charcoal throw folded with military precision across the end.
There’s a chaise near the windows, a pale rug soft enough to sink into, two nightstands, two lamps, a sitting nook with a small marble table, and beyond that an open door leading into a bathroom bigger than my first apartment.
“Did you buy this place for me?”
His silence is answer enough.
I turn slowly to face him. “That is insane.”
When he doesn’t answer, I walk deeper into the room, my flats whispering over the rug as I take in the details.
The closet door is open, revealing rows of clothes already hanging inside—blouses, dresses, trousers, even shoes lined up neatly below.
Its’ all the clothes I got in London. My stomach tightens.
I move to the windows next. The city sprawls below, dizzyingly far down.
Cars stream along the streets like strings of white and red beads, toy-small from this height.
The glass is spotless, turning the skyline into something almost unreal.
There’s a door tucked beside the far panel leading out to a narrow balcony.
I reach for the handle.
“Birdie.”
I ignore him and turn it. Nothing. I pull harder. Still nothing because it’s locked. My teeth clench.
“Of course.”
“It’s not safe.”
I spin around. “For whom?”
“For you.”
“Everything is always for me with you.” I laugh once, low and ugly. “Do you hear how that sounds?”
“I don’t particularly care how it sounds.”
“No,” I say. “I’ve noticed.”
I turn back to the balcony door and inspect the frame more closely. There’s a slim security strip embedded in the track. Alarmed, then. Maybe magnet-sealed too. I move to the windows next. The ones that look as though they might crack open for fresh air. They don’t.
Behind me, Lorenzo says, “You’ll hurt yourself.”
“Wouldn’t that be inconvenient for your plans?”
There’s a pause. Then, in a voice gone rougher than before, “Don’t do that.”
I glance back. “Do what?”
“Act like I wouldn’t care.”
I turn away before he can see how much his words strike home.
I cross the bedroom to the bathroom instead.
It’s all pale stone and brushed brass, with a soaking tub by another wall of glass, a shower big enough for six people, twin sinks, and built-in cabinets already stocked with toiletries I never asked for.
The medicine drawer holds unopened prenatal vitamins beside my usual products.
When I step back into the bedroom, I head straight for the door and test the lock. It opens into the hall just fine. I stare at it for a second. So he isn’t locking me in the room. Only the penthouse.
“Can I go anywhere in here?” I ask.
He studies me. “Yes.”
“The kitchen?”
“Yes.”
“The living room?”
“Yes.”
“The balcony?”
“No.”
“The elevator?”
“No.”
“The roof?”
“No.”
I fold my arms. “How comforting.”
“There are two female guards at the front entrance,” he says. “You won’t need to ask permission to move around the apartment. Only if you want the elevator.”
There it is again. Permission. I hate that word now.
I brush past him and step back into the hall. He turns with me, slow and unsurprised, like he knew exactly what I would do next.
I walk the length of the corridor.
First door on the right: a guest room. Beautiful. Useless.
Next: an office. Desk. Shelves. Windows sealed shut. A second door in there that leads to a small private sitting room. No exit.
The end of the hall opens into another bedroom suite, likely his. I don’t go inside. I only pause long enough to notice the darker color palette, the masculine lines, the low lamp glow, the jacket tossed over a chair as if he already belongs here.
Of course he does.
When I reach the entry again, the elevator remains a dark metallic promise of nothing. The panel beside it glows faint blue until I touch it. Then red.
“I want to go home. Now.”
One of the women seated discreetly near the entry rises. She is tall, dark-haired, dressed in black, and polite in a way that feels final.
“Miss Miller,” she says, “please don’t.”
“Do you physically stop me if I try?”
Her face stays neutral. “I’d rather not have to.”
Which is not a no.
I look at the second woman by the entry console. She doesn’t move, but she’s watching me closely too. New guards, new city, same cage. I swallow my anger and step back.
The first woman inclines her head and sits again.
Lorenzo comes up beside me, not touching, which somehow makes his nearness worse.
“You see?” he says quietly. “You can move freely.”
I turn on him so fast the words crack out of me before I can stop them. “Inside the box.”
He doesn’t react, which pisses me off even more.
“This whole place is a box,” I go on, my voice rising. “A beautiful one, yes. Very thoughtful. Stunning view. Stocked closet. Luxury skincare. But it is still a box unless I can choose to leave it.”
Lorenzo’s gaze stays fixed on mine. For one terrible second I think he’s going to say something cold or merciless. Something that will make me hate him cleanly again.
Instead, he says, “For now.”
Those two words are softer than anything else he could have said.
And far more dangerous because they almost sound like a promise. I hate that I want to believe him.
So I smile with all my teeth and say, “Then for now, I’ll be planning.”
His mouth curves just slightly. “I assumed.”
“Enjoy your new home,” I say. “I’m going to tear it apart from the inside.”
For the first time since stepping off the plane, he almost smiles for real.
“Birdie,” he murmurs, “that’s the first thing you’ve said all day that sounds like you again.”
Then he leaves me standing there with the locked elevator glowing red beside me, the city glittering beyond the glass, and the sick, certain knowledge that if I want out I’m going to have to be smarter than the man who built my cage.