Chapter 3 #2
I stand there for a long moment but then my legs give out and I sink down onto the carpet, the massive skirt of the dress pooling around me like a white puddle.
This can’t be happening.
This can’t be real.
But it is. It’s real.
I’m trapped in a bedroom in an estate in the middle of nowhere, held prisoner by a man who wants revenge against my father for something I didn’t even know about.
The tears finally come and I can’t hold them back anymore.
I cry until my throat hurts and my eyes burn. I cry for my ruined wedding, for my terrified mother, for my father who’s probably losing his mind right now.
I cry for the life I had three hours ago, when my biggest problem was marrying a man I didn’t love.
I would take that problem back in a heartbeat right now.
Eventually the tears stop, leaving me exhausted and empty and still wearing this fucking dress.
I force myself to stand and walk to the bathroom. It’s as luxurious as the bedroom with marble and gold fixtures.
There’s even a bathtub that could fit three people.
A pile of fluffy white towels sits on the counter and expensive-looking toiletries lined up by the sink.
It takes me twenty minutes to get out of the wedding dress.
The buttons run all the way down my back and I can barely reach them, my fingers still trembling and clumsy.
When the dress finally falls to the floor with a whisper of lace and silk, I kick it into the corner with more violence than necessary.
I find a bathrobe hanging on the back of the bathroom door.
It’s thick white terrycloth that’s probably also ridiculously expensive and I wrap myself in it, savoring its softness compared to the scratchiness of my wedding dress.
Then I go to explore the closet that Leo mentioned.
It’s a walk-in, bigger than my bathroom at home, and it’s stocked with clothes.
Women’s clothes in what looks like my size.
There are jeans and sweaters, dresses and skirts, workout clothes and pajamas.
Everything still has tags on it.
Everything looks new and exactly the kind of thing I would normally pick out for myself.
Which means Leo or someone working for him researched me.
They knew my size, my style, and planned this carefully enough to stock a fucking wardrobe for me.
The realization makes my skin crawl.
I grab a pair of soft cotton pajama pants and a matching top and change into them.
Then I go back to the bedroom and survey my prison more carefully.
The books Leo mentioned are on a shelf by the fireplace.
They’re classics, mostly, and some contemporary fiction.
I spot several Italian authors and some philosophy texts.
There’s a sketchpad and a set of drawing pencils on the desk by the window.
They know I like to draw and read.
How long has he been planning this?
I sink down onto the couch and pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them.
The terror is starting to give way to anger again—white-hot and sustaining—and I cling to it because anger is better than fear.
Anger will keep me sharp and help me look for a way out.
Because I will get out of here.
I have to. I’m not going to spend the rest of my life as Leo Santoro’s prisoner.
Two guards bring dinner at seven p.m.
They’re both large men in black who don’t make eye contact or respond when I demand they let me out.
They set a tray on the coffee table, check that the windows are secure, and leave without saying a word.
The lock clicks behind them.
The food looks good. Really, really good, actually.
It’s some kind of pasta with cream sauce, crusty bread, a side salad, and what looks like tiramisu for dessert.
It smells amazing and my stomach growls because I haven’t eaten since breakfast this morning, before I put on that wedding dress and thought I was getting married.
I don’t touch it.
I won’t eat their food. I won’t accept anything from them.
It’s the only control I have left, the only way I can fight back. So I sit on the couch and stare at the tray and let the food get cold.
When the guards come back an hour later to collect the dishes, they notice the untouched meal but don’t comment.
They just take it away and leave me alone again.
That night I lie in the ridiculously comfortable bed and stare at the ceiling.
I catalogue everything I know about this place: the layout of the room, the position of the guards I saw, and the security measures I noticed.
I think about escape routes and vulnerabilities and ways I might be able to get a message to my father.
I also think about Leo Santoro’s face when he told me about his brother.
The grief I saw there, just for a moment, before he locked it away again.
The pain that’s driving this whole insane revenge plot.
It doesn’t excuse anything or make any of this okay.
But I understand it, maybe. Just a little bit.
Which pisses me off even more.
Day two is the same.
Three meals delivered by silent guards.
Three meals I don’t touch.
The food is always good—too good for a prison—and I’m getting hungrier, my stomach cramping and my head starting to ache.
But I won’t give in.
I won’t let them win this small battle.
By day three, I’m weak and dizzy and my hands are shaking from more than just fear.
When I stand up too quickly, the room spins and I have to grab onto the furniture to keep from falling.
That’s when Leo comes.
I’m sitting on the couch, hugging a pillow to my chest and trying to ignore the breakfast tray sitting on the coffee table, when I hear the lock turn.
My heart jumps into my throat and I scramble to my feet, immediately regretting it when the room tilts sickeningly.
Leo walks in and his eyes go immediately to the untouched tray.
They then track to the dinner tray from yesterday that’s still sitting on the desk.
Then to me, probably looking pale and shaky and like I’m about to pass out.
His eyes flash. “You need to eat.”
“Fuck you.” The words come out weaker than I want, my voice hoarse from disuse and dehydration.
He moves closer and I scramble backward, my hip hitting the arm of the couch.
Suddenly I’m acutely aware of how much bigger he is than me.
Six-three to my five-seven.
Probably a hundred pounds heavier, all of it muscle.
And we’re alone in this room.
No witnesses.
No one to stop him from doing whatever he wants.
The terror I’ve been holding back surges up and I press myself against the back of the couch, trying to make myself smaller.
But Leo doesn’t grab me.
He doesn’t touch me at all.
He just walks to the coffee table, picks up a fork, and spears a piece of the scrambled eggs on the breakfast plate.
Then he holds it out to me, his expression unreadable.
“Eat,” he says calmly. “I won’t ask again.”
I scowl at him. “I said—”
“If you don’t eat, I’ll have my men hold you down while I force feed you through a tube. It won’t be pleasant. Your choice.”
The casual way he says it—like he’s discussing the weather instead of threatening medical torture—makes my breathing hitch.
I look at his face, searching for any sign that he’s bluffing.
He…he wouldn’t really do something that barbaric, right?
All I see is absolute certainty.
He’ll do it. He’ll actually do it.
The hatred that surges through me is so intense it’s almost blinding. I hate him.
I hate him so much that if I had the strength, I would launch myself across this room and beat the shit out of him.
I hate him for kidnapping me, for threatening me, for taking away every shred of control I have.
But I’m not stupid.
And I’m not going to let them hold me down and shove a tube down my throat.
I snatch the fork from his hand with more force than necessary and eat the eggs.
They’re cold now, which is disgusting, but I force them down. Each bite is an act of defiance.
Each swallow is me refusing to be broken.
Leo watches me with an expression I can’t read.
When I literally can’t eat another bite without gagging, I set the fork down and glare at him with all the hatred I can muster.
He nods once, like I’ve passed some kind of test.
“Good girl.”
The words make me see red.
Good girl.
Like I’m a fucking dog who’s learned a trick.
Like I’m something to be trained and controlled.
I pick up the fork and throw it at his head with all the strength I have left.
He catches it without even blinking, his hand shooting up so fast I barely see the movement.
For one moment, the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile.
Then he sets the fork back on the tray, turns, and walks out without another word.
The lock clicks behind him and I’m alone again.
I make it to the bathroom before I throw up everything I just ate.
That night, I lie awake in the darkness and plan.
I’ll get out of here.
I don’t know how yet, but I will.
I’ll find a weakness in the security, or I’ll convince one of the guards to help me, or I’ll wait until Leo makes a mistake. I’m patient. I can wait.
And when I do get out, when I make it back to my father and my family and my life, I’ll make sure Leo Santoro regrets the day he ever heard my name.
I’ll watch him burn for this.
I swear it.