Chapter 8
EMMA
The eggs are getting cold. The toast is probably soggy by now.
The fruit looks perfect and untouched, and I know I should eat it because refusing food doesn’t accomplish anything except making me weak and dizzy, but my stomach is twisted in knots that have nothing to do with hunger.
I had a panic attack last night.
Just thinking about it makes my cheeks burn with embarrassment and my chest tight with the memory of not being able to breathe, not being able to control my own body as it spiraled into terror.
I haven’t had one in almost a year. I thought I had them under control, thanks to the breathing exercises and the coping mechanisms my therapist taught me.
But apparently being kidnapped and held prisoner and having your father’s rescue attempt fail spectacularly in a hail of gunfire is enough to trigger all those old patterns I worked so hard to break.
The panic had come out of nowhere.
One minute I was getting ready to take a bath, trying not to think about the fact that I’d been here a week and my mother probably thought I was dead.
And the next minute my chest was tight and I couldn’t breathe and the walls were closing in and I was on the floor hyperventilating like my body had forgotten how to function.
I hate that it happened. I hate that I’m still vulnerable to them, capable of falling apart like that, when I’ve spent so much energy trying to be strong, trying to refuse to be a victim.
But what I hate even more—what’s making my stomach twist and my face flush—is that Leo saw it.
Leo Santoro, the man who kidnapped me, the man I’m supposed to hate with every fiber of my being, found me curled up on the bathroom floor gasping for air like a dying fish.
He witnessed me at my most vulnerable moment.
And he was…kind.
That’s the part I can’t stop thinking about, the part that’s driving me crazy more than anything else about this entire situation.
Leo was kind.
He was gentle.
He talked me through the panic attack with this patient, steady voice that reminded me of my therapist.
He knew exactly what to do, exactly what to say, like he’d done it before.
And he asked permission before he touched me.
I look down at my hands, spreading my fingers on the table, and I can still feel the weight of his hand over mine, how his palm completely engulfed mine, the warmth of his skin against my cold, clammy fingers.
The way his thumb moved in these small circles across my knuckles, grounding me, anchoring me to reality when my brain was convinced I was dying.
I twist my fingers together, trying to make the phantom sensation go away.
I don’t want to think about how his hand felt and how safe I felt for those few minutes when I was supposed to feel terrified because my kidnapper was touching me.
It doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense.
Leo Santoro is the enemy.
He took me from my wedding, locked me in this house, and used me as leverage against my father.
He’s cruel and calculating and everything I should hate.
Except he wasn’t cruel last night. He was careful and considerate and—
The door opens and I jump, my fork clattering against the plate.
Leo strides in and I’m immediately struck by how he looks in the morning light streaming through the windows.
He’s wearing dark slacks and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, showing off tanned skin and the corded muscles of his arms.
His dark brown hair is still damp like he just showered, falling across his forehead in a way that’s annoyingly attractive.
The scar through his left eyebrow is more visible in the natural light, a thin white line that somehow makes his face more interesting rather than less.
His jaw is freshly shaved, and his dark brown eyes—almost black in certain lighting but warmer in the sun—are focused on me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
I can feel heat creeping up my neck and into my cheeks as I think about the other night and his hand holding mine and how close we sat.
Please don’t mention it. Please don’t bring it up. Please just pretend it never happened.
Leo’s gaze flickers to my face and I know he sees the blush, but thankfully—thank fuck—he doesn’t comment on it.
Instead, he just stops a few feet from the table and crosses his arms, his expression neutral.
“You’re allowed to leave your bedroom,” he says without preamble.
I stare at him, stunned. “Huh?”
“You can leave your bedroom,” Leo repeats. “You’ll have access to the rest of the house—the library, the gardens, the dining room. You’ll still be monitored and guarded, but you’re not confined to this room anymore.”
For once in my life, I have absolutely nothing to say.
I just sit there with my mouth slightly open, probably looking like an idiot, trying to process what he just told me.
I can leave this room.
I can leave this god-awful bedroom that I’ve been trapped in for a week.
“Why?” I finally manage to ask, my voice smaller than I’d like.
Leo’s throat bobs as he swallows, his eyes lingering on me for just a moment longer than necessary. “Because you shouldn’t be locked in a cage,” he says quietly. Then, more firmly, “The guards will show you around. Don’t try anything stupid.”
He turns to leave and I realize I need to say something and acknowledge this even though I don’t fully understand why he’s doing it.
“Thank you.” I truly mean it in a way that surprises me. “Really. Thank you.”
Leo stops in the doorway, his shoulders tensing slightly.
He doesn’t turn around or look at me.
He nods once and then he’s gone, the door closing softly behind him.
I sit there for a long moment, staring at the closed door and trying to figure out what just happened.
Then I shove my chair back and practically run to test if he was serious.
The door is unlocked.
Week two of captivity begins with freedom I didn’t expect to have.
I take advantage of it immediately and shamelessly explore every inch of the estate that I’m allowed to access.
The gardens are massive with carefully manicured lawns and flower beds, stone pathways that wind through rose gardens and around a fountain that looks fabulously expensive.
There are guards everywhere, always watching and following at a discreet distance, but at least I can breathe fresh air.
At least I can feel sunlight on my face.
The library is my favorite discovery.
It’s enormous, two stories tall with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and one of those sliding ladders that I’ve only ever seen in movies.
I had great fun throwing myself against it and shouting “Whee!” as I slid along the shelves.
There are reading nooks with plush chairs, windows that overlook the gardens, and more books than I could read in a lifetime.
Real books too, not just the pretentious Italian literature Leo tried to force on me.
There are romance novels hidden in the back corner, contemporary fiction, mystery novels, even some young adult fantasy that makes me nostalgic for high school.
I take advantage of the dining room too, eating meals at the massive mahogany table instead of in my bedroom.
It feels more human and normal, even with armed guards stationed at the doors.
But I’m not letting this freedom make me complacent.
I’m still mapping the property, memorizing guard rotations and shift changes, and noting which doors are locked and which aren’t.
I’m watching for any possible weakness in Leo’s security and I’m drawing it all—detailed layouts of the estate, guard positions, patrol routes—on papers that I hide under a loose tile I discovered in the bathroom floor.
The bathroom is my only real privacy.
I figured out where the cameras in the bedroom are within the first two days. I’m not an idiot.
Dad always taught me to be on alert and it wasn’t hard to find the cameras.
One in the corner by the door, one by the window, carefully positioned to monitor without being obvious.
But there are no cameras in the bathroom.
There can’t be, for legal reasons or privacy laws or something.
So that’s where I keep my escape plans and drawings, everything Leo can’t know about.
I know he’s watching me in the bedroom. I know he sees me reading and sketching and pacing.
But he doesn’t see everything.
He doesn’t know what I’m planning.
Leo joins me for dinner most nights, which I didn’t expect and don’t entirely know how to feel about.
At first, I refuse to talk.
I sit across from him at that massive dining table, eating in pointed silence, pretending he doesn’t exist.
It’s petty and childish and probably not accomplishing anything, but it makes me feel like I have some control over the situation.
But silence gets boring after three dinners in a row, and eventually my curiosity gets the better of me.
“Did you actually study architecture?” I ask one evening, breaking the silence that’s stretched between us for the last twenty minutes.
Leo looks up from his plate, surprise flickering across his face. “Huh?”
“Architecture,” I repeat, twirling my fork through my pasta and not looking at him. “You mentioned it before. That you studied it before your father pulled you into the family business.”
“I did.” He sets down his fork, studying me with those dark eyes. “Four years at NYU. I was two semesters away from my degree when my father had a heart attack and I had to take over.”
“NYU?” I set down my own fork. “I went to Sarah Lawrence.”
“Art history major?” Leo guesses, and there’s something almost teasing in his tone.
“How did you—” I stop, realizing how stupid that question is. “Right. You researched me before kidnapping me. Creepy, but thorough.”
“I prefer ‘diligent.’” His lips twitch. “And yes, art history. With a minor in studio art. You graduated two years ago, had a 3.7 GPA, and wrote your senior thesis on the intersection of trauma and creativity in contemporary female artists.”
I stare at him, unsure whether to be impressed or disturbed. “That’s…a lot of information,” I finally say.
“I’m very thorough when I kidnap someone,” Leo says dryly. “It helps to know what kind of books to stock in their prison cell.”
“You still got it wrong,” I point out. “The Hemingway was a disaster.”