Chapter 30 #2
Boris watches me closely, waiting.
“Holy shit,” I mumble around the mouthful.
He chuckles, satisfied. “Better than American doughnuts, yes?”
I nod, still chewing.
“My mother made these every Sunday,” he says, wiping his hands on a towel. “Fillings change. Rosehip. Plum butter. Chocolate. But raspberry is best.”
I slow down, trying to picture it. A smaller kitchen. Warm air. Someone cooking not because they have to—but because they want to.
“Did she teach you?” I ask, licking sugar from my thumb.
He smiles, just a little. “No. She cooked for love. I learned to survive.”
The words sit between us, heavier than they should be.
“And you?” he asks. “You cook?”
I shrug, suddenly aware of myself. “Not like this.”
“Then you will learn.” Not a question.
I should say no. I should remind him I’m not here by choice.
Instead, I nod.
And just like that, the kitchen becomes my favorite place in the penthouse.
Over the next week, another person starts appearing in the penthouse.
She moves through the space with quiet efficiency, like she’s correcting mistakes before they have the chance to exist. Sharp eyes. Measured steps. Nothing wasted.
Monica.
She’s tall and composed, sleek dark hair pulled into a low chignon that never shifts.
Business-casual, but worn like armor—pressed slacks, a silk blouse, and a watch that probably costs more than my tuition ever did.
She looks like she belongs in a boardroom, not tidying up a billionaire’s glass-and-steel fortress.
She comes every few days. Slips in. Slips out. The kind of practiced ease that makes it feel like she’s always been part of this place, even when she isn’t.
During her second visit, she’s folding linens in my sitting room, smoothing each crease like the wrinkles have personally offended her.
“You’re settling in well,” she says, eyes still on the fabric.
It isn’t a question.
More like an assessment.
I huff quietly. “Clearly you haven’t been paying attention. I wouldn’t call this… whatever this is… settling in.”
She hums, unconcerned.
“Asher doesn’t bring people here often,” she adds lightly.
Casual. Neutral.
But I hear the test buried underneath it.
“I’m not people,” I say. “I’m a hostage.”
I wait. Half-expect her to freeze. To react. To ask questions. To help.
She doesn’t even blink.
“Hostages don’t get private suites and a personal chef,” she mutters.
I glance around the room despite myself. The space is beautiful. Comfortable. Absurdly expensive.
“That doesn’t make it okay to kidnap someone,” I snap.
She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t agree either.
She moves on, checking surfaces, adjusting pillows, and scanning corners like she’s cataloging the room—and me—with the same careful attention.
I catch her watching me when she thinks I’m not looking.
Eventually, she pauses. “Do you need anything?”
Yeah. To be let out of this fucking house. To walk outside. To go literally anywhere else.
I bite the inside of my cheek, already knowing the answer before I ask it out loud. Then I shake my head. “No.”
Her eyebrow lifts. Skeptical. Like she doesn’t believe me for a second. But she lets it go.
The hot water slides over my skin in a slick, shimmering layer.
The tub is already full, and bubbles creep up to my chin as I sink lower, letting them cling to me like a second skin.
The air smells clean. Expensive. Like money pretending to be soap.
Steam curls toward the glass wall, softening the edges of the city beyond it.
I don’t mean to make taking baths in Asher’s tub a habit.
But I do.
The first time, I just needed to breathe. To get out from under the weight of the penthouse and everything it holds. To take up space that felt—if only briefly—like it was mine.
That’s what I told myself.
The second time, I said it was about the view. The skyline stretched wide beyond the floor-to-ceiling window, washed in purples and golds as night rolled in. The city blinking on, alive and moving, like proof the world hadn’t stopped just because I had.
By the third time, I stopped pretending there was a reason that sounded noble.
Because the truth is—here, in this tub, with the water always just shy of scalding and the city laid out like something I’m allowed to touch—I can lie to myself.
I can pretend this is my life. Pretend I belong somewhere like this. Pretend that when I step out of the water, I won’t be stepping back into a gilded cage.
Tonight is no different.
I trail my fingers through the bubbles, watching them swirl, pop, and vanish. Temporary. All of it. I wonder how long I can keep sneaking into this space before Asher notices. Before he says something. Before he reminds me—gently or otherwise—that nothing here belongs to me.
Not really.
I sink deeper, resting my head against the smooth porcelain edge, and eyes drifting to the lights outside. They flicker in patterns I don’t understand, but something about them pulls at me anyway.
And for a little while, I forget.
The cage. The man holding the key. The way everything feels like it’s inching toward a shift I won’t be able to ignore.
I know it’s coming.
I just don’t know what it will cost me when it does.