Chapter 3
The late afternoon sunlight filters through blinds like dirty prison bars, casting tiger stripes across knotty pine walls that have seen too many men's secrets. I blink against the glare, my head pounding with the kind of ache that feels like someone reached inside and rearranged everything.
The first thing I notice is that the discomfort and fullness of the catheter is gone.
He took it out.
This thought makes me want to throw up.
The invasion.
The violation.
My wrists burn. The zip ties have carved red valleys into my skin while I was sleeping, raw and angry from hours of desperate twisting.
I try to swallow but can't. My tongue feels like sandpaper glued to the roof of my mouth. Whatever drugs Marcus has been forcing into me have left me desert-dry, like all the water's been sucked from my body.
The cup with the bendy straw sits on the nightstand—it's empty. So I must've drank—he must've helped me drink—but I don't remember him returning.
He's been here while I slept. Watching.
The thought makes my skin crawl beneath the restraints. I force myself to push the image of Marcus 'cleaning' me out of my mind.
That's a trauma for another time.
If I get out of here alive, that is.
He's not going to kill me, right?
Surely, he will let me go.
Won't he?
I'm not sure. This isn't the man I knew. That I dated. He's a stranger to me now.
Which is why I can't rely on him being rational. I mean, does a rational man kidnap the Little Ashby Princess?
No. Crazy people do that.
I need to get out of here. I test each binding methodically, starting with my ankles. No give. Left wrist—still tight. Right wrist—
There.
A give. The tiniest weakness in the seal where the ridges lock together.
I freeze, not wanting to damage it further until I have a plan.
The cabin settles around me with familiar creaks as my gaze travels up to the photographs Marcus has arranged like some sick shrine.
They are all watching me now. All these versions of me, trapped behind glass just like I am.
Don't think about that. Focus.
I turn my attention back to the tear in the zip tie. It's small, but it's something.
Something is better than nothing when nothing is all you have left.
The door opens with such deliberate slowness that I can count the seconds between the first creak and the full swing.
One-one-thousand. Two-one-thousand.
Like he's savoring my captivity.
Marcus steps inside carrying a pastry box, his smile stretched too wide across his face. When he angles the box onto the bedside table, I can see cherry pie with a perfect lattice crust through the clear plastic window.
"Look who's awake," he says, voice lilting like I'm a child. "I brought my sweetness something sweet."
He's wearing fresh clothes—pressed khakis with a knife-edge crease down the front, blue button-down rolled precisely to mid-forearm. His hair is combed with that perfect political part, not a strand out of place. Meanwhile, I'm filthy with sweat and worse things I don't want to name.
"You must be starving, honey-dove." He's never called me that before. Not once in two years. Where is this all coming from? Did he just… lose his damn mind?
"Time for dessert." Then he winks at me, like he's implying that dessert is something more than cherry pie. "The doctor said you'd be hungry once the sedatives wore off."
Doctor? What doctor?
"I been more rigid with you than I should’ve been—but the fight in you, Savannah.
" He draws in a breath through his teeth.
"It was unexpected." He puts up a hand. "Not entirely unattractive, though.
I like your fight. Oh," he chides. "Don't look so worried, sugar plum. You needn’t worry about anything. The world is humming along just fine without you. I’ve made sure of it. "
What the hell does that even mean? I feel like he’s hinting at things unsaid. Words that exist between invisible lines.
"I haven't slept in days, just watching over you." His smile never reaches his eyes. They remain flat and calculating, like he's gauging my reactions for a focus group.
"Days?" The word scrapes out of my throat.
"Three, to be exact." He tilts his head. "The healing process takes time. Especially when it's all up in your head."
Three days. My God. I've been here three days. I've missed time. Holy fuck, that's an understatement.
Legion feels impossibly far away now. Whatever Cash did to him—it's probably over. He could be—
I can't finish the thought.
My eyes drift to the pie Marcus is serving up for me. That's when I see the embossed Ashby Ranch logo on the side. That means someone from the main house provided this pie. Someone made this pie, packaged it up, and handed it to my kidnapper.
How many people are in on this? Cash, certainly. Wyatt too. Not Colt—he would never. But Aunt Ruth? The kitchen staff? The ranch hands I've known since childhood?
The betrayal cuts deeper than the zip ties.
All those people who smiled at me, who called me "Miss Savannah" with what I thought was affection—they must hate me.
They must truly hate me to allow this.
To help make it happen.
"Everyone's been so worried about you," Marcus continues, cutting into the pie with a plastic fork.
"But I told them you just need time to remember who you really are.
" He sits on the edge of the bed, his hip pressing against my thigh like a brand.
I can't move away. The restraints see to that. "Open wide," he says.
I part my lips and accept the cherry pie without resisting. The longer I stay calm and compliant, the longer I have to come up with a plan. I swallow mechanically, staring at the ceiling beam directly above us.
"You know, when I first realized how deep his hold on you was, I did some research.
" Marcus hovers a fresh forkful of pie near my lips.
"Trauma bonding. Captive identification.
It's actually quite common in cases like yours.
Naturally, after all those years of manipulation, the detoxification process will take time," he continues.
"But the specialist I called from Denver says the symptoms will fade.
You'll stop craving his presence once the chemical dependency breaks. "
Chemical dependency. Like Legion is some kind of narcotic flowing through my veins, a poison that needs to be purged from my system.
Like what we share is a sickness rather than something that's kept me breathing for sixteen years.
Marcus speaks about him with clinical detachment, as if describing a particularly aggressive virus that's infected his prize possession.
The fork presses against my closed lips, cherry filling drips slowly onto my chin. Marcus doesn't seem to notice or care, his eyes distant and crazy, just like his mind.
Pretend, the voice in my head says.
Pretend, Savannah. You cannot reason with this man. You need to do everything he says. Give him every reaction he's looking for.
Pretend, even if it kills you.
These last few words are like whispers in a nightmare.
I open my mouth, wrap my lips around the fork, pull the pie off as Marcus withdraws. "Mmmm," I hum. "It's really good, Marcus. Thank you so much for thinking of me. For going all the way back to the ranch to retrieve this special dessert."
Marcus smiles. "Your mother always said you had a sweet tooth." He frowns slightly. narrowing his eyes. "But we mustn't let you get fat, darling. You can't come to campaign events if you're frumpy. So enjoy, for now. But when we get home there will be rules."
Rules. Oh, my god. How the hell did I ever pick this man as a boyfriend, let alone a future husband? What the hell was wrong with me?
Legion wasn't here, I tell myself. He wasn't here to keep my mind straight. To keep me from wandering into the delusions that my life has always been.
And even though I told myself the last time I woke that there's no way that Marcus talked to Eleanor about me—she's been dead for seven years, for fuck's sake—these things he's saying about her ring true.
Like she might've told him these things, if she had the chance.
I look up at the ceiling beam again. It's old-growth pine, probably harvested from this very property a century ago. My great-grandfather built this cabin himself. How many secrets has it held? How many Ashby women have stared up at that same beam, trapped in different ways?
Maybe all of them get tied up before marriage? Maybe they all realize, too late, that it's just a trap?
Marcus's thumb drags across the corner of my mouth, lingering longer than necessary to wipe away a smudge of cherry filling. His touch leaves a chill I can't shake.
"Your mother did such an exceptional job raising the perfect political wife," he says, casual as discussing the weather. "I knew it the moment I saw those riding photos from when you were seven. The posture, the poise—you were already being groomed."
Thinking of Marcus studying my childhood like a menu is revolting.
"That first professional photoshoot when you turned nine was particularly inspired," Marcus continues, setting the pie container aside.
"Eleanor positioned you on that white pony with the braided mane.
You were wearing the blue dress with the eyelet lace collar.
" His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "It took seventy-eight shots before your mother was satisfied with your smile. "
"How do you—"
"Eleanor's journals are quite detailed."
Ho-lee shit.
He's been reading her journals? "I… I didn't even know she had journals."
"No, of course not. They were secret. And part of the sale."
"Sale?" I swear, I throw up in my mouth.
"The reason she cataloged you, darling. For me. It was all… for me. Our marriage was arranged when you were still in the womb—"
I stop listening. This isn't true. He's lying. Maybe there are journals and that's how he knows these things, but he's lying. Cash found the journals. Or Wyatt. Somehow, Marcus—or his father—got their hands on them.
There is a logical explanation for this!
Right. There is, Savannah. She did this to you. She turned you into… what? A doll? A wife?
Marcus straightens his cuffs. "She documented everything—your diet, your tutors, which friends were acceptable. Even which boys to keep you away from." His mouth twists. "Though she failed spectacularly with Kane."
No, this can’t be true. She turned me into a product.
Something shatters inside me—not my resolve, but the cloudy glass I've been looking through my entire life. Suddenly everything is razor-sharp, brutally clear.
The carefully staged childhood photos. The protein shakes instead of breakfast when I gained five pounds at thirteen. The "chance" meetings with daughters of state officials that Eleanor orchestrated. The riding lessons not because I loved horses, but because equestrian outfits are… a fetish.
My social media empire wasn't my creation at all—it was just the digital continuation of my mother's project. The staged authenticity. The calculated vulnerability. The perfect lighting on supposedly candid moments.
I was never a daughter. I was prepared for market.
Like a fucking steer.
And Marcus isn't my fiancé.
He's my buyer.
I look at him now—really look—and see the same cold calculation I'd glimpsed in my mother's eyes when she'd adjust my chin just so before pressing the shutter. The same proprietary satisfaction when she'd review the perfect shot.
"You've gone quiet," Marcus observes, head tilting. "Are you feeling overwhelmed by my thoughtfulness? I know it's a lot to process—how long I've been preparing to take care of you."
I swallow the acid rising in my throat and force my face to soften. "It's just... surprising," I whisper, making my voice small, grateful. "All this time, you knew me so well."
The words are soft, but inside, my resolve hardens. Not just determination to escape this cabin, this man, these restraints. Something deeper. The resolve to burn "Savannah Ashby" to the ground—the perfect, curated doll they've spent three decades crafting.
If I get out of here alive, that woman dies first.
"Another bite?" Marcus offers, his tone suggesting generosity rather than force.
I accept it, my jaw working mechanically.
Cherry juice leaks from the corner of my mouth.
His free hand slides up to brush the juice away with his thumb, lingering on my lip.
I don't flinch. I've spent twenty-three years being posed, positioned, perfected for cameras. This is just another performance.
"You're being so good today," he says, like I'm a child or a pet. "Much better than yesterday."
I barely even remember yesterday.
Hell, at this point, I barely remember what freedom tastes like.
Is this how it was for Legion? Being locked up in that prison for things he never did? To earn his place in that club? Some stupid patch?
Marcus places the pie container on the nightstand and checks his watch. "Time for your medicine."
"Please," I say, trying to keep the trembling out of my voice. "Marcus, my dear. Can you please let me go to the bathroom."
"Of course, Savannah," He pets my head like I'm a dog. "You didn't respond well to the catheter on the first day, so I've been drugging you just enough to allow you to walk and relieve yourself after eating."
What kind of drugs? How long do I have?
Marcus goes into the bathroom, turns the light on, and I watch as he gets a pill bottle. Twenty minutes, I decide. It will take about twenty minutes to work. Marcus will know this. He will be timing it.
I need to stay awake and lucid. Because this is something far worse than kidnapping.
It's enslavement.
He comes back out, places two white pills on my tongue, and offers me the water glass with the bendy straw.
I sip, try not to swallow them, but they go down anyway.
Stay awake, I tell myself. Over and over in my head. Stay awake. One chance, Stay awake….
"Ready?" Marcus asks. He cuts the zip ties. "Oh…" He chuckles. "This one was nearly broken. Well, we'll double up next time." Come along,"
Stay awake. Stay awake.
Marcus helps me up into a sitting position, my eyes swing wildly around the room, searching… searching….
"Let's stand now, sugar-plum."
My feet hit the floor.
I walk.
Stay awake. Stay awake.
But the next thing I know, I'm once again waking up in bed.
My bindings tighter than ever.