"Knox," she calls, and I pause without turning. "This won't work. You can't force someone to love you."
Now I do turn, my smile slow and knowing. "I'm not forcing you to love me, Seraphina. I'm simply removing all the distractions that have been keeping you from admitting that you already do."
I walk away then, leaving her standing in the center of what will become our home—permanent, not just a vacation retreat. She doesn't realize it yet, but she's never leaving this island as anything but mine. Completely, irrevocably mine.
Phase one of getting her back is complete. She's here, away from all outside influences, all other options
Chapter Seven
Seraphina
My hair isa tangle of ruined curls, my lips a perpetually downturned line of rage. The master suite—which I remember in excruciating detail from our time together—seems to mock me with its luxury. The massive bed with its cloud-soft sheets and mountain of pillows. The bathroom with its waterfall shower and soaking tub large enough for two. The walk-in closet that remains empty, awaiting the luggage Knox promises will arrive tomorrow. Everything is exactly as I remember, yet feels like a beautiful prison cell. I pace the room like a caged animal, my torn wedding dress dragging behind me, the weighteen of it a reminder of everything Knox stole from me today—my wedding, my dignity, my agency. My freedom.
"Damn you, Knox Vance," I mutter, yanking at the delicate buttons running down my spine. The dress is ruined anyway, might as well get it off. But the tiny pearls are impossible to reach, and after a few frustrating moments, I resort to simply tearing the fabric further, ripping it away from my body with savage satisfaction.
Let him see the destruction when he finds it. Let him see what happens when you cage something wild.
Standing in just my silk slip and lace underwear, I assess my surroundings, searching for weaknesses in my gilded prison. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a tantalizing view of the moonlit ocean, but I already know they're unbreakable—Knox once boasted they could withstand hurricane winds. The bedroom door isn't locked—Knox isn't that crude in his methods of confinement—but what lies beyond it? A house controlled entirely by technology that answers only to him.
I try anyway, padding barefoot through the suite's sitting area to the door. It opens silently, revealing the dimly lit hallway beyond. The house is quiet, no sign of Knox or any staff. Perhaps they've been dismissed to give us "privacy." Typical Knox, planning every detail.
Moving cautiously, I explore the mansion that feels both familiar and foreign after eighteen months away. The great room spreads before me, all sleek lines and dramatic views, the wall of glass showcasing the Caribbean night. In daylight, that view would reveal crystal blue waters and pristine white sand—paradise, if it weren't a prison.
My eyes dart to each potential exit—the massive front doors, the sliding glass doors leading to the infinity pool, the side entrance toward the garden path. Already knowing it's futile, I try each one. Locked, of course. The control panel Knox used earlier glows with subdued blue light, taunting me with its inaccessibility.
The kitchen is fully stocked, I discover. Fresh fruit in artful arrangements, the refrigerator humming with prepared meals, champagne chilling—as if this were a romantic getaway rather than a kidnapping. I consider arming myself with a knife, but immediately dismiss the thought. Not because I'm above threatening Knox—God knows he deserves it—but because Iknow it would be pointless. Knox would disarm me in seconds, and the ensuing physical struggle would only remind both of us how our bodies respond to each other's touch.
No, weapons aren't the answer. Information is.
I search for a phone, a computer, any means of communication with the outside world. Nothing. Knox has been thorough, as always. There's probably a communication center somewhere in this massive house, but it would undoubtedly be locked and secured.
"Looking for something, angel?"
I whirl around to find Knox leaning against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed over his broad chest. He's changed from his suit into loose linen pants and a simple black t-shirt that does nothing to hide the power in his frame. His feet are bare, his hair slightly damp as if he's just showered. The casual intimacy of his appearance makes this situation all the more infuriating.
"A knife," I answer honestly, meeting his gaze with defiance. "I was debating where to stick it."
His lips twitch, amusement rather than concern. "I've removed anything too dangerous. I know your temper."
"You know nothing about me anymore," I snap, keeping the marble island between us. "eighteen months is a long time, Knox."
“Seventeen months, three weeks, and four days," he corrects automatically, pushing away from the doorframe and moving toward the refrigerator. "And I know everything about you, Seraphina. Your new apartment in Chelsea. Your promotion to director last fall. Your preference for flat whites over lattes now. The fact that you've been working too much and sleeping too little."
A chill runs down my spine at the detailed surveillance his words imply. "That's stalking, not knowing someone."
He pulls out a bottle of water, uncaps it, and slides it across the counter toward me. When I make no move to take it, he shrugs. "You're dehydrated. Drink."
"I'm not a dog to be commanded," I seethe, even as I register the dryness in my throat. I haven't had anything since the champagne toast at the pre-ceremony gathering hours ago.
"No, you're a stubborn woman who would rather suffer than admit I'm right about anything." He opens another water for himself, drinking deeply while maintaining eye contact. "Even something as simple as needing hydration."
To spite him, I snatch the water and drink, hating that it feels like heaven on my parched throat. "Happy now?"
"Getting there." His eyes travel over my body, lingering on the silk slip that reveals more than it conceals. "You destroyed the dress."
"It was already ruined," I counter. "Like my wedding. Like my reputation. Like my career, probably."
"Your career will be fine. Better than fine." He settles onto one of the bar stools, maddeningly relaxed while I'm practically vibrating with rage. "The gallery will see a surge in attendance after this. People love drama."
