The formality was jarring after weeks of being simply "Grace" to everyone at the estate. A reminder that to most of Rafe's people, I was still an outsider. A complication. A potential liability.
"The bookstore," I decided, wanting to start somewhere quiet, somewhere I could adjust to being in the world again without too much stimulation.
Marco nodded and pulled out of the estate's gates, the massive iron structures closing behind us with a finality that made my stomach clench. I was leaving, but not escaping. The distinction was important.
The town was small but charming—one of those communities that seemed frozen in time, with colonial architecture, tree-lined streets, and small shops that had probably been there for generations. It was early autumn, and the leaves were just beginning to turn, splashes of red and gold against the deep green of summer.
We parked on the main street, and I stepped out of the car, taking a deep breath of air that tasted different somehow—fresher, wilder, less controlled than the air within the estate's walls. Marco and Anthony flanked me, not touching but close enough to intervene if necessary.
"The bookstore is there," Marco said, nodding toward a storefront with bay windows displaying stacks of books and comfortable reading chairs. "We'll be right behind you."
I nodded, already moving toward the shop, drawn by the promise of new books, new stories, new escapes from the reality of my situation. The bell above the door jingled as I entered, and the scent hit me immediately—paper and ink and the faint mustiness of old books. It smelled like freedom, like my old life, like the person I'd been before Rafe Conti had decided I belonged to him.
The shop was empty except for an elderly woman behind the counter, who looked up with a smile as I entered. "Good morning! Let me know if you need help finding anything."
"Thank you," I replied, my voice sounding strange to my own ears—too formal, too careful, like I'd forgotten how to interact with people who weren't part of the Conti household.
Marco and Anthony positioned themselves near the door, their presence less obtrusive than I'd expected but still unmistakable. The shopkeeper glanced at them curiously but didn't comment, returning to the book she'd been reading.
I wandered through the stacks, trailing my fingers along spines, reading titles, occasionally pulling a book out to read the back cover. It was such a normal activity, something I'd done countless times before my abduction, yet it felt surreal now. Like I was playing a role in a movie about my former life.
I selected a few books—a novel I'd been wanting to read, a collection of poetry, a biography of a female Supreme Court justice. Normal choices for the law student I'd once been, for the woman I was trying to remember how to be.
As I approached the counter to pay, I noticed a display of local newspapers. The headline caught my eye: "O'Sullivan Empire Expands: Patrick O'Sullivan Acquires Graven Hill Properties."
My father's face stared up at me from the page, his expression the practiced smile of a businessman closing a successful deal. The same expression he'd worn in countlessphotographs throughout my childhood, at events where I'd been trotted out as the perfect daughter, the O'Sullivan princess, before being sent back to boarding school or summer camp or wherever was convenient.
The same expression he'd worn when discussing my absence with Dante Conti, as if I were a minor business complication rather than his kidnapped daughter.
"Are you alright, dear?" the shopkeeper asked, concern in her voice.
I realized I'd been staring at the newspaper, my knuckles white around the books I held. "Yes, sorry. Just... recognized someone."
She nodded, ringing up my purchases without further comment. I paid with the cash Rafe had given me, tucking the books into a bag and heading back out onto the street, Marco and Anthony falling into step beside me.
"The café next?" Marco suggested, gesturing to a small establishment across the street.
I nodded, not trusting my voice. The newspaper had shaken me more than I wanted to admit, bringing the reality of my situation into sharp focus. While I'd been living in Rafe's gilded cage, life had gone on without me. My father had continued his business dealings, expanded his empire, moved forward as if I'd never existed.
The café was busier than the bookstore, filled with locals enjoying late-morning coffee and pastries. A few glanced up as we entered, their eyes lingering on Marco and Anthony before dismissing them as bodyguards for someone wealthy but not important enough to recognize.
No one looked twice at me. No one whispered, "Isn't that the missing O'Sullivan girl?" No one reached for their phone to call the police or take a surreptitious photo.
Because no one was looking for me. No one knew I was missing. No one cared.
I ordered a latte and a croissant, taking them to a table by the window where I could watch the street outside. Marco and Anthony positioned themselves at a nearby table, close enough to intervene if necessary but giving me the illusion of privacy.
The coffee was good—rich and smooth, different from what was served at the estate but no better. The croissant was flaky and buttery, dissolving on my tongue in a way that should have been pleasurable but tasted like ash.
I found myself watching the people passing by, studying their faces, their clothes, their interactions. Normal people living normal lives, unaware of the woman sitting in their midst who had been erased from the world. Who had become a ghost while still breathing.
"Are you ready to move on, Ms. O'Sullivan?" Marco asked after I'd been sitting for nearly an hour, my coffee long cold, my croissant half-eaten.
I nodded, gathering my things, suddenly eager to leave the café with its normalcy that felt like a mockery of everything I'd lost.
We visited a few shops—a boutique where I bought a scarf I didn't need, a gourmet food store where I selected chocolates and tea, a jewelry store where I browsed without purchasing, the weight of the tracking bracelet on my wrist a constant reminder of my situation.
By three o'clock, I was exhausted—not physically, but emotionally. The constant awareness of Marco and Anthony, the strain of interacting with shopkeepers and baristas as if I were a normal person, the weight of seeing a world that had continued without me—it all pressed down on me until I felt I could barely breathe.
