"Then let me be that fixed point," he said softly. "Let me be the certainty you can build around while you figure out who you are, what you want, where you go from here. Not as your captor. Not as your owner. But as your partner. Your equal. Someone who sees you, values you, cherishes you for exactly who you are."
The offer hung between us, tempting in its simplicity, its apparent sincerity. A new beginning, a different kind of relationship built on the ashes of the old. A chance to redefine ourselves, our connection, our future.
But it wasn't that simple. Couldn't be that simple, given our history, given the power imbalance that had defined our relationship from the beginning.
"I need time," I said, the words torn from somewhere deep and honest. "Time to process everything I've learned today. Time to grieve the family I've lost, the illusions I've clung to. Time to figure out who I am now, what I want, what future I can imagine for myself in a world where all the old certainties have crumbled."
Disappointment flickered across his features, quickly masked. "Of course," he said, stepping back to give me more space. "Take all the time you need. I'll be here. Waiting. Hoping."
The simple acceptance of my need, the lack of pressure or manipulation, touched me more deeply than grand declarationsor passionate embraces could have. This, perhaps, was the truest evidence of change—his willingness to wait, to let me set the pace, to respect my need for space and time despite his own desires.
"Thank you," I said, the words inadequate but sincere. "For bringing me here today. For letting me hear the truth, however painful. For offering me a choice, even if it's one I'm not ready to make yet."
He nodded, his expression softening into something that wasn't quite a smile but held a warmth that made my heart ache. "Whenever you're ready, Grace. Whatever you decide. I'll be here."
As we left the blue room, as we walked through the corridors of the Conti estate toward the car that would take us back to the place that had been my prison and was now... something else entirely, I felt a strange sense of peace settling over me despite the pain, the confusion, the uncertainty that still churned inside.
My father had abandoned me. My family had disowned me. The life I'd known, the identity I'd constructed, had been revealed as illusion, as fiction, as a story I'd told myself to make sense of a world that had never truly wanted or valued me for myself.
But in the ashes of that life, in the wreck
24
GRACE
Ididn't speak to Rafe for three days after we returned from the main estate.
Not because he didn't try. He did—knocking softly on my door, leaving messages with staff, sending small gifts that remained unopened on my dresser. Books. Flowers. A cashmere blanket when the nights turned colder. Each offering a silent plea for connection, for conversation, for a chance to explain, to comfort, to bridge the chasm that had opened between us.
I couldn't bear it. Couldn't bear to look at him, to speak to him, to acknowledge his presence in any way. Not with the truth still raw and bleeding inside me, not with the words I'd overheard playing on endless loop in my mind.
"Grace stopped being his concern when she chose law school over family loyalty."
"Ms. O'Sullivan's situation is no longer a factor in negotiations between the families."
"Mr. O'Sullivan has moved on from that particular... complication."
Complication. That's all I was. All I'd ever been. To my father, to my brothers, to the family that had shaped my identity even asI'd tried to distance myself from their world, their methods, their legacy of violence and control.
And Rafe had known. Had suspected from the beginning and known with certainty for a month. Had kept that knowledge from me, had let me continue believing there was still some connection to my former life, some possibility of return, some world beyond these walls where someone cared what happened to me.
I couldn't eat. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't focus on books or music or any of the diversions that had made my captivity bearable. I existed in a fog of betrayal and disillusionment, moving through the days like a ghost haunting the halls of what had become both my prison and my sanctuary.
On the fourth day, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and barely recognized the woman staring back at me. Pale. Hollow-eyed. Thinner than I'd been in years, my clothes hanging loose on a frame that had always been slender but was now approaching gaunt. My hair hung limp around my face, unwashed for days. My eyes looked huge, dark with shadows that spoke of sleepless nights and endless tears.
I looked like what I was: a woman shattered by betrayal, by the collapse of every certainty she'd built her life around.
The sight should have alarmed me. Should have spurred me to action, to self-care, to some effort at recovery. Instead, I turned away, indifferent to my own decline. What did it matter how I looked, how I felt? I belonged to no one. Mattered to no one. Just another piece to be claimed, traded, or broken when it served their purpose.
A knock at the door pulled me from my spiral of self-pity. Soft but insistent. Familiar.
"Grace." Rafe's voice, low and controlled as always, but with an edge of concern I couldn't ignore despite my best efforts. "Please. We need to talk."
I remained silent, hoping he would go away as he had the previous days, respecting my need for space, for solitude, for time to process the devastating revelations.
But today was different. Today, the door opened despite my lack of response, and Rafe stepped into the room, his expression a mixture of determination and concern that might have touched me once but now only fueled the anger simmering beneath my grief.
"You shouldn't be here," I said, my voice rough from disuse. "I didn't invite you in."
