As I moved toward it, as I prepared to step from one captivity into another, I glanced back at Marco, at the wreckage of the car that was supposed to take me to freedom, to space, to the solitude I'd demanded.
"Tell Rafe," I said, the words barely audible above the noise of the highway, of approaching sirens, of the chaos these men had created to facilitate my abduction. "Tell him I understand now. What it means to be caught between families. What it means to be... a complication."
Marco's expression shifted—confusion giving way to understanding, to a recognition of the message beneath my words. He nodded once, a promise to convey not just the fact of my abduction but the meaning I'd assigned to it, the realization that had come too late to change anything but might, perhaps, offer some cold comfort to the man who had claimed to love me even as he'd kept me captive.
Then I was in the SUV, doors closing around me, the vehicle pulling away from the scene with a speed that spoke of professional driving, of a plan well-executed, of a fate I couldn't escape no matter how much freedom I'd been promised, no matter how many choices I thought I'd been given.
As we merged into traffic, as we headed toward a destination I could only guess at, toward a father who had abandoned me once and now, for reasons I couldn't fathom, wanted me back, I felt the last of my illusions crumble away, leaving nothing but the cold, hard truth I'd been avoiding for so long.
I had never been free. Had never had choices that mattered. Had never been anything but a pawn in games played by men who saw me as means to ends I couldn't even imagine.
The realization should have devastated me. Should have broken me completely. Instead, it settled over me with a strange sense of clarity, of certainty. The last illusion stripped away, leaving only what was real.
And what was real was this: I belonged to no one. Not to Rafe, who claimed to love me even as he kept me captive. Not to my father, who had abandoned me once and now "reconsidered my value" for reasons that could only be calculated, cold, self-serving.
I belonged only to myself. And if these men, these families, these games of power and control and revenge wanted to use me as their pawn, their prize, their bargaining chip—well, they would soon discover that pawns can become queens. That prizes can become poisons. That bargaining chips can become weapons in the right hands.
In my hands.
As the SUV sped toward whatever fate awaited me, I felt something stir within the numbness that had enveloped me for days—not fear, not grief, not even anger. But something colder, harder, more dangerous than any emotion I'd allowed myself to feel before.
Resolve.
25
GRACE
Iwoke to sunlight streaming through familiar curtains—pale blue silk, embroidered with silver thread that caught the morning light and scattered it across the room in delicate patterns. For a moment, I was disoriented, caught between past and present, between memory and reality.
This was my bedroom. My childhood bedroom in the O'Sullivan estate. The room I'd left at eighteen, vowing never to return, determined to build a life beyond my father's influence, beyond the family legacy of power and violence and control.
I sat up slowly, my body aching from the tension of the previous day's abduction, from being manhandled into vehicles, from hours spent in silent transit to this place I'd once called home. The bed beneath me was the same—a queen-sized four-poster that had always seemed too grand for a child, too formal for comfort. The walls were the same pale blue as the curtains, adorned with the same carefully selected artwork—tasteful landscapes, nothing personal, nothing that might reveal the personality of the room's occupant.
Because that had never mattered. Not to my father. Not to the designers he'd hired to create a space that projected the rightimage, the right status, the right impression of the O'Sullivan princess.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, noticing for the first time that I was wearing silk pajamas I didn't recognize—expensive, perfectly fitted, in a shade of cream that complemented my coloring. Someone had changed my clothes while I was unconscious. Had stripped me, bathed me perhaps, dressed me like a doll in garments chosen for appearance rather than comfort.
The violation sent a chill down my spine despite the warmth of the morning sun.
I stood, moving to the window that overlooked the estate's formal gardens—immaculate as always, not a flower out of place, not a leaf allowed to fall where it might disrupt the perfect symmetry of the design. Beyond the gardens lay the grounds that had been both playground and prison during my childhood—acres of manicured lawns, wooded areas, the lake where I'd learned to swim under the watchful eyes of security personnel who were as much guards as they were protectors.
A familiar cage, gilded with luxury and privilege but a cage nonetheless.
I tried the door and found it unlocked—a small mercy, though not necessarily a sign of freedom. When I stepped into the hallway, I immediately spotted the man stationed at the end of the corridor—broad-shouldered, expressionless, a subtle bulge beneath his jacket indicating a weapon. He nodded politely in my direction but made no move to approach or speak.
A guard, then. Not even bothering to disguise his purpose.
I retreated back into the bedroom, closing the door softly behind me. The en-suite bathroom was as I remembered it—all marble and crystal and gold fixtures, designed to impress rather than comfort. I showered quickly, the hot water doing little to ease the tension that had settled between my shoulder blades,the sense of dread that had been building since I'd recognized the men who took me as my father's employees rather than random kidnappers.
When I emerged, wrapped in a plush towel, I found clothes laid out on the bed—a simple but obviously expensive dress in deep green, matching shoes, understated jewelry. The kind of outfit my father had always preferred me to wear for family occasions. Conservative but elegant. Projecting wealth and taste without ostentation.
I stared at the clothes, at this evidence that I was still being controlled, still being molded into someone else's vision of who I should be. For a moment, I considered refusing to wear them, considered demanding my own clothes back, considered some small act of rebellion to establish that I wasn't the same compliant daughter who had left this house years ago.
But what would that accomplish? What battle would that win in the war that was clearly coming?
I dressed in the provided clothes, the fabric sliding cool and smooth against my skin, the fit perfect as if it had been tailored specifically for me. Perhaps it had been. Perhaps my father had maintained a wardrobe for me all these years, ready for the day I would return—willingly or not—to the fold.
The thought was both disturbing and illuminating. Had he always planned to bring me back eventually? Had my abduction by the Contis merely accelerated a timeline he'd already established in his mind?
