I was still contemplating this when a knock came at the door—three sharp raps that brooked no refusal. Before I could respond, the door opened to reveal a woman I didn't recognize—middle-aged, professionally dressed, with the efficient manner of someone accustomed to managing other people's lives.
"Good morning, Ms. O'Sullivan," she said, her tone polite but distant. "I'm Mrs. Reynolds, your father's personal assistant.Breakfast is ready in the small dining room whenever you're prepared to come down."
"Where is my father?" I asked, the question that mattered most. "I'd like to speak with him."
"Mr. O'Sullivan is unavailable at present," she replied smoothly. "He sends his regrets and asks that you make yourself comfortable. He'll speak with you when his schedule permits."
The dismissal was so casual, so complete, that for a moment I could only stare at her. My father had orchestrated my abduction from the Contis, had brought me back to the home I'd left years ago, had me dressed and guarded like a prisoner—and now couldn't be bothered to see me? To explain why I was here, what he wanted from me, what fate awaited me in this familiar cage?
"When will that be?" I asked, unable to keep a hint of bitterness from my voice. "When will his 'schedule permit' a conversation with the daughter he had kidnapped?"
Mrs. Reynolds's expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes—discomfort, perhaps, or pity. "I couldn't say, Ms. O'Sullivan. Your father's schedule is quite demanding. But I'm sure he'll make time as soon as possible."
She was lying. I could see it in the careful neutrality of her expression, in the way she avoided direct eye contact, in the slight tension in her shoulders. My father had no intention of speaking with me soon. Was avoiding me deliberately, leaving me to stew in uncertainty, in confusion, in the growing dread that had settled in my stomach like a physical weight.
"I see," I said, matching her professional tone. "Please inform my father that I'm eager to speak with him at his earliest convenience. And that I have questions only he can answer about my... situation."
"Of course," she agreed, though we both knew the message would either never be delivered or would be ignored if it was. "Now, about breakfast?—"
"I'm not hungry," I interrupted, needing some small act of defiance, some assertion of will in a situation where I seemed to have none. "But I would appreciate some books, if that's possible. And perhaps access to the garden, if I'm to be confined to the house otherwise."
Mrs. Reynolds nodded, making a note on the tablet she carried. "I'll arrange for books to be brought to your room. As for the garden... I'll need to consult with security, but I believe limited access during daylight hours might be possible, with appropriate supervision."
Appropriate supervision. The euphemism for guards, for watchful eyes, for the constant reminder that I was here not as a daughter returning home but as... what? A prisoner? A pawn? Something else entirely that I couldn't yet discern?
"Thank you," I said, the politeness automatic, ingrained by years of training in the social niceties expected of Patrick O'Sullivan's daughter. "That would be appreciated."
She nodded again, her task complete, and left, closing the door behind her with a soft click that somehow managed to sound final, irrevocable, like the turning of a key in a lock even though no actual lock had engaged.
I was alone again, in the room that had once been mine but now felt like a stranger's, in the house that had once been home but now felt like enemy territory. Alone with questions that multiplied by the minute, with fears that grew in the silence, with the dawning realization that whatever my father had planned for me, it wasn't a joyful family reunion or a genuine reconciliation.
It was something else. Something calculated. Something cold.
Something I wouldn't like at all.
The first day passed in a blur of monotony and growing tension. Books were delivered as promised—classics, nothing controversial, nothing that might provoke thought or inspire rebellion. Meals appeared at regular intervals, served by staff who treated me with polite deference but offered no conversation, no information, no connection to the world beyond my gilded cage.
I was allowed into the garden for one hour in the afternoon, accompanied by a guard who maintained a respectful distance but never took his eyes off me, never allowed me near the perimeter of the property, never gave me an opportunity to speak with anyone who wasn't directly employed by my father.
No phone. No computer. No television or radio or newspapers. No contact with the outside world. No explanation for why I was here, what my father wanted, what fate awaited me in this familiar prison.
The second day was the same. And the third. A routine established with deliberate precision, with calculated control, with the clear message that I was here on my father's terms, subject to his whims, dependent on his goodwill for even the smallest freedoms.
By the fourth day, the uncertainty had become its own form of torture. I found myself pacing my room, checking the window for signs of... what? Rescue? Escape? Some indication that the world beyond these walls still existed, still turned, still held possibilities beyond this limbo of waiting and wondering and growing dread.
I thought of Rafe—of his reaction when he learned I'd been taken, of his fury, of his potential response. Would he come for me? Would he challenge my father directly, risk open warfare between the families to reclaim what he considered his? Or would he accept this new reality, this shift in the balance ofpower, this loss of the woman he claimed to love but had kept captive for months?
I didn't know. Couldn't predict what he might do, how he might respond, whether he would risk everything to get me back or cut his losses and move on to other concerns, other priorities, other games of power and control that didn't involve Patrick O'Sullivan's wayward daughter.
The thought brought a pang I hadn't expected—not quite grief, not quite longing, but something adjacent to both. For all that Rafe had done, for all the ways he had controlled and manipulated and possessed me, he had also seen me. Had valued me for myself rather than for what I represented or what I could provide. Had looked at me and seen something worth fighting for, worth risking everything for.
My father had never looked at me that way. Had never seen me as anything but an extension of himself, a piece in the game he played, a resource to be deployed when useful and ignored when not.
The realization settled over me like a physical weight, making it hard to breathe, to think, to maintain the facade of calm I'd been presenting to the staff, to the guards, to anyone who might report back to my father about my state of mind, my level of compliance, my readiness for... whatever he had planned.
On the fifth day, the summons finally came.
Mrs. Reynolds appeared at my door just after breakfast, her expression as professionally neutral as always. "Your father will see you now," she said, the words simple but laden with implication. "In his study."
