I stood and moved to the chair, noting how he stepped back to give me space—another small victory in our ongoing psychological war. He'd learned that I reacted badly to him standing too close, to any hint of physical intimidation.
The meal was simple but well-prepared—a sandwich, soup, and a small salad. I picked at it while he took his usual seat across from me, watching me with that intense focus that never seemed to waver.
"You look better," he observed. "Less pale."
"Amazing what food and sleep will do," I replied dryly. "Basic human needs and all that."
"I've never denied you those things."
"Just my freedom. My autonomy. My entire life."
He sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Your life before was a construct, Grace. A careful performance designed to distance yourself from your family while still benefiting from their protection. It wasn't real."
"And this is?" I gestured to the room, to the locked door, to the situation we found ourselves in. "This bizarre captivity is somehow more authentic?"
"Yes." The certainty in his voice was chilling. "Because here, there are no pretenses. No performances. Just you and me and the truth of what we both want."
I set down my spoon, appetite suddenly gone. "And what is it you think I want, Rafe?"
He studied me for a long moment, his dark eyes unreadable. "The same thing everyone wants, deep down. To be seen. To be known. To belong to something—or someone—that won't betray or abandon you."
The words hit too close to home, finding the cracks in my carefully constructed defenses. I looked away, unwilling to let him see how accurately he'd read me.
"I need to use the bathroom," I said abruptly, standing up.
He nodded, gesturing toward the en-suite. "Go ahead."
I walked to the bathroom door, feeling his eyes on me the entire way. Once inside, I closed the door and leaned against it, breathing deeply, gathering my courage.
This was it. The opportunity I'd been waiting for.
Over the past few days, I'd noticed that Rafe always checked his phone when it buzzed—a brief distraction, but potentially enough. I'd also noticed that he never locked the main door when he was inside the room with me, confident in his ability to control the situation.
Two small weaknesses in an otherwise perfect system.
I flushed the toilet and ran the water in the sink, going through the motions of normal bathroom use. Then I took a deep breath, steeled myself, and opened the door.
Rafe was exactly where I'd left him, except now he was looking down at his phone, his brow furrowed in concentration. The main door was about fifteen feet away, across open space with no obstacles between.
It was now or never.
I burst from the bathroom, sprinting toward the door with every ounce of speed I could muster. I heard Rafe's chair scrape against the floor, heard his curse of surprise, but I didn't look back. My entire focus was on the door, on the handle that would lead to freedom.
My muscles coiled. My breath hitched. Every detail of the room etched itself into my vision: the distance to the door, the slick tension of my palms, the faint scuff of my sneaker on the floor. I felt like I’d been lowered into my body from above, hyper-aware of every inch of skin, every beat of blood in my throat.
I could feelthe moment tightening like a wire pulled taut.
One more step.Just one more.
Then—his voice. Low. Amused.
“Really, Grace?”
I didn’t respond. Didn’t look back. I just ran harder, breath already catching, heart slamming against my ribs like it wanted out of my chest. The rest of the house was as decadent as the room he had me trapped in. The corridor stretched ahead in a blur of antique wood and expensive art—too long, too open. There was nowhere to hide. Nowhere to go except forward and down, wherever the stairs might be.
Behind me, the unmistakable sound of his chair scraping back.
“I was trying to be civil,” he called out, maddeningly calm, like he was discussing the weather. “Thought we could talk. Sit down like adults. But if you’d rather make it interesting…”
