I looked up at him, seeing him through a haze of unshed tears. He wasn't gloating. Wasn't smug or triumphant. If anything, he looked... sad. Almost regretful.
"You knew," I whispered, my voice raw. "You knew he wouldn't come for me."
He knelt before me, bringing his face level with mine. "I suspected. I didn't know for certain."
"But you didn't tell me."
"Would you have believed me?" he asked gently. "Or would you have clung to the hope that your father would move heaven and earth to get you back?"
I had no answer for that. Of course I wouldn't have believed him. I would have dismissed it as manipulation, as a tactic to break me down, to make me dependent on him.
"Why?" I asked, the single word encompassing a universe of questions. Why show me this? Why make me listen? Why break me this way?
"Because you needed to know the truth," he said simply. "Because as long as you believed someone was coming to save you, you couldn't begin to accept your new reality."
"And what reality is that?" I asked, a bitter laugh escaping me. "That I'm nothing but a possession? A thing to be taken, traded, ignored as convenient?"
Something flashed in his eyes—anger, but not directed at me. "Not to me," he said fiercely. "Never to me."
"Then what am I to you, Rafe?" I demanded, tears finally spilling over. "What am I if not a prisoner? A trophy? A toy you got tired of watching from afar?"
He reached out slowly, telegraphing his movement, giving me time to pull away. When I didn't, his hand cupped my cheek, his thumb gently wiping away a tear.
"You're everything," he said, the words so quiet they were almost a whisper. "From the moment I saw you, you've been everything."
The sincerity in his voice, in his eyes, was more devastating than any cruelty could have been. Because part of me—a small, broken part I didn't want to acknowledge—wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that someone, anyone, saw me as valuable for myself, not for my name or what I could provide.
I pulled away from his touch, wrapping my arms around myself. "Take me back to my room."
He stood, offering his hand. "Grace?—"
"Please," I said, the word catching on a sob. "Just... take me back."
He nodded, dropping his hand. "As you wish."
The walk back to my room passed in a blur of tears and silence. Rafe kept a respectful distance, not touching me, not speaking, just guiding me through the corridors of his family's estate.
When we reached my door, he opened it without a word, stepping aside to let me enter. I moved past him, heading straight for the bed, needing to be alone, to process, to grieve.
"Grace," he said softly from the doorway. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. Not for taking you—I'll never be sorry for that. But for the pain you're feeling now. For the betrayal."
I turned to look at him, seeing him clearly for the first time—not as a monster, not as a kidnapper, but as a man. A dangerous, obsessive, controlling man, but one who had shown me more honesty than my own father.
"Why did you really bring me here?" I asked, needing to understand. "Why me? Why now?"
He leaned against the doorframe, considering his answer. "I saw your photo in a file," he said finally. "Intelligence on the O'Sullivan family. Just a surveillance photo, nothing special. But something about you... I couldn't look away. Couldn't stop thinking about you. Couldn't stop wanting to know you."
"So you stalked me. Kidnapped me. Imprisoned me."
"Yes." No excuses. No justifications. Just simple acknowledgment of what he'd done.
"And now what?" I asked, exhaustion seeping into my bones. "What happens now that I know my father doesn't want me back? That no one is coming to save me? Do I just... stay here forever? Your beautiful prisoner? Your sex doll to use as you please?"
He straightened, his expression serious. "That depends on you."
"On me? I don't have any choices here, Rafe. You've made that abundantly clear."
"You have more choices than you think," he said quietly. "Stay as my guest, not my prisoner. Get to know me as I want to know you. See if what I feel—what I believe exists between us—is real."
