I stared at the device as he placed it on the piano's glossy surface. Such a small thing, yet it represented everything I'd lost—my connection to the outside world, my independence, my former life. My hands trembled slightly as I reached for it.
"Why now?" I asked, not touching it yet, afraid of what I might find. Or not find.
Rafe's expression was unreadable. "Because you're ready for the truth. All of it."
The implication hung in the air between us. I'd known, intellectually, that my father hadn't come for me. I'd heard it with my own ears during that meeting. But part of me had clung to the hope that someone else—my brothers, my friends, anyone—had noticed my absence. Had cared enough to look.
"It's been charged," Rafe said quietly. “You can check your messages, your emails. Whatever you need to see."
I nodded, still not touching the phone. "And after?"
"After, I'll take it back," he said, his tone gentle but firm. "This isn't freedom, Grace. Just clarity."
Of course. He wouldn't risk me contacting anyone, using the GPS, attempting to summon help. This was a controlled exposure to the truth, nothing more.
Yet it was still more than I'd expected.
"Thank you," I said, the words feeling strange on my tongue. Thanking my captor for returning, however briefly, something that had been mine to begin with.
He nodded, moving toward the door. "I'll give you privacy. Take as long as you need."
The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone with the small black device that had once been an extension of my hand, my lifeline to the world.
I took a deep breath and picked it up.
The screen lit up at my touch, displaying the familiar lock pattern. My fingers traced it automatically, muscle memory intact despite the weeks that had passed. The home screen appeared, showing the same background I'd chosen months ago—a sunset over the Charles River, taken from my apartment window.
A wave of homesickness hit me with unexpected force. That apartment, that view, that life—it all seemed like it had belonged to someone else. A different Grace, from a different time.
I checked the date. Six weeks. I'd been at the Conti estate for six weeks.
With trembling fingers, I opened my voicemail. The notification showed one new message. Just one, in six weeks of absence.
I pressed play, holding the phone to my ear.
"Grace, it's Connor." My youngest brother's voice filled my ear, tense and hurried. "Look, I don't know where you are, but Dad's telling everyone you're at some study retreat in Vermont. He got pissed when I asked questions. Something's not right. Call me back if you get this. I'm... I'm worried about you."
The message ended. I checked the timestamp. Three days after my abduction. Nothing since.
I played it again, listening for any clue, any hint of a search, of concern beyond my youngest brother's brief worry. There was nothing.
With a growing sense of dread, I checked my text messages. A few from friends wondering why I'd missed study group or coffee dates. Nothing indicating real concern, just mild annoyance or curiosity. As if I'd simply flaked on plans rather than disappeared from the face of the earth.
My email was the same—school announcements, promotional offers, a few messages from classmates about assignments. Nothing from my father. Nothing from my older brothers. Nothing that suggested anyone was looking for me, missing me, wondering where I'd gone.
I set the phone down, my hands now steady but my chest hollow. The truth I'd suspected, had even heard confirmed during that meeting, was now undeniable. No one had come for me. No one had searched. No one had cared enough to question my father's explanation.
I was alone. Had been alone all along, perhaps.
The realization settled over me like a physical weight, pressing against my lungs, making it hard to breathe. I'd built my life around distance from my family while still clinging to the belief that I mattered to them. That if it came down to it, blood would count for something.
I'd been wrong.
I picked up the phone again, my finger hovering over Connor's number. I could call him back. Tell him where I was. Ask for help.
But what would that accomplish? My father knew where I was. Had known all along. Had chosen to leave me here, to use me as a bargaining chip in his negotiations with the Contis.If I called Connor, I'd only be putting him in danger—caught between his father and the Conti family, forced to choose sides in a war he couldn't win.
And even if he wanted to help, what could he do? He was the youngest, with the least power, the least influence. My father would shut him down immediately.
