She looks up as I enter, her expression immediately hardening. The doctor glances between us, sensing the shift in the room, then gathers his equipment with practiced speed.
“The cuts should heal cleanly,” he informs me, avoiding her gaze. “I’ve administered an antibiotic and left pain medication on the nightstand. She needs rest and hydration.”
I nod my dismissal. He leaves, closing the door behind him.
“You should rest,” I finally say into the silence. “We’ll discuss your situation in the morning.”
She laughs, a brittle, hollow sound. “My ‘situation’? What the fuck does that mean?”
I don’t respond to the provocation, simply watching her.
“And where the fuck are we?” she asks, gesturing at the space around her.
“Somewhere secure,” I reply. “Somewhere no one will find you.”
The implication lands as intended. A reminder of her complete isolation, her utter dependence. She flinches slightly but rallies, her chin lifting in that defiant way I’ve come to anticipate.
“And what happens now, Nico? You lock me away forever? Make me your prisoner?”
“That depends entirely on you,” I tell her, moving closer until I’m standing over her. “On your willingness to accept reality.”
She holds my gaze, refusing to look away despite the fear I can see in her eyes. “And what reality is that?”
I reach down, tilting her chin up with one finger, forcing her to meet my gaze. “That you are mine, Lea. Completely and irrevocably. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be.”
She jerks away from my touch, her breathing quickening. “I’ll never be yours,” she says, the words fierce despite their quiet delivery. “You can keep me here, control my movements, but you will never own me.”
A cold smile touches my lips. “We’ll see.”
CHAPTER FOUR
LEA
The smilethat spreads across Nico’s face is nothing short of terrifying. Not because it’s cruel, but because it’s so confident. So certain. My defiance is just a predicted step in his choreographed dance.
“We’ll see,” he says simply.
Two words. They land with the finality of a death sentence. He turns and walks toward the door, every movement fluid despite his wound. Before leaving, he pauses. “Get some rest. The doctor left pain medication for your feet. I suggest you take it.”
The door closes behind him with a soft click that sounds more final than a slam.
I wait, frozen, counting my heartbeats. My fists are clenched so tightly my nails dig half-moons into my palms. My breath comes in short, shallow gasps. When I can no longer contain the vibrating rage, I explode.
I grab the nearest object, a sleek, minimalist vase, and hurl it across the room. It shatters against the wall in a spray of ceramic and water, the sound momentarily satisfying. I want to scream, to tear this perfect, pristine prison apart. To show Nicolás Varela that I am not a possession to be claimed.
But as the sound dies, the rage cools, and something else takes its place: a crushing, absolute despair. The fight drains out of me, leaving me hollow. I stumble into the en-suite bathroom, a space of obscene luxury with its marble walls and vast walk-in shower. I turn on the water, attach the provided plastic covers on my feet to protect the bandages from getting wet, strip off the robe, and step under the spray.
The water is hot against my cold skin, and the sudden shock of it breaks the dam inside me. I slide down the cool marble wall and let myself shatter. Sobs wrack my body, raw and primal, the kind that tear from a place deeper than your lungs. It’s not a cry of defiance. It's a sound of pure, undiluted grief.
I cry for my father, for the man who taught me how to read a map and bait a hook. I cry for the mother I thought I had, the woman whose love was the bedrock of my life, now revealed to be a stranger and a spy. And I cry for myself—for the naive journalist who walked into this story with a righteous fire, only to be consumed by it. The water mixes with my tears, washing away the last remnants of the person I used to be.
I don’t know how long I’m there, huddled under the spray, but eventually, the sobs quiet to shuddering breaths. I turn off the water and step out, wrapping myself in a thick, plush towel and open the bathroom door.
That’s when I see it. Placed neatly at the foot of the bed is my suitcase.
A sharp breath catches in my throat. I haven’t seen it since that night Nico first took me to his penthouse for "protection," a lifetime ago. Blake must have picked it up at my place while I was in here.My place.My things. A tangible piece of the life I had before the world shattered.
My fingers tremble as I unlatch it. Inside, the familiar scent of my laundry detergent rises to meet me, a ridiculously mundane smell that feels like an anchor. I see my favorite worn sweater, a stack of books, my toiletry bag. And nestled among a few pieces of simple jewelry is a small, worn leather box.
