I take it.
He helps me into the passenger seat. I sink down, chewing slowly. Something inside me itches to cry, and I don’t know why.
Minutes pass before he slides into the driver’s side and closes the door. He adjusts the mirror and shifts the car into gear.
We sit in silence.
When he speaks, his voice is low and flat. “There’s a jet hangar thirty minutes from here. We’re flying back to the estate.”
I turn to look at him, but his eyes are fixed on the road.
“I don’t want to hear another word from you tonight.” His hands tighten on the steering wheel. “You open that mouth again to say anything other than ‘yes, sir,’ and I won’t be so gentle next time.”
9
KASI
I haven’t seenhim in two days, and I don’t know if I’m relieved or insulted.
The breakfast tray sits untouched on my nightstand again, eggs gone cold and orange juice flat. My stomach growls, but the thought of eating makes me nauseous. Everything reminds me of that night on the highway—the taste of him still on my tongue, the way he cleaned me afterward.
The shame burns hotter than the memory.
From my window on the second floor, I can see most of the estate grounds. Manicured grass, surrounded by a stone wall that’s probably older than this country.
I’ve been watching and learning.
The guards change shifts at six a.m. and six p.m. There’s a blind spot near the service entrance where deliveries come and go. The gardeners start work at seven, and by ten, most of the outdoor staff are focused on the far side of the property.
The delivery trucks are my best chance.
I force myself to take a bite of toast, chewing mechanically while I study the patterns below. Maria, the housekeeper, mentioned yesterday that the catering van arrives every Tuesday and Friday for staff meals. Today is Tuesday.
“Miss Kasi?” Maria’s familiar voice calls softly through the door. “May I come in with your fresh linens?”
I set down the toast and straighten my shoulders. Time for the performance.
“Of course, Maria.”
The head housekeeper enters, a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and graying hair pulled into a neat bun. She moves around the room, replacing towels and sheets while I sit on the window seat, trying to look defeated.
Maria has been kind to me, always reminding me that I’m safer here than outside, that Mr. Moretti is a good man who’ll take care of me.
“Are you feeling better today, miss?” she asks, glancing at the untouched breakfast. “You haven’t been eating much.”
I let my voice waver slightly. “I think I need to speak with the lawyer. About the will, about…everything.”
Maria pauses in her work, hope flickering across her face. “You’re ready to discuss the arrangements?”
“I don’t see that I have much choice.” I look down at my hands. “This is my life now, isn’t it?”
“It’s a good life, miss,” Maria says gently. “Mr. Moretti is a good man. He’ll take care of you.”
I nod like I believe it. “Could you tell him I’d like to see the lawyer? Today, if possible.”
“Of course, miss. I’ll let Mr. Moretti know right away.”
By afternoon, everything has changed.
