Nothing this time.
I don't know if that's good or bad.
But silence, in my world, is never innocent.
CHAPTER 7
NIKKI
Istill can't believe my suitcase didn't make the trip. Guess when you're kidnapping someone, carefully stowing their luggage away in the trunk isn't a priority. Everything I own; designer heels, makeup, charger cables, even my favorite leather jacket is all gone. All replaced with a drab wardrobe Rafe apparently wants me to wear.
I open the closet again, for the third time this hour, as if the clothes are going to magically rearrange themselves into something I'd actually wear in public. It's ridiculous. Every single hanger holds some variation of beige, cream, or off-white.
The textures are all expensive, cashmere and silk and linen, but the colors? Ugh! They're designed to make you disappear. To be quiet. And QueenNikki is anything but quiet.
"Yuck," I mutter, pulling out an oatmeal-colored sweater. I drop it back onto the hanger with a sigh that sounds suspiciously like a whine.
Dinner is at seven. My stomach’s a traitor, roaring like it wasn’t kidnapped along with me.
There's a knock at the door. Soft, polite. As if we're doing some kind of weird Airbnb etiquette exchange. "Hello, esteemed prisoner. Here's your artisanal gruel."
"Come in," I call out, my words a little too loud. I pluck a drab cardigan off a hanger and fling it on as if its armor. A shield made of expensive fabric.
Great, it's him again.
Rafe.
Sucking up all the oxygen in the room like a vampire. He's dressed in another perfectly tailored suit, this one charcoal with a crisp open collar that shows just enough throat to make my brain glitch. No tie, of course. The suit hugs his frame, emphasizing broad shoulders, and a body that clearly wasn’t built behind a desk.
"I thought you said dinner was being delivered," I say, hands on my hips, my words dripping with exaggerated disappointment. "Don't tell me I've been stood up by a tray of food. That's low, even for you. I'll admit my standards for romantic dinners are already pretty low these days, but a no-show from a porcelain plate? That's just insulting."
He steps in, not saying anything right away. Classic Rafe, letting the silence do the heavy lifting. Let the tension thicken until it clogs your lungs, until you're drowning in it. It's his signature move and I hate it even when I realize it’s intentional.
"I wanted to speak before the meal," he says. "You'll be joining me in the dining room tonight."
I raise an eyebrow. "Is this a date? Because you should know I don't usually dine with guys who kidnap me. That's a personal boundary of mine. No matter how many expensive beige sweaters you give me, that's still a hard pass."
"It's not a date."
"Right. So, it's just good old-fashioned coercive dining. Totally chill. I feel so much better knowing this isn't a romantic gesture. Just another power play to sit through."
I follow him through the villa. I don't know why I go. Maybe because I'm tired of being in that room with the walls closing inon me. Or maybe because I want to see what he looks like across a table instead of across an interrogation file. Or maybe, just maybe, it's a tiny, desperate shred of curiosity. A morbid desire to see what fresh hell he's cooked up for me tonight.
The dining room is sleek, modern. All polished stone and glass that overlooks the gardens. But oddly, it's warm in its own way. The scent of rosemary and garlic lingers faintly in the air, mingling with beeswax and smoke from the tall taper candles flickering down the center of the table. The table itself is long, carved from something that looks like black walnut. Minimalist but imposing, like everything else in this damn villa.
In front of my seat, there’s a plate already waiting, risotto, creamy and golden, with a drizzle of deep green herb oil and flecks of shaved parmesan melting at the edges. Next to it, grilled vegetables arranged like art, the kind of meal you post before you eat. It smells… good. Frustratingly good. My stomach growls before I can stop it.
He gestures to the chair at the head of the table. I take a seat slowly, carefully, watching him. He takes the seat opposite.
"If there's poison in the risotto," I warn him, my words light, "I'll haunt you. In full glam. Every single day. Forever. I'll be the most annoying ghost you've ever had to deal with, and my social media numbers in the afterlife will be insane. You'll never have a decent night's sleep again."
He ignores my threat, or perhaps finds it amusing. He simply pours water into my glass.
"I'd like to talk about the video," he begins.
I groan. An actual, audible groan. "Of course you do. Let's bring the mood down. I was starting to feel like this was a charming candlelit dinner with my captor. We were having such a nice time. Now it's time for trauma and threats, right?"
"I need you to understand the severity of your actions," he says. "It wasn't only me in the video. There was someone elseand their organization isn't pleased. They're depending on me to correct this situation quickly and quietly."
