I spend the next hour letting them dress me, do my hair, apply the expensive, neutral makeup. I check my reflection. It's me, but muted. This isn't a surrender, it's a transformation.
By noon, I'm strolling into the sunroom as if it's a set. Chin up, shoulders back. Face ready for my close-up, even though there's no camera.
Rafe's there already, exactly where he always is, glued to the same spot. He's reading something off a tablet, or pretending to. He does that thing where he doesn't look up right away, as if he's too important, too busy to notice the prisoner walking in. Probably thinks it's intimidating. And honestly? It usually is. But not today. Today, I'm ready for him.
"Good morning, my favorite kidnapper," I chirp, my words bright and a little too cheerful. I drop into the armchair across from him, making sure it sinks heavily with a satisfying sigh. "What's the vibe today? Compliance with a side of espresso? Or are we going for full-on existential dread before lunch?"
He finally looks up. His eyes, dark and unreadable, meet mine. Still insufferably calm. He doesn't even twitch. It's infuriating, how still he is. How calm when I'm freaking out.
"You made a decision," he says.
It's a statement. He already knows.
"Yes, I have, darling," I confirm. "I'm staying. Option one. Tethered like a designer balloon at a New York City parade. But with better outfit choices, hopefully. The wardrobe update is growing on me, by the way. Very… understated rich chic. It’s a new look for me."
He watches me, waiting. "Why?"
I shrug, a theatrical, careless movement. I cross my legs slowly, the new fabric of the dress rustling softly. "Maybe I'mbecoming fond of the view. The sunsets here are amazing. Or maybe," I lean forward slightly, "I realized disappearing won't solve anything. If I vanish, if I just become a ghost, I don't get to control the narrative. Not even a tiny bit. And I've always been about controlling the narrative. That's my brand."
He says nothing.
I smile, a wide, confident grin. "Now that I've officially agreed to sell my soul to the Valentino Syndicate, what do I get in return? Beyond the cashmere and the fancy face cream, I mean. Designer ankle monitor? A personal bodyguard who also serves as a lighting assistant?"
"You'll be briefed soon," he says, ignoring my humor. "Every move you make online will be vetted. Every appearance, every post will come through us first. You'll have handlers. People who manage your public image, your security. They'll be your interface with the outside world."
"Wow. So glamorous. I hope one of them knows my lighting angles. And my good side. Because honestly, if I'm going to be a puppet, I want to be a really well-lit puppet. Do I get creative control? Or am I just a face for your agenda? Do I get to approve the captions? Because if not, we're going to have a serious problem. My brand standards are very high." I press him, trying to find the line.
"This isn't a joke," he warns.
"I know it's not," I snap back. "Believe me, I know. But if I don't laugh, I'll cry. And I am not ruining this contour for anything less than an Oscar. And let's be real, you're not giving me an award, are you? So, I get to make jokes. It's my only perk here. And my right as a professional performer."
He exhales, almost a sigh. A brief sign he's almost human. I watch it, fascinated.
"You'll begin prep right away," he continues. "We'll script a timeline for your return. We'll leak a carefully crafted story.And then we'll bring you back into the spotlight with a narrative we control, a narrative that explains your absence and reshapes public perception both for your fans and my enemies. It'll be ironclad."
"What's the story?" I ask, genuinely curious now. "Let me guess. Emotional exhaustion. A retreat to focus on mental health. Some vague but empowering nonsense about finding yourself and coming back stronger. Something that makes people forget what I was really doing, which was getting kidnapped by a man who looks like he walked off a high-fashion runway to stab someone in a dark alley."
He shakes his head. "No, you'll be my girlfriend."
My brain flatlines. For a solid five seconds, the only sound I hear is the blood rushing in my ears. "I'm sorry, what did you just say?" I manage to squeak out.
He walks over to the tablet on the marble table, a casual stroll that makes me want to trip him. He taps the screen. The viral video plays again, the one where I'm all bubbly and glamorous, completely oblivious to the shadowy transaction happening in the background. My reel captures him, his car, and a drop for some dangerous associate.
I don't bother watching it. I know it by heart now. I've watched it more times than any reel I've ever posted, scrolling through the comments, the reposts, the thirst edits. They weren't obsessed with me. They were obsessed with him. They called him "MafiaBae," which, honestly, is the lamest nickname ever.
"They think we're already involved with each other," he says. "You gave them just enough. A glance. A silhouette. They filled in the blanks. And they filled them with a romance."
"And your solution is what, exactly? Let them keep fantasizing. Or, better yet, let me go so I can tell the world what a psycho you are." I move closer, matching his intensity. "Because, newsflash, the internet would eat that up. Kidnappedinfluencer exposes mysterious mobster. That's another million views, minimum."
He lifts his eyes to mine, and there's a flicker there, something I can't quite decipher. Annoyance, maybe. Or just extreme boredom with my existence.
"No. My solution is to give them something less interesting. We stage a fake relationship. We give them staged candids, curated captions, strategic appearances. We flood them with romance to the point they can't stand us as a couple anymore. Then we let the fantasy die on its own. We give them so much of what they think they want, they'll get bored. Eventually, they'll move on to something else because they always do."
My jaw actually drops this time. It feels like a cartoon moment, but it's real. My mouth is open, hanging there. "You want me to make lovey-dovey romantic content with you? Like a psycho couples collab. Are you serious right now? Is this a joke? Because if it is, it's not funny. And you should know, I've always hated collabs. Always. Because I'm always the one who does all the work and carries the load, while the other person doesn't do a damn thing."
He shrugs, a tiny movement that somehow conveys maximum indifference. "People lose interest in what's familiar. If I'm your rich, overexposed boyfriend, I stop being interesting and become a punchline. Your followers will forget about the handoff. They'll forget about the danger. They'll only see the tired, predictable influencer couple. It won't take long before they'll be begging you to hook up with someone new."
"Oh my god," I whisper, the realization hitting me. "You want to de-mystify yourself. You want to make yourself… boring." The idea is so utterly ridiculous, so profoundly not what I would ever do for my brand, that it almost makes me laugh.
