Before she finishes her shower, before she opens that door and finds me standing here like some pathetic stalker, I need to go.
I force my legs to move, stumbling toward the stairs. Each step sends pins and needles shooting through my feet. I look like a drunk man, barely keeping my balance.
By the time I reach my study, the shower has shut off upstairs.
I sink into my chair and close my eyes, waiting for whatever comes next, knowing for the first time in my life that I have absolutely no influence over my own fate.
And somehow, terrifyingly, that feels like the most honest thing I've ever done.
Chapter 35: Camilla
I've been staring at the ceiling for fourteen hours, and I still don't have answers.
The guest room, a different one than my former cell, one I chose myself from the options Renato offered, is beautiful in that expensive, impersonal way that wealthy people mistake for comfort. Silk wallpaper, antique furniture, fresh flowers on the nightstand. Everything perfect and cold.
Like my life was supposed to be with Lorenzo.
Like my captivity was designed to be with Renato.
Even his attempts at kindness come wrapped in luxury that keeps me at a distance from anything real.
I've tried sleeping. Tried crying. Tried the breathing exercises my Swiss finishing school counselor taught us for managing social anxiety. Nothing works because the fundamental question remains unanswered: what do I actually want?
Not what I should want. Not what would be healthy or smart or safe. What do I actually want?
The problem is, I don't trust my own desires anymore. How can I, when they led me to push Renato during those training sessions? When they made me enjoy the power I had over him even while believing I was about to be sold? When they made me feel satisfaction watching him rescue me, even knowing he was the one who'd put me in danger in the first place?
Maybe my wants are just as twisted as everything else about this situation.
A soft knock interrupts my spiraling thoughts. I don't answer, but I hear his voice through the door anyway.
"Camilla? I made coffee. And breakfast, if you're hungry. I'll leave it outside."
His voice is careful, neutral. No pressure, no demands. Just an offering.
I wait until his footsteps fade before opening the door. A tray sits on the hall table with espresso, perfectly prepared, alongside pastries that look like they came from an expensive bakery. But also fruit, yogurt, simple things. As if he couldn't decide between trying to impress me and just giving me normal food.
The uncertainty in his choices feels oddly comforting.
I take the tray back to my room and eat slowly, tasting each bite. When did I last eat something without calculating how it would affect my performance, my appearance, my value?
This coffee tastes like coffee. It tastes like a choice I'm making for myself.
By afternoon, the silence is driving me insane. Not because I miss him. I'm not ready to examine that yet, but because isolation feels too much like another form of control. Self-imposed this time, but still a cage.
I need to test something. Not our relationship, not my feelings, not the future. Just whether I can be in the same space as him without losing myself completely.
I find him in his study, surrounded by papers and empty scotch glasses. He looks like hell, unshaven, exhausted, wearing the same clothes from yesterday. When he sees me in the doorway, he goes very still.
"Hi," I say, because anything else feels too loaded.
"Hi." His voice is hoarse. "Are you... do you need something?"
"I want to ask you something, but I need you to not read anything into it."
"Okay."
"I want to do something normal. Not talk about what happened, not make decisions about the future, not process trauma or guilt or any of it." I lean against the doorframe, keeping distance between us. "I want to do something that has nothing to do with kidnapping or auctions or who we are to each other."
