“A few months if you require absolute, untraceable discretion.”
“I can pay to make delays go away.”
“Very well,” Holdan says smoothly. “We’ll proceed on the basis of fraud or misrepresentation. A ceremony performed under false pretenses. It’s clean, efficient, and protects all parties involved.”
False pretenses. Yes, I suppose that covers it. Ginni’s delusion that I was a willing participant. My temporary insanity in enjoying my time in his basement. The whole beautiful, terrible mess we created between us.
I sign the initial paperwork with steady hands, my signature committing me to erasing the only marriage I’ve ever had. My first, and my last.
From Holdan’s office, I drive out of London to a different kind of consultation. Dr. Elizabeth Lyons runs the Meadowbrook facility in Surrey, a private psychiatric hospital that caters to patients whose families have both the means and the desire for discreet, compassionate care.
The grounds are beautiful. Lush lawns, carefully tended gardens, buildings that look more like a country estate than a medical facility. The kind of place where wealthy families send their inconvenient relatives to be cared for with dignity rather than simply warehoused.
“We specialize in treatment that honors the whole person,” Dr. Lyons explains as she shows me through the facilities. “Not just their symptoms, but their identity, their interests, their individual needs.”
She’s a small woman in her forties with kind eyes and an air of competent authority. The kind of doctor who actually listens to her patients instead of simply medicating them into compliance.
“LGBTQ patients are particularly welcome here,” she continues, apparently having read my emails carefully. “We understand that sexual and gender identity are not pathologies to be cured. Our treatment focuses on underlying mental health issues while fully supporting our patients’ authentic selves.”
Perfect. Exactly what Ginni needs. Somewhere he’ll be safe and cared for without anyone trying to change fundamental parts of who he is.
“The young man in question,” I say carefully, “he’s very artistic. Creative. Would those interests be supported here?”
“Absolutely. We have extensive art therapy programs, music therapy, even a small theater group. Creative expression is often crucial to healing.” Dr. Lyons stops beside a window overlookinga sculpture garden where patients are having some sort of lesson that involves easels and a lot of paint. “Many of our residents find that artistic pursuits help them process their experiences in ways that traditional therapy alone cannot achieve.”
I can picture Ginni here. Painting in the garden, singing for other patients, finding ways to channel his intensity into something beautiful rather than destructive. He’d be safe here. Protected from his family’s disappointment and his own dangerous impulses.
“What about visitors?” I ask, though I’m not sure why. It’s not as if I’ll be visiting.
“Encouraged, with appropriate boundaries. Family involvement is often crucial to long-term recovery.” Dr. Lyons studies my face carefully. “Though we understand that family relationships can be... complicated. We work with each situation individually.”
Complicated. That’s one way to put it. How do I explain that Ginni’s family would rather he disappear entirely? That the person most invested in his welfare is the man he kidnapped?
That I can’t visit because seeing him again might shatter the careful walls I’m building around my own sanity?
“I’ll need to think about timing,” I tell her. “The young man is... currently in crisis. His family are exploring options.”
“Of course. We do have a waiting list, but our intake coordinator can work with you whenever you’re ready. These decisions should never be rushed.”
But they should be made, shouldn’t they? I need to get Ginni somewhere safe before he does something genuinely dangerous to himself. Before his family loses patience and sends him somewhere that will try to fix what isn’t broken while ignoring what actually needs healing.
The drive home takes me through Mayfair, past streets that should feel familiar but somehow don’t anymore. Everythinglooks exactly the same, but nothing feels right. Like I’m viewing my own life through glass, present but not really participating.
I stop at my usual coffee shop and order the same drink I’ve been ordering for three years. The barista knows me, makes small talk about the weather and the football results. Normal interaction with normal people living normal lives that don’t involve kidnapping or marriage or love letters left on kitchen counters.
But the coffee tastes like nothing. The conversation feels hollow. The whole routine that used to anchor my days now feels like performance art, like I’m playing the role of Carlo Benedetti while the real me is somewhere else entirely.
My phone buzzes with a call from Marco. I stare at his name on the screen for several long seconds before letting it go to voicemail. I’ve been avoiding his calls for days now.
I can’t talk to Marco without asking about Ginni. Can’t ask about Ginni without revealing my interest. Can’t reveal my interest without exposing the whole impossible situation. So I don’t answer. Don’t return the calls. Don’t reach out to the one person who might be able to tell me if the boy I left sleeping in a basement is safe.
It’s the responsible thing to do. The smart thing. The only way to protect both of us from the consequences of what happened.
Besides, I vowed that Marco was dead to me, for the part he has played in destroying his little brother. I’m a man of my word. It’s right that I’m not talking to Marco.
So why does it feel like cowardice?
Back in my house, I try to settle into work. Emails to answer, contracts to review, the endless administrative tasks that keep businesses running smoothly. But I can’t concentrate. Can’t focus on profit margins and licensing agreements when my mind keeps drifting to silk pajamas and artificial sunrises and the way Ginni’s face looked when he sang for me.
