I flip it open.Emily Carter. A photograph shows a plain girl with kind eyes. The same girl I saw at the party. The file is concise but thorough. Age twenty-two. Lives in a small apartment downtown. Parents are deceased. No siblings. Her only living relative is an aunt in a nursing home, whose bills are paid for by an anonymous benefactor. I’d bet my entire fortune that benefactor was Wynter’s father, and now Evilin is making payments to keep the girl quiet and compliant.
Emily Carter is utterly alone in the world. Except for Wynter.
“She’s clean,” Alrik states. “No criminal record, no debts, no vices. Her life revolves around her job at the Blanc estate and visiting her aunt on Sundays.”
“She’s loyal, then,” I surmise, closing the folder.
“It appears so,” Alrik agrees. “Is she a problem?”
I think of Wynter’s terror, her isolation. Emily is her only lifeline to her old world. A lifeline I can sever at any moment. She is not a problem. She is leverage.
“No, Alrik. She’s an insurance policy,” I say, a cold smile touching my lips. “Keep a loose tail on her. I want to know if she so much as sneezes in the wrong direction.”
“Understood.” He hesitates, a rare sign of uncertainty. “Sir… the Blanc situation. Evilin has been making calls. She’s trying to find out where you’ve taken the girl.”
“Let her,” I say with a dismissive wave. “Let her panic. Let her wonder. Her time is coming.”
“And the girl?” he asks, his gaze steady. “What are your long-term intentions?”
I look at the security monitor, at the thermal image of Wynter sitting on the edge of my bed, a small, solitary figure in my vast, empty room. My intentions. My intentions have become terrifyingly simple.
“My long-term intention, Alrik, is to make sure she never leaves.”
Alrik holds my gaze for a long moment, the unspoken questions hanging in the air between us. Then, he gives a single, sharp nod. “I’ll see to the dinner preparations.”
He leaves, closing the door behind him. I am left alone with my plans and my obsession. Dinner. It will be another test. A war fought not with fists, but with forks and knives and glasses of expensive wine. I will supply her with luxury. I will show her a world of pleasure she has never known. I will be the perfect gentleman, the attentive host, all while reminding her with every glance, every word, that she is my prisoner.
She is a fortress, and I am laying siege. And tonight, I will breach another wall.
Twelve
Wynter
Theclickofthelock echoes in the silent room, a stark reminder of my imprisonment. He’s gone. Again. Leaving me alone with the lingering scent of his presence and theunsettling memory of his lips on my foot. My skin still prickles, a mixture of revulsion and a shameful, undeniable thrill.
I walk to the wall of windows, my gaze sweeping over the endless, pristine wilderness. It’s beautiful, yes, but it’s also a vast, impenetrable barrier. My escape route is nonexistent. I am truly trapped.
The clothes he provided are soft, almost too soft. The cashmere feels like a second skin, a luxurious cocoon. But the comfort is a lie. It’s another layer of the cage, designed to make me forget the bars. I run my hands over the smooth fabric, a strange mix of gratitude and resentment warring within me.
A soft knock on the door makes me jump. My heart leaps into my throat.Is it him?My breath catches.
“Dinner, Miss Blanc,” a muffled voice says from outside. It’s not his.
“Come in,” I call out, my voice a little shaky.
The door opens, and a young woman in a simple, neat uniform enters. She pushes a trolley laden with food. The aroma is intoxicating, rich, savory, utterly unlike anything I’ve smelled in years. My stomach growls in protest, betraying my earlier defiance.
She sets a small, elegant table near the fireplace. Crisp white linen, gleaming silverware, crystal glasses. It’s a setting fit for a queen, not a captive. She works efficiently, her movements quiet and respectful, her eyes never quite meeting mine. She seems almost afraid.
“Will that be all, Miss Blanc?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper.
“Yes, thank you,” I reply, my voice feeling strangely formal in this surreal situation.
She bows her head slightly and retreats, closing the door behind her. I’m alone again, but this time, the room feelsdifferent. It’s filled with the promise of a meal, a temporary reprieve from the gnawing fear.
I approach the table slowly, almost reverently. A single lily sits in a delicate vase. The plate before me holds a perfectly cooked steak, glistening with juices, alongside bright green asparagus. A glass of deep red wine sits beside a crystal goblet of water. And then, a small, individual chocolate lava cake, its center promising a molten delight.
My eyes sting. It’s been years since I’ve seen food like this. Evilin’s dinners were always a performance, a display for her guests, while my plate was often meager, my appetite constantly scrutinized. Here, there is abundance. Unquestioning indulgence.
