"You'll join me for breakfast at eight," he says. "Mrs. Silva will prepare whatever you'd like."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you'll be hungry."
"I meant what if I refuse to come down."
He looks at me over his glass. "Then I'll come get you."
The threat is clear.
"I could lock my door," I say.
"From the inside? With what lock? There isn't one."
Of course there isn't.
"You've thought of everything," I say.
"I usually do."
Ihatehim.
Hate his calm certainty.
His complete control.
The way he sits there in his expensive chair in his expensive house and looks at me like I'm a problem he's already solved.
"I'll come down," I say. "For breakfast."
"Good."
"But I won't talk to you. I'll eat and then I'll go back to my room."
"We'll see."
That phrase again.We'll see.
Like my decisions don't matter.
Like my will is just an obstacle he'll eventually wear down.
Maybe it is.
"Can I go?" I ask.
"You're not a prisoner, Eden. You can go wherever you like. Within the house and grounds."
"So, I am a prisoner."
"You're my guest."
"Guests can leave."
"Not you."
I turn toward the door.
