"She's the best person I know." I took his hand. "Present company excepted."
"I'm not a good person, Gabrielle."
"No. But you're good to me. That's what matters."
***
My father's building hadn't changed.
The same doorman, the same marble lobby, the same elevator that smelled faintly of expensive aftershave and old money. I rode it to the fourteenth floor alone—Vasily had offered to come, had wanted to come, but this was something I needed to do by myself.
The hallway stretched before me, familiar and suffocating. How many times had I walked this path with my stomach in knots? How many times had I stood outside thisdoor, gathering courage to face the man who'd never once told me he was proud of me?
I knocked before I could lose my nerve.
He opened the door in his robe—silk, monogrammed, probably cost more than my old monthly rent. His silver hair was perfectly styled despite the early hour, his expression shifting from surprise to something cooler when he recognized me.
"Gabrielle." He said my name like it left a bad taste in his mouth. "You've decided to resurface."
"Hello, Father."
He stepped back, a wordless invitation to enter. The apartment was exactly as I remembered—tasteful, expensive, cold. Not a single family photo on the walls, not a single personal touch that might suggest a real human being lived here.
"Where have you been?" He moved to the bar cart, pouring himself a scotch despite the early hour. "Do you have any idea the position you've put me in? The Carlsen gala was humiliating. Everyone asking where you were, why my daughter had vanished without a word—"
"I was kidnapped."
He paused, the glass halfway to his lips. "I beg your pardon?"
"Kidnapped, Father. Taken from my apartment in the middle of the night by armed men." I kept my voice steady, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me tremble. "I've spent the last several weeks in captivity."
"That's absurd. If you'd been kidnapped, there would have been a ransom demand. Some kind of contact."
"There wasn't. It wasn't about money."
He took a sip of his scotch, studying me over the rim. "Then what was it about?"
"It doesn't matter anymore. I'm free now. I'm safe." I straightened my spine. "And I'm married."
The glass stopped halfway to his mouth again. "You're what?"
"Married. To the man who—" I paused, searching for words that wouldn't reveal too much. "To a man I met during my captivity. We fell in love."
"You fell in love with your kidnapper." His voice was flat with disbelief. "Have you lost your mind?"
"No. I've found it, actually."
He set down the glass, his expression hardening into the cold disappointment I knew so well. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing, Gabrielle. What kind of attention you're seeking with this ridiculous story. But I won't be part of it."
"I'm not seeking attention. I'm telling you the truth."
"The truth." He laughed—a short, sharp sound devoid of humor. "The truth is that you've always been unstable. Anxious, dramatic, prone to making poor decisions. I had hoped that job would steady you, but clearly—"
"The job you had Mr. Brown monitor me at? The job where he reported back to you on my performance like I was a child?"
His jaw tightened. "Richard was doing me a favor. Keeping an eye on you. Making sure you didn't embarrass the family."
"The family." The word came out bitter. "You mean your reputation. That's all you've ever cared about. Not me. Not whether I was happy or fulfilled or loved. Just whether I reflected well on the great Thomas Blanchard."
