"For how long?"
"As long as necessary."
The finality in his voice told me everything I needed to know. This wasn't a temporary arrangement. I wasn't a guest being whisked away for my own protection. I was a prisoner,being transported to a cage so remote that no one would ever find me.
The tears came before I could stop them—hot and silent, streaming down my face to drip onto the leather seat. I pressed my hand over my mouth to muffle the sobs that wanted to escape.
I felt him move, felt the heat of his body as he sat beside me. His hand came up to rest on my back—tentative, almost gentle, completely at odds with the man who'd drugged me in an alley.
"I know you hate me right now," he said quietly. "I know you're scared and confused and angry. But I promise you, Gabrielle—I will keep you safe. Whatever it takes. Whatever it costs."
I didn't respond. Couldn't respond. I just sat there crying while the plane carried me further and further from everything I knew.
***
The island appeared through the morning mist like something from a dream.
Verdant hills rose from crystalline water, dotted with olive trees and wild cypress. A white sand beach curved along one shore, and perched on the highest cliff was a sprawling estate—all pale stone and terracotta, gleaming in the early sunlight.
It was beautiful. Impossibly, achingly beautiful.
And it was a prison.
As the plane descended, I caught glimpses of what lay beneath the paradise aesthetic. Guards patrolling the perimeter,their weapons visible even from the air. High walls disguised as natural rock formations. A single road leading to the main house, with checkpoints at regular intervals.
Vasily watched me take it all in, his expression unreadable. "The estate covers forty acres," he said. "You'll have freedom to move within the grounds. But the perimeter is closely monitored. For your own safety."
"My safety." I tasted the bitterness of the words. "Is that what we're calling it?"
He didn't answer.
The plane touched down on a private runway I hadn't noticed from above—camouflaged among the trees, invisible unless you knew where to look. A black SUV was waiting when we disembarked, along with a small army of men in dark suits who snapped to attention at Vasily's approach.
He helped me down the steps, his hand firm on my elbow. I was still in my pajamas—the thin cotton shorts and worn t-shirt I'd been sleeping in when my life was torn apart. The morning air was warm, scented with salt and flowers, and completely wrong. I should have been waking up in my apartment, making coffee, getting ready for another day at the office.
Instead, I was standing on a Mediterranean island with a man who'd kidnapped me, surrounded by armed guards, wearing clothes that barely covered me.
The drive to the main house was short and silent. I stared out the window, cataloging details—the guard posts, the security cameras, the sheer drop to the ocean on one side of the road. Escape routes. Not that I could see any.
The house was even more imposing up close. A woman waited at the entrance—older, perhaps fifty, with kind eyes and graying hair pulled into a neat bun. She smiled at me warmly as Vasily led me inside.
"Miss Blanchard," she said, her English accented but clear. "Welcome. I'm Yelena. I oversee the household. Please, let me show you to your rooms. You must be exhausted."
Your rooms. Like I was a guest. Like I'd chosen to be here.
I looked at Vasily, expecting him to accompany us, but he'd stopped in the foyer. "Get some rest," he said. "We'll talk more this evening."
Then he walked away, disappearing through a doorway without looking back.
Yelena guided me through marble hallways and up a sweeping staircase, chattering pleasantly about the house, the staff, the beautiful views from the east wing. I heard almost none of it. My mind was still trying to process the last twelve hours—the break-in, the alley, the plane, and now this gilded cage at the edge of the world.
The room she showed me was enormous. A king-sized bed with silk sheets. French doors opening onto a private balcony with an ocean view. Fresh flowers on the dresser, expensive toiletries in the marble bathroom. Everything a person could want, except freedom.
"I'll have some clothes sent up," Yelena said gently. "And breakfast, if you're hungry. Is there anything else you need?"
I looked at her—this kind-faced woman who worked for a kidnapper, who welcomed prisoners like they were honored guests—and felt the last of my composure crumble.
"I want to go home," I whispered.
