"She doesn't have to." The words tasted like ash, but I said them anyway. "She just has to say the vows."
Another long pause. "Vasily... this is crossing a line. Even for us."
"The line was crossed the moment I took her." I stood, moving to the window, looking out at the moonlit sea. "This is just following through. Making it permanent. Keeping her safe in the only way I know how."
"And if she never forgives you?"
I thought of her fury, her defiance, the fire in her eyes when she'd called me insane. She would fight this. She would hate me for it, at least at first.
But she would be alive. She would be mine. And in time, perhaps, she would understand.
"Then I'll have a wife who hates me," I said quietly. "I can live with that."
I ended the call and stood in the darkness, watching the waves crash against the cliffs below. Somewhere in the house,Gabrielle was sleeping—dreaming, perhaps, of escape. Of her old life. Of a future that didn't include me.
She didn't know it yet, but that future was already gone.
Tomorrow, I would tell her. Tomorrow, I would watch the horror dawn in her eyes when she realized what I intended.
But tonight, I let her sleep in peace.
It was the last peace either of us would have for a long time.
Chapter 7 - Gaby
For a moment when I woke, I didn't know where I was.
Sunlight streamed through unfamiliar windows, warm and golden, falling across silk sheets that definitely weren't mine. The ceiling was too high, the room too large, the air too fragrant with salt and flowers. I blinked at it all in confusion, my sleep-fogged brain struggling to make sense of the wrongness.
Then memory crashed back like a wave, and I sat up gasping.
The island. The kidnapping. Vasily Chernov and his cold green eyes, telling me I was under his protection whether I liked it or not.
I pressed my hands to my face, waiting for the panic to subside. It didn't, not entirely—a low thrum of terror had taken up permanent residence in my chest—but eventually it receded enough for me to breathe normally.
The clock on the nightstand showed 9:38 AM. I'd slept for nearly twelve hours, my body finally surrendering to exhaustion despite my mind's desperate resistance. Through the French doors, the Mediterranean sparkled under a cloudless sky, impossibly blue and beautiful and useless to me.
I forced myself out of bed. Standing still felt like surrender.
The suite looked different in daylight. Last night, I'd been too distraught to notice much beyond the basic geography—bed, bathroom, balcony, prison. Now I saw the details: fresh flowers on the dresser, expensive art on the walls, a sitting area with velvet chairs arranged around a marble fireplace. Everything tasteful, luxurious, carefully curated.
The closet stopped me cold.
It was a walk-in, larger than my entire bedroom back in New York, and it was full. Dresses, blouses, trousers, skirts—all arranged by color, all bearing labels I recognized from the designer stores I'd never been able to afford. I pulled out a silk blouse at random and checked the tag.
Size sixteen. My exact size.
My stomach turned. I moved deeper into the closet, checking more tags, finding the same thing over and over. Everything was my size. Not just approximate—exact. The jeans were the specific cut I preferred to accommodate my hips. The bras were the right cup and band. Even the shoes were correct, down to the half-size that most stores didn't carry.
He'd been watching me long enough to learn my measurements. To catalog my preferences. To build an entire wardrobe based on surveillance I'd never known was happening.
I backed out of the closet, my skin crawling.
The bathroom was worse. My shampoo—the exact brand and scent I'd been using for three years. My moisturizer, my toothpaste, my preferred razor. On the counter sat a bottle of perfume I'd mentioned wanting to Lisa months ago but couldn't justify the expense. How had he known? Had he bugged my apartment? Hacked my phone?
A bookshelf in the sitting area held the final horror. I scanned the titles and recognized every single one—books I'd saved to my wishlist, books I'd browsed in stores but put back, books I'd mentioned in passing conversations. He'd compiled a library of everything I'd ever wanted to read.
It should have felt thoughtful. Instead, it felt like violation—like he'd crawled inside my head and taken inventory of mydesires, my preferences, my private self. The self I showed no one.
