I sank onto the bed, shaking.
This wasn't just kidnapping. This was obsession. And I was trapped in the center of it with no way out.
***
A knock at the door made me jump.
"Miss Blanchard?" Yelena's voice, warm and professional. "Mr. Chernov would like to know if you're ready for breakfast. And afterward, he'd like to show you the grounds."
I wanted to refuse. Wanted to barricade myself in this room and never see his face again. But isolation wouldn't help me escape—if escape was even possible. I needed information. I needed to understand the layout of this place, the routines of the guards, the boundaries of my cage.
"Give me twenty minutes," I called back.
I showered quickly, trying not to think about how he'd known which soap I preferred. The closet mocked me as I selected clothes—a simple navy dress that fit perfectly, sandals that might have been made for my feet. I left my hair loose and skipped makeup entirely. I wasn't going to pretty myself up for my captor.
Yelena led me to a terrace overlooking the sea, where a table had been set with more food than I could eat in a week. Fresh fruit, pastries, eggs, bacon, an array of cheeses and breads. And at the head of the table, watching me approach with those unnerving green eyes, sat Vasily Chernov.
He rose as I approached—old-world manners, I thought bitterly, from a man who'd drugged me in an alley.
"Good morning." His gaze swept over me, lingering on the dress in a way that made my skin prickle. "You look rested."
"I look like a prisoner in borrowed clothes."
"The clothes are yours. Everything in that room is yours."
"I didn't ask for any of it."
"No." He pulled out a chair for me, waiting. "But I wanted you to have it nonetheless."
I sat because standing felt like losing a different kind of battle. Yelena poured coffee—prepared exactly how I liked it, because of course it was—and retreated into the house, leaving us alone.
The silence stretched. I refused to break it, focusing instead on the food I didn't want to eat. But my stomach growled audibly, and Vasily's lips twitched with something that might have been amusement.
"Eat," he said. "You'll need your strength for the tour."
"Is that an order?"
"It's a suggestion. Though I'm prepared to make it an order if necessary."
I wanted to refuse on principle. But I hadn't eaten properly in two days, and spite wouldn't help me escape. I reached for a croissant, tearing it into pieces, refusing to give him the satisfaction of watching me enjoy anything.
"The island is approximately forty acres," he said, as if we were having a normal conversation. "The estate itself covers about half that. The rest is gardens, orchards, and natural terrain. There's a private beach on the south side, though the currents make swimming inadvisable."
"Inadvisable, or impossible?"
"Both, for anyone without professional training." He sipped his coffee, watching me over the rim. "The cliffs on the north and east are sheer drops—two hundred feet to the rocks below. The western shore is the only viable access point, which is why it's the most heavily guarded."
He was telling me, in precise detail, why escape was impossible. Warning me not to try. I filed away every word anyway, searching for weaknesses he might not realize he was revealing.
"How far to the mainland?"
"Thirty-seven nautical miles to the nearest inhabited island. Sixty-two to the Greek coast." He set down his cup. "Even if you managed to steal a boat—which you wouldn't—you'd never make it. The waters here are treacherous, and you don't know how to navigate them."
"You seem very confident about what I do and don't know."
"I know everything about you, Gabrielle." The words were soft, almost gentle, and they made my blood run cold. "Your coffee order. Your favorite restaurants. The route you walk to the subway. The book you read on your lunch breaks." He leaned forward, his eyes holding mine. "I know you cry in your shower when you think no one can hear. I know you haven't let anyone see you undressed in two years because you're ashamed of your body. I know you call your father every Sunday and spend the rest of the week recovering from his criticism."
Each revelation landed like a blow. He'd been inside my life for weeks—months, maybe—and I'd never known. Every private moment, every vulnerability, every secret shame—he'd witnessed it all.
