Three days passed.
I learned the rhythms of my captivity, the patterns of the prison I was expected to call home. Vasily was often absent—closeted in his study with phone calls, meeting with his brothers in rooms I wasn't invited to enter, managing the machinery of his empire from this island sanctuary. When we did encounter each other, it was brief and charged: meals I couldn't avoid, passing each other in hallways, the occasional moment on the terrace when we both sought the same view.
I waited for him to make demands. To assert his rights as my husband, to force himself into my space, my bed, my body. It was what I expected—what I'd braced myself for since the moment he'd slid that ring onto my finger.
But he didn't.
He kept his distance. Spoke to me with unfailing courtesy. Asked about my comfort, my needs, whether there was anything I wanted that hadn't been provided. He was patient and solicitous and maddeningly respectful, and it made me want to throw things at his head.
I'd prepared myself for a monster. I didn't know what to do with a man who brought me books he thought I'd enjoy and left them outside my door without comment.
So I fought him in the only ways I could.
I refused to eat meals with him, taking my food to my room or the library or the gardens—anywhere he wasn't. I wandered the grounds obsessively, cataloging guard rotations and security cameras, looking for weaknesses I never found. I spoke to the staff in clipped tones, rejecting their warmth, refusing to play the role of gracious lady of the house.
Yelena bore my coldness with patience that made me feel like a petulant child. The guards watched me with careful neutrality, never engaging, never letting me forget I was a prisoner, no matter how gilded the cage. Even the cook—a round Greek woman named Despina who produced miraculous meals from the estate's kitchen—seemed immune to my hostility, simply leaving plates of food in places she knew I'd find them.
I was surrounded by people and utterly alone.
On the fourth night, I couldn't sleep.
I'd grown accustomed to insomnia in New York—the racing thoughts, the anxiety that wouldn't quiet, the hours spent staring at the ceiling while my mind cataloged every failure and fear. But this was different. This was the particular wakefulness of a trapped animal, every sense straining for danger in the dark.
I rose and pulled on a robe, too restless to stay in bed. The master suite had its own sitting room, but the walls felt too close tonight. I needed space. Air. The illusion of freedom, even if I couldn't have the real thing.
The hallway was dim, lit only by small sconces that cast pools of amber light at intervals. I moved quietly, barefoot onthe cool marble, not sure where I was going until I found myself outside Vasily's door.
I'd avoided this door for three days. Had walked past it with my eyes straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge its existence, refusing to think about what lay behind it. My husband's bedroom. The room where he slept, alone, on the other side of the wall from my own bed.
I didn't know why I'd stopped here now. Didn't know what I was looking for, what I expected to find.
Then I heard it.
A sound from inside—low, anguished, muffled by the heavy wood. Not quite a cry, not quite words. Something between a groan and a sob.
I pressed my ear to the door without thinking.
"Net." The word was Russian, raw with pain. "Net, pozhaluysta, mama—"
He was having a nightmare. My kidnapper, my captor, my husband—thrashing in his sleep, crying out for his mother in a language I didn't speak.
I should have walked away. Should have retreated to my room and pretended I'd heard nothing. His pain was not my concern. His demons were not my problem. He'd forfeited any claim to my sympathy the moment he'd drugged me in that alley.
But I stood frozen, listening to the broken sounds of his grief, and something shifted in my chest. Something I didn't want to name.
He cried out again—sharper this time, more desperate—and then went silent. I heard movement, the creak of bedsprings, footsteps crossing the floor. I stepped back quickly, but not quickly enough.
The door opened, and Vasily stood before me.
He was shirtless, wearing only loose pants that hung low on his hips. His hair was disheveled, his skin gleaming with sweat, and in the dim light I could see the ghosts that still haunted his eyes. He looked younger somehow. Vulnerable in a way I'd never seen him.
"Gabrielle." His voice was hoarse, still rough with sleep. "What are you doing here?"
"I couldn't sleep." The words came out defensive. "I was walking. I heard—"
I stopped, unsure how to finish. I heard you had a nightmare? I heard you crying for your mother? The intimacy of the admission felt dangerous.
"You heard me." It wasn't a question. He leaned against the doorframe, not bothering to hide the evidence of his distress. "I'm sorry if I disturbed you."
