The suite beyond is stunning. Cream silk wallpaper, gold accents on the furniture, a four-poster bed that looks like something from Versailles.
I wouldn’t be surprised if Luca somehow acquired Marie Antionette’s bed at this rate.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the gardens, offering a view of the grounds that stretch toward the lake.
There’s a sitting area with a velvet sofa, a desk with what looks like a Tiffany lamp, and a bathroom visible through an open door that features marble and fixtures that look ridiculously expensive.
It’s a gilded cage, beautiful and suffocating in equal measure.
“Mr. Marchetti will join you for dinner at seven,” Maria repeats, setting my suitcase on a bench at the foot of the bed. “If you need anything before then, press the call button.” She indicates a panel near the door. “Someone will attend to you.”
“Wait,” I start, but she’s already leaving, pulling the door shut behind her. I hear the lock engage with a soft click that sounds like a death sentence.
I’m alone in a room more luxurious than anywhere I’ve ever been, and I’ve never felt more trapped in my life.
I spend the hours until dinner pacing the suite like a caged animal, which is exactly what I am.
My ribs cry out at each turn, each rapid movement, forcing me to slow down.
The bruises on my face are visible in every mirror I pass and my split lip has scabbed over.
Evidence of what happens when I try to resist.
I examine every inch of my prison, testing the windows,locked and probably bulletproof, searching for any electronic devices I could use to contact the outside world,nothing, looking for anything that might be useful for escape,the furniture is too heavy to move, and breaking it would just bring guards running.
My thoughts keep circling back to Dad.
Is he in a room like this, or something worse?
Is he wondering if I’m okay?
Does he know I agreed to this nightmare to save his life?
At 6:45, Maria returns.
She’s carrying a dress.
It’s midnight blue silk and looks like something off the Paris fashion show runway.
Her eyes flick to the bruise on my cheekbone then quickly away.
Her expression suggests that wearing the dress isn’t optional.
“Mr. Marchetti expects you to dress appropriately for dinner.” She lays the dress across the bed.
Her voice is devoid of emotion, but I catch something else underneath.
Is it pity, or maybe just exhaustion from witnessing this same scene play out before with other people? “I will return in ten minutes to escort you.”
“I have clothes,” I protest, gesturing to my suitcase, not wanting to admit that nothing I’ve brought would even compare to the beautiful fabric.
Maria raises one eyebrow, clearly thinking the same thing. “Mr. Marchetti prefers this.” She’s already leaving, the door locking behind her with that terrible click.
I stare at the dress for a long moment, rage and fear warring in my chest.
Every instinct screams at me to refuse, to show up in my jeans and Northwestern sweatshirt as a small act of defiance.
But what would that accomplish besides proving I’m stubborn?
