And just like that, I follow him into the kitchen, knowing that something fundamental has shifted between us. I've agreed to stay, to place myself under his protection and his control. What that will mean in the hours and days to come, I can't begin to imagine.
But as I watch him move confidently around his kitchen, I realize that for the first time in years, I'm not afraid of what tomorrow might bring. And that, more than anything else, tells me I've made the right choice—or at least the only choice I could live with.
four
. . .
I pacethe length of Sutton's living room like a caged animal, three days of confinement—even in luxury—wearing on my last nerve. The city sprawls beyond the windows, tantalizingly close yet completely inaccessible. I've tried the door a dozen more times, tried the windows, even considered the fire escape until I realized the access was also secured. Sutton leaves each morning for work, returning each evening to find me still here, still trapped in his gilded cage. He brings me gifts—clothes, books, a sleek laptop that can access anything except email or social media. He orders in gourmet meals, watches me eat with those intense eyes, asks me questions about my life before, but never offers to let me leave. Today, I've had enough. When I hear the electronic beep of the door unlocking, I plant myself in the center of the room, arms crossed, jaw set. This ends now.
The door swings open, and Sutton steps inside, impeccable in a charcoal suit that probably costs more than a car. His eyes find me immediately, as if drawn by some magnetic pull, and his expression shifts from businesslike detachment to focused interest.
"Cecily," he says, my name a caress on his tongue. He sets down his briefcase, shrugs out of his suit jacket with fluid grace. "You look upset."
"I can't stay here like this," I say, getting straight to the point. "I'm not a pet you can lock up while you're at work."
He loosens his tie, watching me with that unnerving intensity. "Is that what you think you are? My pet?"
"What else would you call someone who's kept in a cage, no matter how nice that cage is?"
He moves toward me, and it takes everything in me not to step back. I will not show weakness. I will not let him intimidate me, no matter how my heart races when he's near.
"I call you my guest," he says, stopping just outside my personal space. "A guest I'm protecting from a man who meant you harm."
"A guest can leave whenever they want."
His eyes narrow slightly. "And where would you go, Cecily? Back to your stepfather? To the streets? You have no money, no identification, no support system." He takes another step closer. "Tell me your plan. Convince me you have somewhere safe to go, and I'll let you walk out that door right now."
The worst part is, he's right. I have nowhere to go. No plan beyond getting away from Raymond. And even after three days, I'm no closer to figuring out my next move.
"That doesn't give you the right to keep me here," I insist, hating how weak my argument sounds even to my own ears.
"No," he agrees unexpectedly. "What gives me the right is that you're safer here than anywhere else. What gives me the right is that I can protect you in ways no one else can."
"I don't need protection. I need freedom."
He laughs, the sound short and harsh. "Freedom to do what, exactly? To struggle? To put yourself in danger? To go back toa life where you were at the mercy of a man who saw you as property to be sold?"
I flinch at the reminder of Raymond's plans for me, and Sutton's expression softens marginally.
"I'm not trying to control you, Cecily. I'm trying to give you a chance to breathe, to figure out what you want your life to be now that you've escaped him."
"By keeping me locked up in your penthouse? How is that any different from what he did?"
Sutton's jaw tightens, a muscle ticking in his cheek. "If you can't see the difference, then perhaps I've overestimated your intelligence."
The barb stings, and I lash out. "The difference is that he was honest about his intentions. He never pretended to care about me. You—you bring gifts and act concerned while keeping me just as trapped."
In an instant, he closes the remaining distance between us, his hands gripping my upper arms, not painfully but firmly enough that I can't easily pull away.
"Is that what you think this is?" he demands, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. "Some elaborate game? You think I spent three days learning everything about you, providing for your every need, just for my own amusement?"
"I don't know what this is," I shoot back, refusing to be cowed despite the slight tremor in my voice. "I don't understand why a man like you would take in a homeless girl and treat her like—like?—"
"Like what?" he presses, his fingers flexing against my skin.
"Like she matters," I whisper, the fight suddenly draining out of me.
Something flickers in his eyes—a flash of vulnerability that's gone so quickly I might have imagined it. His grip on my arms gentles, becomes almost a caress.
