I turn away, walk to the window, and press my palm against the glass. It's smooth and completely solid. Probably reinforced safety glass. The kind that doesn't break no matter how hard you hit it.
"They don't open," he confirms, reading my mind. "Building code. This high up, they're sealed."
Naturally.
I turn back to face him and that's when I see it. The lock on the door—on the outside.
My stomach drops.
"I won't lock it unless you make me," he says, following my gaze. "But I need you to understand, Francesca. You're not leaving this apartment. Not tonight. Not until you accept that you belong to me."
"And what is this?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Kidnapping?"
"Protection." His voice drops lower, quieter, more dangerous. "Mine."
"From you."
"From yourself." He leans against the doorframe, completely relaxed. As if we're having a normal conversation. As if he hasn't just imprisoned me in a luxury apartment. "You make stupid choices,tesoro. Dangerous ones. Walking home alone. Working double shifts in a hospital where anyone could grab you. Not reporting gunshot wounds to the police."
"That was different."
"Was it?" He tilts his head. "Or did you know, even then, that I was worth protecting?"
I want to throw something at him. Want to scream. Want to fight. But I learned a long time ago in the ER that panic doesn't save anyone. Clear thinking does. Strategic action does.
So I take a breath. Let it out slowly. Force myself to think.
"What happens now?" I ask.
"Now you settle in. I'll make us dinner."
"I'm not hungry."
"You will be." He straightens, and I realize how much space he takes up in the doorway. How completely he blocks the only exit. "I'll give you some time alone. But Francesca?" He waits until I meet his eyes. His voice goes even quieter. "Don't do anything stupid. The elevator door requires a code you don't have. The windows are safety glass and don't open. And if you try to hurt yourself to spite me..." The threat hangs unfinished in theair, somehow worse than if he'd completed it. "You're mine now. I protect what belongs to me."
"I'm not suicidal."
"Good. Because I've worked too hard to get you here to let you slip away now." He reaches for the door handle. "I'll call you when dinner's ready."
And then he's gone, pulling the door closed behind him. Not locked. Just closed.
I listen to his footsteps fade down the hallway. Then I move.
The bathroom first. I check the cabinets, the drawers. He wasn't lying. It's all here. Shampoo, conditioner, soap. Toothbrush still in its packaging. A hairbrush. Even tampons and the same brand as my birth control pills, for Christ's sake. The medicine cabinet has the basics: Tylenol, bandages, antibiotic ointment.
Nothing I can use as a weapon. Nothing sharp enough, heavy enough, toxic enough.
He's thought of everything.
I go back to the bedroom and try the window again even though I know it won't open. It doesn't. I press my forehead against the glass and look down. We're high. Too high. Even if I could get the window open, jumping would be suicide.
The closet is empty except for hangers. The dresser drawers are empty too. He really did bring me here with nothing but the clothes on my back and my purse with its useless pepper spray.
I sink down onto the edge of the bed. The mattress is firm, expensive. The kind of bed I could never afford on an ER nurse's salary.
This is insane. All of it. Terror should be coursing through me right now. I should be plotting, planning, calling the police, screaming until someone hears me.
Instead, I'm sitting here in this beautiful prison thinking about the way he said I belong to him, the absolute certainty in his voice.
