Relief floods through me so intensely my knees buckle. “Mel, it’s me.”
“Sophia?” Her voice cracks. “Oh my god, Sophia! Where are you? Are you okay? The police said you disappeared, that there was no trace?—”
“I’m alive. I can’t tell you where I am, but I’m…I’m okay.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.
“What happened? Did someone take you?” She’s crying now, and guilt twists in my stomach.
“I can’t explain everything. Just know that I’m safe. I need you to stop looking for me. Tell everyone to stop looking.”
“Are you insane? Sophia, if someone’s forcing you to say this?—”
“No one’s forcing me. I just…I need time. Please, Mel. Trust me.”
The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything I can’t say. That I’m married to a mafia boss. That I’m falling for my captor. That I don’t even know who I am anymore.
“I love you,” I whisper. “I have to go.”
I end the call before she can respond and immediately delete the call history.
My hands shake as I hide the phone back in the drawer beneath my clothes, grateful this is one of the few rooms with no cameras.
The shower is still running, steam filling the bathroom, and I strip quickly and step under the hot spray.
I don’t know I’m crying until the water washes away my tears.
That evening, Mikhail and I circle each other in the bedroom like predators, the tension between us crackling like electricity.
We’ve been fighting all day about everything and nothing.
About the guards following me.
About the rules.
About the fact that he won’t let me leave the grounds even for a supervised walk.
“You’re being unreasonable,” I snap, pacing in front of the fireplace. The flames cast dancing shadows across his face, making him look even more dangerous than usual.
“I’m being protective.” His green eyes track my every movement. He’s sitting in the leather chair by the window, one ankle crossed over his knee, looking infuriatingly calm. “There’s a difference.”
“No, you’re being controlling. There’s a difference.” I stop pacing and face him, my hands on my hips. “I’m not a prisoner.”
His jaw tightens. “Aren’t you?”
The question hangs between us, brutal in its honesty. Because he’s right. I am a prisoner, no matter how gilded the cage.
“I hate you,” I say, but the words lack conviction.
“No, you don’t.” He stands and crosses to me in three long strides. “That’s what terrifies you.”
He’s too close now, invading my space, and I can smell his cologne mixed with something uniquely him.
My body responds despite my anger, heat pooling low in my belly.
“Don’t tell me what I feel,” I whisper, but I don’t step back.
“Your body tells me everything I need to know.” His hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb brushing across my lower lip. “You want me. Even when you hate me, you want me.”
I should slap him. Should push him away. But when his lips crash against mine, I kiss him back with all the fury and desire warring inside me.
