I need to get the hell out of here before I start to smell like pine trees.
I push off the bed and cross to the door, twisting the handle.
It’s locked. Becauseof course it is. Because I’ve been kidnapped and locked in a lumberyard.
I should probably be panicking, but mostly, I’minsulted.My family is too wealthy for me to be stuck inside a wilderness cabin. My father is one of the richest men in our circle. He knows senators and CEOs. He has private security on speed dial. If I don’t show up in New York, people will notice. If I don’t call, if I don’t check in, there will be questions.
There will be action.
There will be a search.
Therehasto be.
I lift my chin slightly at the thought.
They’ll find me. They’ll trace the SUV he was driving. Surely our cameras caught his license plate. They’ll have the whole damn Boston police force out looking for me and might even call in the army.
This won’t last long. I’ll be rescued soon.
My gaze drifts to the window again, and all I find is an endless sea of trees. There are no roads or rooftops or neighboring estates. Just forest as far as the eye can see.
Immediately, my confidence falters.
We are in the middle of nowhere. Even if there is a search party, what are they searching? Miles of wilderness?
My stomach twists, but I refuse to fall to pieces.Windsor women do not fall to pieces, my mother would say.Windsor women are strong and confident and can handle anything.
I turn away from the window, and when I spot the bathroom, I make the decision to salvage some normalcy. I’ll take a shower. That will make me feel better. That will help me figure out how to get out of this hellhole.
I flick on the light, revealing a clean but painfully simple space. Again. It’s like the Dark Ages. There is no marble or gold fixtures or oversized mirrors. No lush bath towels or robes. Just plastic bullshit like a bathroom is meant for efficiency instead of luxury.
Clearly, the importance of self-care is not understood around here.
If only Kidnapper Kane had had the decency to toss my suitcase in his stupid SUV when he took me, I’d have everything I needto complete my twenty-step skincare routine and daily hair conditioning regimen.At least then, I’d have my doll.
There mere thought of my most beloved possession makes tears prick my eyes, but I blink them away fast. I willnotcry. I will not show weakness. I’m a Windsor woman, for fuck’s sake, and Windsor women are strong.
When I turn on the shower and remove my clothes, I catch sight of the singular bottle inside the tub—yes, a freaking tub for a shower.I pick it up and stare at the words,three-in-one.
A shocked laugh escapes my throat. “Is this a joke?” I whisper as I read the rest of the label that showcasesshampoo,conditioner, andbody washall combined into one product.
They make this? And people buy it?
Honestly, the marketing idea that the needs of hair and skin are the same should be categorized as a hate crime.
I exhale a deep sigh before stepping into the shower with the stupid bottle. The water pressure is fine, but not perfect. And I resign myself to using one product to wash my body, my hair, and my face.
I can already feel my skin drying out. Good grief. I’m certain cavemen had better products than this. Once I’m done and step out, I wrap my body in one of the pathetically itchy bath towels and start searching for hair products and a hair dryer.
All the drawers are empty, save a hairbrush. No hair dryer. No serums. No face masks. No leave-in hair conditioner.
All I have is a brush and a freaking towel.
People actually live like this?
On a huff, I rub my hair aggressively with the towel, watching it frizz in the mirror. And after I run a brush through it, I have to…leave it…as is.
My mom would be horrified to know I’m going to spend an entire day in this state. I already look younger and softer and…ordinary.
