Because two days ago, I absolutely was a prisoner. Trunk-dwelling-Stockholm-syndrome-speedrun-kidnapped-against-my-will-and-cuffed-to-a-bed prisoner.
Now I'm a guest with a Porsche and a credit card and permission to "explore Boston."
Sure. Totally normal progression. Nothing weird about that at all.
I pick up the third note, propped against the French press.
How to Make Proper Coffee (Not That American Swill)
Grind beans fresh. Medium-coarse. The grinder's set to the correct setting—don't touch it.
Boil water. Let it cool exactly 30 seconds after boiling.
Add 60g coffee to the French press (there's a scale in the drawer).
Pour water slowly. Stir once. Set timer for 4 minutes.
Press down slowly. Pour immediately.
Drink it black first. Taste it. Then decide if you need milk.
If you add sugar, we're going to have a conversation tonight.
— L
I stare at the note. Then I laugh. It's sharp and slightly unhinged, echoing through the empty warehouse space, but I can't help it.
He's going topunish mefor putting sugar in my coffee?
The absurdity ismagnificent.
I set the note down carefully beside the other two and just... stand there for a moment.
Giovanni would never leave me notes.
The thought arrives uninvited, unwelcome. Giovanni doesn't explain. Doesn't instruct with playful threats about "conversations." He just watches—through hidden cameras, through Jino's reports, through the mechanical precision of his demerit system—and delivers consequences when I fail.
No warning. No charm. No personality.
Just the reckoning.
And I miss it.
The realization hits harder than it should. I'm standing in another man's kitchen, holding his thoughtful notes, anticipating his romantic punishment—and all I can think about is Giovanni's silent observation. His cold assessment. The way he makes me work for every scrap of approval.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I follow Lorcan's instructions with obsessive precision—because of course I do, I've been trained to follow instructionslike it's a second language—grinding beans, boiling water, timing exactly four minutes while I watch the surface darken.
When I pour it, the coffee is perfect. Rich. Smooth. Not civet shit designed to test my desperation.
Giovanni gave me the worst coffee on purpose. Lorcan gave me instructions to make the best.
I don't know what to do with that difference.
I lean against the counter, cradling the mug in both hands, and stare out at the harbor view through those massive windows.
The rational part of my brain—the part that got a poetry scholarship, that used to analyze books for 75,000 followers—is screaming about head injuries, and dungeons, and textbook Stockholm syndrome.
