Page 107 of Captive Ruin

“Jorge is waiting outside for you.”

“Thank you, Linda, and I’m sorry about Juliette.”

“That’s kind, dear. I’m glad Lukas has you, now.” She turns away, facing the window, lost in memories.

I slip out quietly, leaving her to it.

Van Wyk called Juliette’s death a relief. Linda calls it a terrible business and doesn’t want to talk about it.

Is that just different perspectives, or is there something I’m missing?

I give Linda space for a day or two, then try again. Yet each time I raise Juliette, she changes the subject. The third time this happens, I give up. There’s no point alienating her or stressing her out. Maybe there’s another way of unraveling this mystery.

I won’t get any help from Jorge. He stares impassively back at me, no matter what I say to him. I’m almost tempted to swim nude just to see if he blinks, but I also don’t want Van Wyk to kill him.

Tony’s a non-starter too.

“Drop it, Princess. If any of them wanted to talk about her, they would.”

“So you don’t know anything?”

“I didn’t say that,” he replies darkly, and doesn’t engage again.

It’s beyond frustrating.

In this way, the days go by, and with nothing else to occupy me, it’s getting to me. Lucy must be going crazy too. I have no idea what’s going on with the gallery, or Sierra, or whether I’m now the primary arson suspect in an insurance scam. Am I going to get out of here only to find an arrest warrant?

At least I don’t have to worry about explaining the loss of over a million bucks’ of art to the never-seen Bastien Fournier. I can simply point a finger at Van Wyk and make a dry comment about freedom and women’s rights—or I could, if he ever turns up again.

I’m certain I’m going slowly mad. At least in prison I would be able to get access to the news, but Van Wyk doesn’t even own a television. There’s an eight-seat cinema with surround sound that I found in the basement during my explorations, but there are only so many times I can watch The Fifth Element.

Perversely, the gilded cage in which I’m kept only reinforces the helplessness of my situation. With a beautiful setting, expansive (fenced in) grounds, home-cooked meals and a swimming pool, it’s almost like I have no right to complain, and that feeds my frustration and only makes me feel guilty. Some days, I wonder if I’m becoming the princess Tony accuses me of being.

And that’s me. A prisoner in an ivory tower, as lonely as I’ve ever been, sick of feeling sorry for myself, and unable to do a damn thing about it.

Then Tuesday night, almost two weeks after I arrived, I walk out of the en suite in my bathrobe, my damp hair tied into a braid and my brush still in hand, to find Van Wyk standing in my bedroom. Our bedroom.

I stop in mid-step, staring at him.

He looks exactly the same as the last time I saw him, down to the black pants and close-fitting long-sleeved shirt, save that he’s always been clean-shaven, and now he has a week of stubble.

My first thought is how well it suits him.

My second thought is more violent.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

I don’t wait for an answer before the brush leaves my hand, missing his head by inches and cracking off the wall behind him. I barrel across the room, launching myself at him with fists and feet. He grabs my wrists, and I kick his shin. That hurts my foot, but it doesn’t stop me.

“Amelia—” he begins gently, but I’m not in the mood to listen to anything he has to say.

“You left me here, you bastard! You won’t let me talk to anyone!” I drive my knee between his legs, but he twists, wincing as he takes the blow on his thigh. “I wake up and you’re gone! No note! Don’t you own a fucking phone?”

“Amelia—” he admonishes, voice hardening.

“What the hell did you say to my sister?” I manage to get a wrist free, breathing hard, and go for a slap on his too-handsome face. He catches my hand again, twisting me around, pulling me back against his chest while his other hand closes around my throat.

“Enough.”