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Her gaze darted around the room. Empty.

Where was Paulo? Sleeping off his whiskey? Or celebrating his clever scheme to use her as bait to lure her father out of hiding?

The thought twisted something deep in her chest, sharper than she wanted to admit. It shouldn’t matter, she didn’t care about her father, but Paulo’s betrayal hit deeper. Much deeper.

She was used to being overlooked, wasn’t she? Her father had always treated her like a pawn and a burden, shipping her off to schools, parading her as a daughter only when it suited him. She was never a person to him, just a bargaining chip.

And now Paulo…Paulo, who had held her through sensual nights of whispered hunger and pleasure, who had kissed her until her very bones melted…he had turned her into a tool too. Another means to an end.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. No more.

She’d help him catch her father, then she’d walk away. She’d finally be free. Free to take a job, to live openly, to struggle or thrive on her own terms. To define herself not as someone’s daughter or weapon, but as herself.

But the idea of leaving Paulo…that scraped in a way she didn’t want to name. Memories of his touch still lingered on her skin. Her body recalled the weight of his, the fire of his mouth. She clenched her fists, furious at herself for craving a man who had betrayed her so utterly.

“No more,” she whispered to the empty room, as if saying it aloud would make it true.

Throwing the blanket aside, she headed for the shower. Twenty minutes later, damp curls clinging to her neck, she tugged a soft sweater over her head and slipped into leggings and sneakers. The clothes were new, like so many pieces that mysteriously appeared in her closet. Paulo’s doing, no doubt. Another reminder that he saw her body, what it looked like, what he wanted it in—as much as he saw her mind.

Damn him.

Squaring her shoulders, she went downstairs.

And there he was. Paulo. Lying on the sofa, a chain of paperclips dangling between his hands, his dark eyes brooding, restless. The sight of him made her pulse stumble. He looked disheveled, dangerous, raw in a way that made her remember how his body had felt pressed to hers in the dark.

His gaze lifted when she entered, sweeping over her in a way that burned. For a second, she thought he might say something reckless, might close the distance, might pin her to the wall and kiss her until her anger dissolved into heat.

But instead, his brows lowered, irritation flickering through his expression as he twisted the chain of paperclips.

Madelaine forced her voice to remain steady. “Have the funeral and wake been scheduled?”

His eyes lifted, the paperclip chain still dangling from his fingertips. For a long moment, he just stared, gaze trailing slowly down her figure and back again. The weight of it heated her skin, but Madelaine forced herself to ignore the awareness prickling down her spine.

Then he blinked, as if shaking himself out of a dangerous thought. The paperclip chain vanished into his pocket, and his voice came out clipped. “Yes. It’s scheduled for Friday.”

“Three days from now?” she asked, counting backward. The days blurred together when one had nothing to do. Or when one spent their nights tangled in the arms of a man who made time disappear altogether.

She pushed that memory away and locked her eyes on his. “I’ll be there.”

Immediately, he stiffened, his jaw hardening. “No. You’ll stay here. With guards.”

Her spine went rigid. “Excuse me?”

He didn’t waver, didn’t even look ashamed. “I’m hungry,” he grumbled. “I’m going to have some breakfast, but you staying here during the fake funeral isn’t up for discussion,” he snapped. Then he walked past her, shutting down any chance of her unleashing the fury boiling in her chest.

Madelaine stood in the silence he left behind, her fists clenched at her sides. Breakfast? That was his response? He could command armies, manipulate entire governments—but when it came to her, he thought a plate of food would distract her. Typical man. Typical Paulo.

Still seething, she made her way into the kitchen. The smell of coffee, butter, and something faintly sweet greeted her, soothing some of her irritation despite herself. Rosa bustled about, humming to herself. So, why was Paulo storming out again?

“Good morning, Madelaine,” Rosa greeted warmly, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief as she placed a steaming mug of coffee on the counter.

Madelaine wrapped her hands around it, grateful for the comfort. “What did you feed him?” she asked dryly, curiosity slipping through her irritation.

“Oatmeal.” Rosa’s lips twitched, like she was suppressing a laugh. “Plain oatmeal. No sugar, no cinnamon, no fruit. Just oats and water.”

The image formed immediately. Paulo, powerful, controlling Paulo, forced to spoon bland gray mush into his mouth. The thought burst out of her as laughter, light and genuine. It felt good to laugh, even if her chest still felt bruised with betrayal.

Rosa’s eyes twinkled as she slid another dish in front of Madelaine. “For you, baked oatmeal with apples and cinnamon.” She cut a neat square, the steam carrying warmth and spice into the air. “Don’t tell him,” Rosa added with mock seriousness.