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The guilt of disappointing Daddy was awful, but being deprived of my autonomy had broken me once before.
I would never let that happen again.
But the day in isolation went by painfully slowly. Mateo’s lunchtime check-in had been ages ago. The sun was beginning to set behind the trees that lined what I assumed was his back lawn. I didn’t really have an understanding of the layout of his house and property, but the swath of green grass visible outside my window was obviously a lawn. The turf ended at a thick tree line, and I couldn’t see anything beyond that.
I thought I was still somewhere near LA, but I had no idea which neighborhood I was in, and I didn’t have any means to get my bearings.
It didn’t really matter where I was located, anyway. I might as well have been on the moon for all the difference it would make.
There was nowhere for me to go if I left Mateo’s house. Not really.
I refused to go back to my childhood home and face Daddy. But according to Mateo, returning to my apartment wasn’t an option, either. If I went there, I might as well just drive straight to Daddy and save myself from being forcibly abducted again.
Where else was I going to go?
I supposed I could crash with one of my friends, but I didn’t want to bring this shitstorm into any of their lives. If Daddy was ruthless enough to hurt Valentina in exchange for power, what might he do to my friends if he wanted me to come home, and they stood in his way?
Going on the run was an option, but not one that appealed to me. I didn’t want to abandon everyone and everything I knew. Even if the remnants of the life I was cleaving to had always been a lie, I didn’t want to leave them.
Everything was spiraling out of my control.
I pressed my palms against my closed eyes, as though I could stop my cyclical thoughts if I applied enough pressure.
I inhaled deeply, practicing the breathing exercises I’d learned in therapy. They’d served me well over the last five years, and I hadn’t had a single incident since I was fifteen.
I also started styling my curls at fifteen, I recalled. That little act of asserting my independence and individuality had saved me from myself.
Well, my curls, my music, and a lot of expensive therapy.
Against my better judgment, I ran my hands over my hair. My chest tightened when I felt the frizzy mess.
I took another breath and forced my arms to my sides, pushing my palms flat against the mattress.
I’m not going to lose my shit just because I can’t style my hair. That’s insane behavior.
I forced myself to focus on whatever inane sitcom was playing out on the TV, pretending I didn’t notice how tight my skin felt. How much I itched to move, to scream, to run. To do something that I could control.
My gaze drifted toward the bathroom, but I quickly snapped my attention back to the TV.
Not that, I told myself firmly. I’m not doing that.
I heard the soft click of the lock disengaging, but I didn’t bother to turn to look at Mateo. He was going to ask me if I was ready to comply with his demands. And I wasn’t going to.
If I couldn’t control anything else, I could control this: I didn’t have to cave and help him smooth over my sudden absence from school.
He could keep me in miserable isolation, but now that I’d found the only tiny thing that I could control, I wouldn’t surrender it for any reason. It was the only thing tying me to sanity.
“You didn’t eat your lunch,” he noted, his voice heavy with disapproval.
I simply shrugged, choosing not to respond. I’d moved from guilt to numbness at this point, and I no longer felt the stupid impulse to apologize.
He sighed. “Well, you will eat your dinner.”
The rich scent of lasagna hit my nose, and I finally turned to face him. “And what happens if I don’t?” I asked, all bitterness and no fire. “Will there be more consequences?”
He took a moment to consider his answer, his eyes studying my face. Whatever he saw in my expression, he didn’t like it.
His mouth pressed to a thin slash, and he nodded curtly. “Yes, there will,” he confirmed. “So, you’d better eat every bite.”
“Whatever you say, warden,” I mumbled, but there was no force behind my antagonistic comment.
This morning, I’d felt playful with Mateo. Even when I’d been mad at him, I’d felt like I could express my feelings. Yelling at him might not have been very nice, but at least I’d been engaging with him on an emotional level.
Whatever I’d felt for him then was gone now. I felt hollowed out, and all I had left was my grim determination to cling on to my one last shred of control with a death grip.
