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I got out of bed wearing the same dress I’d been wearing the night before and headed to the window. The shutters were wide open, and I could see endless rows of vineyards. It led to the hills in the distance. Not a single house was in sight. I was isolated, away from the nearest city.
The sun was high in the sky, and it touched every piece of earth as far as the eye could see. I stood on the second story and saw grass at the bottom. It was lush and dark, darker than the leaves on the vines.
My fingertips rested on the windowsill, and I felt freedom course through me. I could jump out the window and run as fast as I could, getting lost in the rows of grapes. The idea was so tempting and easy.
But why was it so easy?
I turned around and examined the contents of my room. There were shelves full of classic books and a pile of magazines on the shelf underneath the table. I spotted the case with a single red rose. It was fresh, just picked that morning. Underneath it was a handwritten note.
Don’t run.
There was no name, but I knew who left it.
I investigated the bathroom. It had pristine tiles, and the vibrant decorations hinted at Italian culture. Even though it was a glorified prison, it was beautiful. I could only dream of living in a place like that.
I left the bedroom and approached the doors that closed off my bedroom from the rest of the house. If the bedroom window was open, then I assumed that meant I could venture into the house.
I opened the doors and stepped into the hallway. A grand staircase was to my right, while the hallway continued to the left.
A voice appeared out of nowhere. “Good morning, miss.” A butler appeared in a full suit. He held himself with grace despite his older age, and friendliness lingered in his eyes. He seemed harmless, even sweet.
“Who are you?” I blurted.
“Lars. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”
That didn’t answer my question.
“His Grace was just about to sit down for breakfast. Would you like to join him?”
Did I have a choice? I was hungry. And I did want answers. “Okay.”
“Okay?” he asked. “My question requires a yes or no.”
I gave him an irritated look. “Sure.”
“Good enough. Follow me.” He led the way, taking the staircase to the bottom floor. The same archway of my bedroom window mirrored the doors and other windows. The tile was shiny enough to be brand new, and the area was spacious in its luxury. My captor didn’t just live in a mansion. He lived in elegance. Bones’s home was bland and ugly—just like him. This place had taste.
Lars escorted me into a dining room. A large window took up one wall, highlighting the vineyards on the opposite side of the house. The mahogany table was big enough to seat sixteen people. Did he regularly invite sixteen people to dinner?
Lars pulled out the chair for me then scooted me in after I sat down. “He’ll be here shortly.” He walked out and left the double doors wide open. The sound of moving dishes echoed from the kitchen as he prepared breakfast.
I sat absolutely still and focused on the glorious view in front of me. Despite my fear, I couldn’t deny how beautiful the image was. I’d never seen anything like it in my life, and I suspected I never would again.
A moment later, he walked through the door in a deep navy blue suit with a violet tie. He looked just as glorious as he did the first time I saw him sitting at the bar. He carried himself with confidence, his shoulders broad and powerful. Even when he was silent, he commanded the room with just his presence. He was terrifying but hypnotizing at the same time.
The moment he sat down, Lars entered the room like he’d been waiting for his cue. He placed an egg white omelet with mushrooms, tomatoes, and spinach in front of him, along with a black cup of coffee and the morning newspaper.
The man said thank you in Italian. At least, that’s what I think he said.
Lars placed the same meal in front of me, along with a newspaper in English. Then he departed, closing the doors behind him.
My captor sipped his coffee and opened the newspaper, acting like I wasn’t there at all. He didn’t even look at me. His behavior suggested we’d done this before—several times.
I ate my food quietly, loving the taste. Everything tasted fresh, like it was just picked that morning. The vegetables didn’t taste like they were from the supermarket. They were obviously organic. The coffee was better than the stuff at my old prison. Everything was better, actually. A copy of the New York Times waited in front of me, the headline in words I could understand.
