The question hangs between us, weighted with implications I’m not ready to examine. The rational answer is yes—once Sartore is handled, once the files are secured ordiscredited, once she’s no longer an operational liability, there’s no strategic reason to keep her.
The thought of her leaving, of returning to her Brooklyn apartment and her transparency audits and her life that doesn’t include me, creates a resistance I can’t rationalize away.
“Then we reassess,” I tell her, which is the closest I can come to honesty.
She studies me for a long moment, her expression shifting through emotions I can’t fully track. Fear is still there, layered beneath anger and exhaustion and something that might be resignation.
“I don’t have a choice, do I?” she asks finally.
“You always have choices, but the alternative to staying here is hoping you survive long enough for your choices to even matter.”
She looks away, her shoulders sagging slightly as the adrenaline from the attack finally crashes into exhaustion. I notice details I cataloged earlier but didn’t prioritize—the torn sleeve of her blouse, the bruise forming on her upper arm where one of Sartore’s men grabbed her, the way her hands are still trembling despite her attempt at composure.
“Taras will show you to your room,” I say, gesturing toward the guard still waiting by the door. “There’s clothing in the closet, bathroom attached. You’re not locked in, but the exterior doors require biometric clearance you don’t have. If you need anything, there’s a phone on the nightstand that connects directly to central control.”
I don’t wait for her response. I climb the stairs to the second level and head toward my office, aware that she’s watching me go with an expression I don’t turn back to see.
Chapter Eight - Diana
The room they’ve given me is nicer than my apartment. That’s the first thing I notice when Taras leaves me alone and I force myself to take inventory instead of screaming. King bed with crisp white linens, armchair positioned near floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking grounds I can’t access, bathroom with heated floors.
It’s a cage dressed up as luxury, and the pretense makes it worse.
I find the camera within thirty seconds—positioned in the upper corner near the door, small black dome that tracks movement with a faint mechanical whir. Someone is watching. Always watching.
The closet holds clothing in my size, which means Felix had someone gather my measurements or went through my apartment thoroughly enough to know. Jeans, sweaters, dresses I’d never wear, underwear still in packaging. The invasion of it makes my skin crawl.
I try the bedroom door. Unlocked, opening onto a hallway where a guard stands stationed ten feet down. He doesn’t acknowledge me when I step out, but his posture shifts slightly.
I walk the opposite direction, testing boundaries. The hallway ends at a window overlooking the east gardens. I try the exterior door at the landing. Biometric scanner glows red when I touch it, denying access with a soft beep.
Trapped.
The reality settles slowly, each locked door and stationed guard reinforcing what Felix told me downstairs. I’m not chained or physically restrained, but I can’t leave, can’t call forhelp, can’t do anything except exist within the parameters he’s set.
I return to the bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed, trying to slow my breathing enough to think clearly.
My phone is gone. My laptop, my bag, everything I had in the office garage—all of it disappeared during the extraction. I have no way to contact anyone, no access to the files I’d been building, no evidence of what I found in Ethan’s research.
Everything I worked for over the past week is gone, and I’m sitting in a bedroom that costs more to furnish than I make in six months while armed men patrol outside my door.
The absurdity of it breaks something loose in my chest. I press my palms against my eyes and force the tears back through sheer stubbornness. Crying won’t help. Panic won’t help. I need to stay sharp, stay angry, and figure out how to survive this until I can find a way out.
A soft knock interrupts the spiral. The door opens without waiting for permission, and a woman in her fifties enters carrying a covered tray. She sets it on the small table near the window, offers a polite nod I don’t return, and leaves without speaking.
I wait until the door clicks shut before approaching the tray. Dinner—roasted chicken, vegetables, bread that smells freshly baked. My stomach clenches with hunger I’ve been ignoring since this morning, but I don’t touch it.
Eating feels like compliance. Like accepting the structure Felix has built around me and agreeing to exist within it peacefully.
I carry the tray to the door and leave it in the hallway, untouched.
***
The next morning, the tray is gone and a new one sits in its place. Breakfast this time—eggs, toast, fruit, coffee that smells strong enough to cut through the exhaustion clinging to my thoughts.
I leave it untouched too.
By afternoon, lightheadedness sets in. I haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday in the office, before everything fell apart. My body is running on adrenaline and stubbornness, neither of which are sustainable fuel sources.
