Page 164 of Captive Ruin

“Surprisingly unperturbed, actually. I enjoyed it.”

“Of course you did,” I mutter.

My head chooses that moment to throb, and I wince. At this point, it’s less my hangover and more the conversation. It’s like arguing with someone who is convinced that white is black, that we all perceive color differently.

What’s worse is that he’s somehow persuading me. Did I want what he did on that terrace?

I thought I didn’t at the time. But looking back? And all the things since?

Is he right?

And the bigger question: can I find it within myself to care anymore?

Yes, I was arguing, but only because what he said was so outlandish. Now, all I feel is weary, this one conversation—and my hangover—sapping what energy I have left.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I’ve taken too much out of you when you’re not feeling well, and we need to get ready.”

“For what?” I ask with a sigh.

“We’re going to Montana.”

I wince. “What, today? Now?”

“Yes.” He raises an eyebrow at me. “I told you, remember?”

He may have mentioned it; I’d forgotten. Now I’m wishing I hadn’t drunk so much last night. I have to pack… no, I have to shower and try not to throw up, and then pack. “What time does the flight leave?”

“When we get there,” he says. “I use the Company plane.”

Flying on a private jet is considerably less stressful than flying commercial, and I’m grateful for it. I’m still feeling shaky when we board, but when the flight attendant offers me a drink, I choose water, but then ask for a glass of wine as well.

Van Wyk’s eyebrows rise, but he doesn’t say anything. Screw him; my emotional numbness is wearing off, and the alcohol helps.

What would Lucy say if she could see me? Nothing good, I’m sure. My parents didn’t drink that much. Even Sierra—who could down a bottle if there was a tub of ice cream at the end of it—would be unimpressed by the amount I’ve been drinking of late.

It’s a crutch, and I’m not oblivious. Right now, I just don’t know how else to deal with my life. I’m still a captive, even on a private jet, flying to a billionaire’s estate. Will I get more freedom there? Somehow, I doubt it.

I suppose I should ask him why we’re going, but I can’t bring myself to. I take a drink of my wine instead.

Van Wyk waves the flight attendant away, waits a moment for her to withdraw, then fixes me with his steady gaze. “We need to talk.”

Oh, crap. “Do we?”

“I think so, yes.” He props his elbows on the arms of his ridiculously large and soft leather swivel chair, and links his fingers like he’s a philosophy lecturer. “I’m worried about you.”

I laugh. I’d roll my eyes if I thought it would help. “Your care is touching. I’m fine.”

His mouth quirks in distaste. “Fine. That is exactly what I expected you to say. One thing you are absolutely not is ‘fine.’”

I let out a weary sigh. “You know, in the past few months, I’ve had my apartment broken into on no less than three occasions and my art gallery burned to the ground. I’ve been spied on, threatened, blackmailed, had my sister threatened and blackmailed, been held captive for weeks and weeks, and had my life completely disrupted and destroyed.” I pause to see if I’ve missed anything important. “Oh yeah, and I got married. So given all of that, I think I’m doing… fine.”

“But you’re strong. You’re a survivor. You’ll take all of it, and you’ll shape it into something that makes you stronger still.”

“If that’s what you think, then why are we having this conversation?”

“Because you haven’t started yet.” His head tilts. “Do you need a push? A hug? A spanking? Or is there something else you’re waiting for?”

The truth about Juliette.