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Stockholm syndrome.
Definitely.
I got up and traipsed across the room.
I tried the door—locked.
Asshole.
I could try to escape through the hidden room behind the closet.
Instead, I grabbed a brioche from the table and explored the luxurious room. It resembled a hotel suite—a presidential one at that. I liked the style. Modern but cozy. The dark gray of the furniture should’ve made the room feel more crowded—which it didn’t. The high ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows helped.
It was a beautiful room…and my prison.
A gust of wind sent the scents of burnt grass and pine trees inside.
I made my way through the bathroom and onto the deck, feeling the warm sun on my skin as I stepped outside.
“Such a perfect day,” I muttered, taking a bite of the deliciously sweet brioche. The sunlight filtered through the huge pine trees, and I could already feel the beginning waves of oppressive heat the day would bring.
I studied the hot tub. Memories of Gabe bathing me and of his strong hands working out the kinks in my muscles brought a flush to my cheeks.
Even though he’d shown me care and tenderness, I couldn’t forget that he was also the one who kept me captive here.
He’d cared for me, yet he didn’t let me go.
He wanted me, yet he didn’t take me.
How could I not be flabbergasted by a man sending such mixed signals?
The gentle chirping of birds filled the air as I pondered these thoughts. But as I stood there, lost in my musings, I heard voices from somewhere beneath me and froze.
Listening intently, I recognized Gabe’s voice. He was talking to a woman—in perfect English.
“Thank you for coming back, Gabriel,” she said, her voice frail but filled with warmth. “I wish it were under different circumstances, but I’m happy regardless.”
“Me too, Mamma,” Gabe replied, his voice softening in a way I hadn’t heard before. “It’s been too long.”
His mother.
He was talking to his mother.
I crept closer to the edge of the deck, trying to get a better read of their conversation while staying hidden.
“I’ve missed you so much. Tell me about your life in the States.”
The States? I remembered the suitcase. So, he did just arrive.
“Have you found happiness?”
Gabe hesitated, then sighed, and I immediately missed my own mother. She’d died shortly after Jemma’s tenth birthday—my thirteenth. My throat constricted. She’d fought so hard to stay with us, but in the end, cancer won.
I wiped at the tear making its way down my cheek, then tiptoed to the opposite side. The deck was framed with wooden planks and big pots of cypress trees—giving perfect privacy but also hindering me from catching a glimpse.
As their conversation continued, I felt drawn into their exchange. I could hear the love between them, but there was also regret. They hadn’t seen each other in a long time.
“Promise me you’ll be careful,” his mother urged. “There are those who would stop at nothing to become the head of the family now that your father is gone.”
