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“No,” Alex confirms.

By the fortieth photo, I'm sitting upright in some images, clearly more lucid though still restrained. The timeline is advancing toward my rescue. In several shots, I appear to be speaking, my lips forming words I can't recall saying.

"Did they record audio?”

Alex hesitates. “Yes. But I haven't?—”

“Play it,” I say, my fingers digging into the armrests of the chair.

“Vesper, I don't think?—”

“Play it, Alex.” My tone leaves no room for argument.

He sighs, reaching across to type a command. A new window appears with an audio file. His finger hovers over the play button, his expression tight with hesitation, waiting for my permission. I nod, and he clicks.

Static fills the room, followed by a voice I barely recognize as my own, slurred and distant.

“My father will kill you all.”

A man laughs, the sound sending ice through my veins. “Your father isn’t going to be a problem. No one is coming.”

My voice grows stronger. “He will come for me.”

A slap echoes through the speakers, and I flinch involuntarily. Alex's hand moves toward mine but stops short, respecting the invisible boundary between us.

“You Rossis think you're untouchable,” the man snarls. “But you're just merchandise now. A body that is going to make me a lot of fucking money.”

I hit pause, feeling nauseous. “That's enough.”

Alex immediately stops the recording. I can sense he's watching me, but I can't bring myself to face him. Not yet.

“They were right about one thing,” I finally say, my voice steadier than I expected. “I was just merchandise.”

“Vesper—”

“It was a business transaction.” I push away from the desk, needing space, air. “My father arranged my marriage to Dmitri. Mario arranged my kidnapping and medical rape. Different methods, same result. I'm property to be traded.”

Alex stands too, his movements careful as if approaching a wounded animal. “You’re not fucking property. Not to the others. Not to me.”

Something in his tone makes me look up. His expression catches me off guard—there’s anger, yes, but something else too. Something that makes my breath catch.

“What am I to you, Alex? Oz, Zaire, and…I know what I am to them. Talona and I…I don’t know just yet. But you. I don’t understand.” The question slips out before I can stop it, hanging in the air between us.

He takes a step closer, close enough that I can see the flecks of silver in his icy blue eyes. “You're…” He pauses, searching for words. “You're the variable in my equation that I never accounted for. The glitch in my matrix.”

Coming from anyone else, it might sound clinical, cold even. But from Alex—the man who lives his life in patterns and codes—it's practically a declaration.

“Is that why you're keeping your distance?” I gesture to the careful space he maintains between us.

Something flashes across his face—frustration, perhaps, or restraint. “I'm keeping my distance because you've been through hell, Vesper. Because you're still processing what happened to you.” His voice drops low. “And because once I touch you, I'm not sure I'll be able to stop.”

The confession sends a rush through me, unexpected and powerful. In this sterile room, surrounded by evidence of myvictimization, I should feel anything but desire. Yet here it is, unfurling inside me like smoke.

“Then don’t.”

The words hang between us. Alex's pupils dilate slightly, the only visible reaction to my admission. His self-control is impressive—and suddenly, incredibly frustrating.

“You don't know what you're saying,” he replies, voice tight. “The trauma, the images you just saw?—”