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But then—anger flares.
Who the hell do these two think they are, fighting over me like I’m property?
"I want to talk to him," I say.
He glares at me, then reluctantly hands me the phone.
"Mr. Marshall, it’s Taylor. I thought I made it very clear when I ran away from your yacht that I never wanted to have any contact with you again—not even as a friend. You kept me trapped for over a year, pretending to care for me. You used my memory loss to lie—to tell me we were lovers, that we were about to get married. But we both know that was a lie, don’t we? I never let you touch me. I could barely stand having you near me—even as a so-called protector. I will never forgive you for isolating me for so long. Don’t ever come near me again. Not because I belong to someone else—no one owns me. But because if you do, I will go to the police. I know the law. What you did to me is called unlawful imprisonment."
William
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
"I want to leave.I won’t be able to eat now."
"You need to eat." Her lips press into a thin line, tension evident in every muscle.
"Don’t worry, William. Pregnant or not, I’ll take care of myself. If there is a baby inside me, it won’t be at risk."
"I’m worried about you, not the baby."
She doesn’t respond, her gaze fixed on the plate.
"Taylor, your conversation with my father just now . . .”
"I don’t want to talk about it."
"But I do."
"What for? Would you even believe me? I have more gaps than answers, and even though I know I never let him touch me, we will never have certainty. And even if I did, I doubt you would believe me. Now, please, take me home, or I will call a cab myself."
"You don’t need a cab. There’s a driver at your disposal. But tonight, I’m the one taking you home."
She remains silent for the entire drive, her eyes locked on the view outside. I stay lost in my own thoughts, trying to process what I just witnessed.
Did he keep her isolated?
It sounds insane. But if it isn’t true, why would she have confronted him like that—right in front of me?
The driver stops in front of her building, but before I can even open the door, she’s already stepping out, slipping away like sand through my fingers.
Maybe I should let her go, give her the space she clearly needs. But the sight of her walking away—even if it’s just to go home—unnerves me.
She could leave again.
Even if my father kept her trapped, he wasn’t the one who took her from here.
So why did she leave?
Maybe after some time with him, she changed her mind. Maybe she couldn’t stand being with a man so much older and that’s why he refused to let her go.
If she really lost her memory, maybe she buried what she did—running away with my father—somewhere deep in her subconscious, ashamed of her own actions.
The driver is about to pull away when I notice a man approaching her at the entrance.
I can’t see his face. His hoodie is pulled low, obscuring his features.
I’m out of the car in an instant, my pulse spiking, half-driven by concern, half by jealousy.