Page 8

My body feels heavy, thoughts sluggish. Whatever they injected me with lingers in my system like poisoned honey. I force myself to breathe deeply, to focus past the chemical haze.

Cataloging my situation is automatic for me. It's a survival skill learned at my father's knee.Assess before action, Francesca. Information is survival.

The room around me is spacious, luxurious, minimalist. But it's also aggressively masculine. There are no personal touches, only expensive taste evident in every detail. The dark woods, steel accents, leather furnishings.

This is a prison designed by someone with resources and refined brutality.

I'm no longer wearing my midnight-blue gown, but a black silk nightgown that clings to every curve, the hem barely reaching mid-thigh.

A shiver rolls down my spine as I realize I have no underwear beneath it.

The realization that someone has undressed me, touched my unconscious body, makes bile rise in my throat.

The emotion swirling in my stomach gets worse.

I have no shoes. No jewelry. No phone.

I have nothing.

I slide from the bed, my legs shaky and unsteady but functional. The plush carpet feels sinfully soft against my bare feet as I cross to the window.

"London…" I whisper, looking out across the skyline in the distance.

England's capital sprawls beneath me like a glittering offering. I must be in a penthouse or high-rise. I'm too high to escape, even if I could break the glass.

Which, testing it with my knuckles, I can confirm is impossible.

Moving way from the window, I find the bedroom door opens to a luxurious bathroom. Inside is black marble, a glass shower large enough for multiple people and soaking tub that could drown my sorrows. Or my life. I haven't decided yet.

Still, there are no windows. No convenient escape hatch in the roof.

Just obscenely expensive toiletries and fluffy towels monogrammed with an elegant 'R' that looks all too familiar.

I splash cold water on my face, finally forcing myself to confront my reflection. The black silk gown emphasizes every curve, leaving little to imagination.

I look vulnerable. Exposed.

I gather my hair back into a semblance of control, twisting it into a knot at the nape of my neck. Control what you can, my father would say. Appearance is armor when you have nothing else.

Returning to the bedroom, I try the main door.

Locked, as expected.

But the quality of the silence beyond it vibrates with presence. Whoever brought me here is waiting. Watching.

I consider my options.

I can cower and wait, or I can demand answers. The Castellano in me, the blood of generations of criminals and survivors, refuses to submit quietly.

"I know someone's out there," I call, voice steadier than the trembling in my belly. "Either open this door or stop pretending this is anything but a kidnapping."

Silence.

Then the soft electronic hum of a lock disengaging.

I step back, squaring my shoulders, lifting my chin. Whatever happens next, I won't show fear. Won't give them the satisfaction of seeing me broken.

The door swings open, revealing a living space as luxurious as the bedroom I'm trapped within.