Page 53 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)
GRACE
I woke to sunlight streaming through familiar curtains—pale blue silk, embroidered with silver thread that caught the morning light and scattered it across the room in delicate patterns. For a moment, I was disoriented, caught between past and present, between memory and reality.
This was my bedroom. My childhood bedroom in the O'Sullivan estate. The room I'd left at eighteen, vowing never to return, determined to build a life beyond my father's influence, beyond the family legacy of power and violence and control.
I sat up slowly, my body aching from the tension of the previous day's abduction, from being manhandled into vehicles, from hours spent in silent transit to this place I'd once called home.
The bed beneath me was the same—a queen-sized four-poster that had always seemed too grand for a child, too formal for comfort.
The walls were the same pale blue as the curtains, adorned with the same carefully selected artwork—tasteful landscapes, nothing personal, nothing that might reveal the personality of the room's occupant.
Because that had never mattered. Not to my father. Not to the designers he'd hired to create a space that projected the right image, the right status, the right impression of the O'Sullivan princess.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, noticing for the first time that I was wearing silk pajamas I didn't recognize—expensive, perfectly fitted, in a shade of cream that complemented my coloring.
Someone had changed my clothes while I was unconscious.
Had stripped me, bathed me perhaps, dressed me like a doll in garments chosen for appearance rather than comfort.
The violation sent a chill down my spine despite the warmth of the morning sun.
I stood, moving to the window that overlooked the estate's formal gardens—immaculate as always, not a flower out of place, not a leaf allowed to fall where it might disrupt the perfect symmetry of the design.
Beyond the gardens lay the grounds that had been both playground and prison during my childhood—acres of manicured lawns, wooded areas, the lake where I'd learned to swim under the watchful eyes of security personnel who were as much guards as they were protectors.
A familiar cage, gilded with luxury and privilege but a cage nonetheless.
I tried the door and found it unlocked—a small mercy, though not necessarily a sign of freedom.
When I stepped into the hallway, I immediately spotted the man stationed at the end of the corridor—broad-shouldered, expressionless, a subtle bulge beneath his jacket indicating a weapon.
He nodded politely in my direction but made no move to approach or speak.
A guard, then. Not even bothering to disguise his purpose.
I retreated back into the bedroom, closing the door softly behind me.
The en-suite bathroom was as I remembered it—all marble and crystal and gold fixtures, designed to impress rather than comfort.
I showered quickly, the hot water doing little to ease the tension that had settled between my shoulder blades, the sense of dread that had been building since I'd recognized the men who took me as my father's employees rather than random kidnappers.
When I emerged, wrapped in a plush towel, I found clothes laid out on the bed—a simple but obviously expensive dress in deep green, matching shoes, understated jewelry.
The kind of outfit my father had always preferred me to wear for family occasions.
Conservative but elegant. Projecting wealth and taste without ostentation.
I stared at the clothes, at this evidence that I was still being controlled, still being molded into someone else's vision of who I should be.
For a moment, I considered refusing to wear them, considered demanding my own clothes back, considered some small act of rebellion to establish that I wasn't the same compliant daughter who had left this house years ago.
But what would that accomplish? What battle would that win in the war that was clearly coming?
I dressed in the provided clothes, the fabric sliding cool and smooth against my skin, the fit perfect as if it had been tailored specifically for me.
Perhaps it had been. Perhaps my father had maintained a wardrobe for me all these years, ready for the day I would return—willingly or not—to the fold.
The thought was both disturbing and illuminating. Had he always planned to bring me back eventually? Had my abduction by the Contis merely accelerated a timeline he'd already established in his mind?
I was still contemplating this when a knock came at the door—three sharp raps that brooked no refusal. Before I could respond, the door opened to reveal a woman I didn't recognize—middle-aged, professionally dressed, with the efficient manner of someone accustomed to managing other people's lives.
"Good morning, Ms. O'Sullivan," she said, her tone polite but distant. "I'm Mrs. Reynolds, your father's personal assistant. Breakfast is ready in the small dining room whenever you're prepared to come down."
"Where is my father?" I asked, the question that mattered most. "I'd like to speak with him."
"Mr. O'Sullivan is unavailable at present," she replied smoothly. "He sends his regrets and asks that you make yourself comfortable. He'll speak with you when his schedule permits."
The dismissal was so casual, so complete, that for a moment I could only stare at her.
My father had orchestrated my abduction from the Contis, had brought me back to the home I'd left years ago, had me dressed and guarded like a prisoner—and now couldn't be bothered to see me?
To explain why I was here, what he wanted from me, what fate awaited me in this familiar cage?
"When will that be?" I asked, unable to keep a hint of bitterness from my voice. "When will his 'schedule permit' a conversation with the daughter he had kidnapped?"
Mrs. Reynolds's expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes—discomfort, perhaps, or pity. "I couldn't say, Ms. O'Sullivan. Your father's schedule is quite demanding. But I'm sure he'll make time as soon as possible."
She was lying. I could see it in the careful neutrality of her expression, in the way she avoided direct eye contact, in the slight tension in her shoulders.
My father had no intention of speaking with me soon.
Was avoiding me deliberately, leaving me to stew in uncertainty, in confusion, in the growing dread that had settled in my stomach like a physical weight.
"I see," I said, matching her professional tone. "Please inform my father that I'm eager to speak with him at his earliest convenience. And that I have questions only he can answer about my... situation."
"Of course," she agreed, though we both knew the message would either never be delivered or would be ignored if it was. "Now, about breakfast?—"
"I'm not hungry," I interrupted, needing some small act of defiance, some assertion of will in a situation where I seemed to have none. "But I would appreciate some books, if that's possible. And perhaps access to the garden, if I'm to be confined to the house otherwise."
Mrs. Reynolds nodded, making a note on the tablet she carried. "I'll arrange for books to be brought to your room. As for the garden... I'll need to consult with security, but I believe limited access during daylight hours might be possible, with appropriate supervision."
Appropriate supervision. The euphemism for guards, for watchful eyes, for the constant reminder that I was here not as a daughter returning home but as... what? A prisoner? A pawn? Something else entirely that I couldn't yet discern?
"Thank you," I said, the politeness automatic, ingrained by years of training in the social niceties expected of Patrick O'Sullivan's daughter. "That would be appreciated."
She nodded again, her task complete, and left, closing the door behind her with a soft click that somehow managed to sound final, irrevocable, like the turning of a key in a lock even though no actual lock had engaged.
I was alone again, in the room that had once been mine but now felt like a stranger's, in the house that had once been home but now felt like enemy territory.
Alone with questions that multiplied by the minute, with fears that grew in the silence, with the dawning realization that whatever my father had planned for me, it wasn't a joyful family reunion or a genuine reconciliation.
It was something else. Something calculated. Something cold.
Something I wouldn't like at all.
The first day passed in a blur of monotony and growing tension.
Books were delivered as promised—classics, nothing controversial, nothing that might provoke thought or inspire rebellion.
Meals appeared at regular intervals, served by staff who treated me with polite deference but offered no conversation, no information, no connection to the world beyond my gilded cage.
I was allowed into the garden for one hour in the afternoon, accompanied by a guard who maintained a respectful distance but never took his eyes off me, never allowed me near the perimeter of the property, never gave me an opportunity to speak with anyone who wasn't directly employed by my father.
No phone. No computer. No television or radio or newspapers. No contact with the outside world. No explanation for why I was here, what my father wanted, what fate awaited me in this familiar prison.
The second day was the same. And the third. A routine established with deliberate precision, with calculated control, with the clear message that I was here on my father's terms, subject to his whims, dependent on his goodwill for even the smallest freedoms.