Before the guards.
Before him.
I dress quietly. Practical clothes. Nothing soft. Nothing that invites touch. By the time I leave the room, the bed is empty. Sheets smooth. No sign he was ever there.
Good.
The dining room is already set when I arrive.
Silver gleams. Porcelain plates. Fresh fruit, pastries, eggs, juice—enough food to host a small delegation. Sunlightspills through the tall windows, making everything look warm, generous.
Safe.
My stomach twists.
You don’t feed prisoners like this.
And yet, the guards are still at the doors. The exits are still watched. The mansion still breathes around me like a living thing that refuses to let me forget where I am.
I take a seat slowly, hands resting in my lap.
Lavish breakfast. Locked world.
Whatever I am now, I know one thing for certain—
This place doesn’t know the difference between care and control.
And neither, terrifyingly, does Konstantin.
I’m just reaching for my cutlery when he arrives.
Freshly showered. Immaculate. Coldly composed, like last night never cracked him open at all. He takes the chair beside mine—too close. His thigh brushes mine when he sits, a deliberate invasion of space that makes my spine stiffen.
He doesn’t apologize.
Of course, he doesn’t.
I can feel his attention on me immediately. That quiet, unsettling focus. Like I’m a problem he’s been working on for too long. Like if he just stares hard enough, I’ll finally reveal the answer.
I keep my eyes on my plate, but I can still feel him watching. Measuring. Claiming. I stare at my plate for a long moment, then lift my eyes to him.
“You said you’d uncover the truth,” I say quietly. “About my father.”
His fork pauses mid-air. Just for a second. Enough that I see it.
“Where did he disappear from?” I ask. “Not the story I grew up with. The real place.”
Konstantin sets his fork down carefully. “Finish your breakfast.”
My jaw tightens. “No.”
His gaze slides to me, sharp now. Warning. “Raelyn—”
“Was he alone?” I press. My hands curl in my lap. “Or was someone with him when he vanished?”
Silence. Thick. Controlled.
“Did he leave anything behind?” I ask. “A message. A name. A location that didn’t make sense at the time but does now?”