Women’s clothes in what looks like my size.
There are jeans and sweaters, dresses and skirts, workout clothes and pajamas.
Everything still has tags on it.
Everything looks new and exactly the kind of thing I would normally pick out for myself.
Which means Leo or someone working for him researched me.
They knew my size, my style, and planned this carefully enough to stock a fucking wardrobe for me.
The realization makes my skin crawl.
I grab a pair of soft cotton pajama pants and a matching top and change into them.
Then I go back to the bedroom and survey my prison more carefully.
The books Leo mentioned are on a shelf by the fireplace.
They’re classics, mostly, and some contemporary fiction.
I spot several Italian authors and some philosophy texts.
There’s a sketchpad and a set of drawing pencils on the desk by the window.
They know I like to draw and read.
How long has he been planning this?
I sink down onto the couch and pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them.
The terror is starting to give way to anger again—white-hot and sustaining—and I cling to it because anger is better than fear.
Anger will keep me sharp and help me look for a way out.
Because Iwillget out of here.
I have to. I’m not going to spend the rest of my life as Leo Santoro’s prisoner.
Two guards bring dinner at seven p.m.
They’re both large men in black who don’t make eye contact or respond when I demand they let me out.
They set a tray on the coffee table, check that the windows are secure, and leave without saying a word.
The lock clicks behind them.
The food looks good. Really,reallygood, actually.
It’s some kind of pasta with cream sauce, crusty bread, a side salad, and what looks like tiramisu for dessert.
It smells amazing and my stomach growls because I haven’t eaten since breakfast this morning, before I put on that wedding dress and thought I was getting married.
I don’t touch it.
I won’t eat their food. I won’t accept anything from them.
It’s the only control I have left, the only way I can fight back. So I sit on the couch and stare at the tray and let the food get cold.