When I woke this morning, in a strange bed, in a strange house—in Xavier’s house—I tried to pretend I was in a bad dream. You know, one of those dreams that seem real but isn't. A nightmare that would end as soon as I stretched the sleep from my limbs. Didn't happen. What did happen was a serious pity party as I laid in bed staring at the wall. Is this really my life? One man after another, bossing me around, parading me around like brainless arm candy, kidnapping me. Seriously, when I get away from here, I don't even want to look at another man. Especially Xavier.

I realize now, a little too late, I had romanticized him over the years. Made him into this untouchable hero who could never do anything bad.

Today, after I dined with him for breakfast, where he refused to answer any of my questions, he returned me to this room and locked the door. I don't know how I'm going to get out of here, an escape will be next to impossible, but I won't give up.

Not like I did with my father. Living the life of a zombie, fulfilling every wish my father had with little resistance. When Ian told a reporter, we would be starting a family soon after the marriage, it was at that moment my eyes opened. Wide open. Like a dam lifting, and all my stupidity came pouring out.

I never questioned anything before, when I should have been questioning everything. Obviously, as I reached my twenties, my father couldn't keep me under lock and key anymore, that would look too weird. A man trying to fly under the radar—trying to look legitimate—doesn’t want that kind of spotlight. So, with the help of Delilah, who has some very shady connections of her own, I devised the plan to get as far away from my father as I could.

I never expected to land in the arms of Xavier.

A knock sounds on the door and the knob turns ever so slowly. A smiling sandy-haired woman, wearing a black skirt and white dress shirt, enters with a small bag in her hands.

“I’m Krista,” she announces as if it's perfectly normal I'm locked in a room.

Briefly, I contemplate racing past her, but she quickly closes the door, and it locks from the outside as soon as it shuts.

“I guess we’re both prisoners now,” I tell her.

Undeterred by my gloomy attitude, she continues toward me like a beam of sunshine. “I’ve got all kinds of things for you.”

“Do you have the key to that door?”

She doesn't falter from whatever her mission is. “Xavier instructed me to give you these.”

“Why?”

She shrugs. “Being stuck in a room can get lonely. You'll need something to keep you occupied.”

Hm. I don't want to take the bag extended out, but she did answer my question which no one else seems to do. Maybe this could work to my advantage.

Smiling, I take the crisp brown bag from her hands. “Thanks.”

After informing me she’ll be checking in on me every day, she leaves.

I study the bag in my hands, equal parts repulsed and curious. This all feels very surreal. With nothing else to do, I sit cross legged on the bed and pull out what I least expect… a notebook, sheets of self-folding heavy card stock and drawing pens. The good ones. It's a lot messed up that I feel any sense of gratitude over his gift. He remembers. My mind can't rationalize the juxtaposition of sentiment with the fact it was given to me because I'm his prisoner. No, I shouldn't feel grateful at all. Fear is the emotion I should feel.

Before I completely melt down, I move to the desk in the corner and draw.

Once I start, I can’t stop.

When the sun fades in the sky, and no longer pours through the curtains, my stomach grumbles just as the door opens. He’s here, looking like he stepped out of a hottest executive’s ad, dressed in tailored navy slacks and a white dress shirt that clings to the muscles hidden underneath.

“What do you want?” I ask, irritated that I'm noticing things about his appearance.

He doesn’t say anything for a while, just lets his large presence fill the room until it’s impossible to breathe anything except his scent. He smells like a lifetime of regret waiting to happen.

“It would be easier if you didn’t resist me,” he finally says in a low voice.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He moves closer and sits on the bed. “I just mean things would be smoother if you didn’t try to fight me at every turn.”

Frustrated he's acting as if we didn't spend a good chunk of our lives as friends, I continue trying to break through his armor. “What happened to you?” I have so many questions. “Why did you leave?”

He breathes in deep and lets out a smooth, controlled breath, running a hand through his dark hair.

He’s not going to answer me, and my heart deflates a bit.

“Well, since there wasn't a lot else to do,” I pick up the card I’ve been working on and hold it out, “I made this for you.”

His fingers brush mine when he takes it from me. I watch as he studies the smiling princess on the front, wondering if he remembers our childhood game.

“Thanks for not killing me today,” he reads on the inside. He looks back at me. “You forgot yet.”

He looks very serious about that, but I’d like to believe he hasn't completely crossed to the dark side.

He pockets the card. “You hungry?”

“Yes,” I answer at the same time my stomach growls.

“Come with me.” He holds his hand out and I take it.

His hand is different, strong and harsh, not like when we were kids. It’s possessive now, like he owns my tiny hand in his.

On the walk through his spacious home, my eyes memorize everything, and I hurry my steps to keep up. We pass through immaculate, sophisticated rooms with vaulted ceilings and shiny hardwood floors. Black leather couches with deep red pillows and not a lot of anything else is the theme. It isn’t warm and friendly, instead, it’s polished and unlived in. He turns a sharp corner and leads me down a long corridor filled with Art Deco paintings that brighten the white walls. And so many doors.

Of course, there are guards at every entrance, and I’m sure, cameras everywhere.

We enter a formal dining room with a long mahogany table surrounded by seating for ten. The smell of something delicious makes my stomach growl again.

“Sit,” he directs, leading me to a chair at the end of the table.

He takes the seat right next to me. And when I say right next to me, I mean right next to me. His thigh brushes mine. “I hope you still like Beef Wellington,” he drawls out.

My mouth waters. I'm a little ashamed that my body is so concerned about food under the circumstances.

Krista sets two white plates in front of us, overloaded with Beef Wellington and a white mountain of creamy mashed potatoes. But... there is only one set of cutlery.

His hand reaches it before mine, and he gives a short laugh. “You don’t think I’d give you silverware you could use as a weapon against me, do you?”

Damn it. What a brilliant idea. I suck at escaping, because that thought never crossed my mind; I just wanted to dig in. “Well how am I supposed to eat this?”

“I’ll feed you,” he answers, cutting into the food on my plate.

When he brings the fork to my lips, I almost don’t want to open for him out of pure defiance. But, whore for Beef Wellington that I am, I open wide.

My moan is audible when the tender filet hits my tongue. Briefly, his eyes fall to my mouth before he looks away and takes his turn.

“You don't think it's a little gross we’re eating from the same fork?” Now that I know I could possibly use the utensils as a weapon, I decide to pull from my vault of memories and remind Xavier of his aversion to eat or drink after anyone when we were younger.

The fork tines, supporting a hefty dollop of mashed potatoes, stop at his full lips and then he slides it in. “Nope.”

I nod. “Ok, well I just remember you saying stuff about germs.” I smooth the napkin in my lap. “I just recently got over a really nasty cold.”

He loads up the fork and moves it back to me. “I’ll take my chances.”

“This is crazy,” I tell him, before accepting the offered bite. “I'm not going to fork you to death.”

“Just eat.”

The rest of the meal is finished in silence, and for the next few days, the routine remains the same: breakfast together, lunch in my room alone, and then dinner, where he feeds me like the child he’s always seen me as.

My disdain for the new Xavier grows as the words between us lessen. He barely even looks at me.

One night, after dinner, my anger and resentment hit an all time high when he holds my arm on the walk back to my room. I wiggle free.

“You don’t have to hold onto me. I’m clearly not going anywhere,” I spit out.

“I’ll do whatever I damn well please.”

He opens the door to my room, and I step over the threshold, facing him. “I hate you for leaving.” I slam the door shut in his handsome face, and the lock clicks loudly against the silence in the air.

He pounds his fist into the hard wood, shaking it on its hinges. “I hate you for staying,” he shouts.