I waited three days. Three days of playing the perfect captive, eating Marco's gourmet meals, letting him touch me whenever he wanted, pretending I was adjusting to my new life as his kept woman.
Three days of meticulously planning my escape.
Marco had gotten comfortable—dangerously so. He still monitored my phone and controlled my money, but the constant surveillance had relaxed. This morning, he'd left for some kind of business meeting, kissing me goodbye with the casual intimacy of a real lover.
"I'll be back by dinner," he'd murmured, his hand lingering on my cheek. "Try not to miss me too much."
I'd smiled and nodded, my heart racing as I counted down the seconds until freedom.
The moment the elevator doors closed behind him, I moved into action. Over the past three days, I'd hidden clothes and cash in places Marco would never think to look—taped under drawer bottoms, sewn into cushion linings, stuffed inside tampon boxes. Not much, but enough to buy me a ticket to anywhere he couldn't follow.
My hands trembled as I packed a small bag with essentials. Passport, credit cards, the emergency cash I'd been hoarding for years. Marco thought he'd frozen all my accounts, but he didn't know about the offshore account David had established in the Caymans. Blood money, most likely, but desperation had erased my moral qualms.
I changed into jeans and sneakers—clothes I could run in if necessary. In the mirror, I looked nothing like the polished Wall Street executive who'd entered this penthouse four days ago. I was paler, thinner, with dark shadows under my eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and constant fear.
But determination blazed in my gaze.
Marco's security system proved more complex than anticipated. Cameras monitored every corner, motion sensors tracked movement, electronic locks required his fingerprint or key card. But wealthy men feared fire above all else, and fire codes trumped even Mafia connections. The emergency stairwell couldn't be completely sealed.
Twenty minutes to locate the override panel Marco assumed I'd never find. Another ten to crack the code—his grandmother's birthday, the woman he'd mentioned with such reverence. Even dangerous men were predictably sentimental.
The stairwell stretched endlessly downward, each step echoing in the darkness. Forty-seven floors of burning legs and hammering heart, certain the whole building could hear my desperate escape. But I made it. The emergency exit opened into an alley behind the building, and suddenly I was outside, breathing real air for the first time in days.
I walked six blocks before flagging a taxi, constantly scanning for black SUVs or suited men who might be Marco's associates. Nothing. Maybe he truly hadn't expected me to run. Maybe arrogance had made him sloppy.
"JFK Airport," I told the driver. "International terminal."
The forty-minute ride through Manhattan traffic gave me time to book a flight on my phone—first class to London, departing in three hours. From there, I could disappear anywhere. New identity, new life, somewhere Marco Castellano would never find me.
The prospect should have filled me with excitement. Instead, I felt hollow. Empty. As if I were abandoning more than just a prison.
Which was absolutely insane. Marco had murdered my husband and was holding me captive. I should be celebrating my freedom, not feeling guilty about escaping.
But I couldn't stop remembering the way he looked at me—like I was precious. The way he touched me—like he couldn't help himself. The way he'd cooked for me and fretted when I didn't eat. It was twisted, but it was also more genuine attention than I'd received in years.
"You okay, lady?" the taxi driver asked, studying me in the rearview mirror. "You're looking kinda green around the gills."
I did feel sick. The car's motion, combined with my jangled nerves, was making my stomach churn violently. "Just nervous about flying."
A lie. I'd flown hundreds of times for business. This nausea was something else entirely.
By the time we reached JFK, I was battling serious waves of sickness. I paid the driver with shaking hands and stumbled toward the international terminal, my bag feeling impossibly heavy. The airport buzzed with crowds—perfect cover for someone trying to disappear.
Security passed without incident. I maintained my fake smile as the TSA agent examined my passport, even managed small talk with another passenger. Just another businesswoman catching a routine flight to London.
But the nausea was intensifying.
I found a bathroom near my gate and barely reached a stall before violently expelling everything I'd consumed that morning. Marco's perfect French toast, the coffee, even the water I'd sipped in the taxi—it all came up in wrenching spasms that left me shaking and weak.
Food poisoning, I told myself desperately. Stress. Anxiety could make anyone physically ill.
I cleaned myself up and purchased ginger ale from a nearby shop, hoping to settle my rebellious stomach. The boarding announcement hadn't begun, but I wanted to be ready. First-class passengers boarded first, and nothing would prevent me from being on that plane.
But as I sat in the uncomfortable airport chair, sipping ginger ale and fighting another wave of nausea, a terrifying thought crept into my consciousness. A possibility I'd been unconsciously avoiding.
When had I last had my period?
I tried to remember, but the stress of recent days had scrambled my memory. Before David's debt surfaced? After meeting Marco? The timeline blurred together in a haze of fear and confusion.
No. It was impossible. We'd only been together once—well, twice if you counted the kitchen counter incident. But pregnancy from such limited exposure seemed astronomically unlikely. I was thirty-eight, not some teenager who conceived from her first sexual encounter.
Except...
I forced myself to recall that first night in Marco's bedroom. The way he'd looked at me with such burning intensity, touched me like he was memorizing every inch, moved inside me with possessive certainty. It had been incredible, earth-shattering, the most intense sexual experience of my life.
And I couldn't remember him using protection.
"Shit," I whispered, earning a disapproving glare from an elderly woman nearby.
I needed a pregnancy test immediately.
The terminal pharmacy was one of those overpriced convenience stores that specialized in travel necessities marked up by ridiculous percentages. Cost was irrelevant—I needed answers.
The pregnancy tests were locked behind glass, apparently even airport thieves maintained some standards. I approached a bored-looking clerk scrolling through his phone.
"Which one?" he asked without looking up.
"The most accurate. The fastest. Price doesn't matter."
He handed me a digital test promising sixty-second results for forty-seven dollars. Highway robbery, but desperation had eliminated my financial sensibilities.
Back in the bathroom, my hands shook as I read the instructions. Simple enough: urinate on the stick, wait one minute, read results. Except nothing about this situation was remotely simple.
That minute stretched into eternity. I sat on the toilet seat, staring at the plastic stick that would either confirm my worst nightmare or allow me to board that London flight with a clear conscience.
The display flickered.
Then two words appeared that froze my blood solid:
PREGNANT 2-3 WEEKS
"No," I breathed, staring at the screen in horror. "No, no, no, no, no."
But denial couldn't change reality. Everything suddenly made perfect sense—the nausea, the exhaustion, my tender breasts, the strange food cravings I'd been experiencing.
I was pregnant. Carrying Marco Castellano's child. The man who'd murdered my husband had impregnated me, trapping me in the most fundamental way possible.
My hands shook violently as I stuffed the test into my bag. I needed to escape, needed to reach that plane before—
"Victoria."
The voice came from directly outside my stall. Deep, smooth, with that faint Italian accent that had haunted my dreams.
Marco.
"I know you're in there, sweetheart. Come out so we can discuss this like adults."
I pressed my back against the stall door, my heart hammering so hard it felt like it might burst. How had he found me so quickly? How had he known exactly where to look?
"Victoria," Marco repeated, his tone patient but implacable. "You're making this unnecessarily difficult."
I heard footsteps as other women quickly exited the bathroom, probably intimidated by the dangerous-looking man who'd invaded their space like he owned it. Within moments, we were alone.
"I'm calling security," I managed, though my voice came out as a terrified whisper.
"No, you're not. Because then I'd have to explain to airport security why my pregnant fiancée is attempting to flee the country. That conversation wouldn't end well for either of us."
Pregnant fiancée. He knew. Somehow, impossibly, he already knew.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I lied.
Marco's laughter was low and genuinely amused. "Victoria, I've been monitoring your location since you left the building. I know you stopped at the pharmacy. I know you purchased a pregnancy test. And I know you're sitting in that stall right now, staring at a positive result and wondering how your life became so completely fucked."
I squeezed my eyes shut in defeat. "That's impossible. I disabled my phone's GPS."
"GPS isn't the only tracking method available, sweetheart. That delicate gold bracelet you never remove? David's final anniversary gift?"
I looked down at my wrist, at the intricate bracelet David had presented for our fifth anniversary. The only jewelry I'd continued wearing after his death, because he'd insisted it brought good luck.
"There's a tracker embedded in it," Marco continued conversationally. "Has been for over two years. David wanted constant awareness of your whereabouts. Paranoid husband, worried about his beautiful wife's safety. Or perhaps concerned about what you might discover if you went exploring in the wrong places."
Ice water replaced the blood in my veins. The bracelet had been David's idea. He'd insisted I never remove it, claiming it was bad luck, proof of his devotion.
Another lie. Another method of control I'd never suspected.
"You bastard," I whispered.
"That would be your deceased husband, sweetheart. I'm simply the man intelligent enough to exploit his paranoia."
I saw Marco's expensive Italian shoes beneath the stall door. He was right there, mere inches away.
"Open the door, Victoria. We have important matters to discuss."
"Go away."
"Impossible. You see, you're now carrying something that belongs to me. And I take exceptional care of what's mine."
My hand moved instinctively to my stomach, though it was far too early for any visible changes. But knowing life was growing inside me—Marco's child—altered everything fundamentally.
"How long have you known?" I asked.
"Known what? That you were pregnant? Approximately fifteen minutes. Known you were planning to escape? Since the moment you moved into my home."
His casual admission made me want to scream. "If you knew I was planning to run, why didn't you stop me?"
"Because I wanted to observe how far you'd progress. I wanted to see if you'd actually follow through." Marco's voice softened, becoming almost gentle. "And because I knew you'd discover the pregnancy before boarding that plane."
"You orchestrated this." It wasn't a question. The pieces were falling into place, creating a picture that was both brilliant and absolutely terrifying.
"I orchestrate many things, Victoria. But we'll discuss specifics somewhere more private. Now please open the door."
"What if I refuse?"
"Then I'll kick it down and carry you out over my shoulder. Your choice—maintain some dignity, or let this entire airport witness exactly how little control you actually possess."
I knew he'd do it. Marco Castellano didn't make empty threats.
With trembling fingers, I unlocked the stall.
Marco leaned casually against the bathroom wall, arms crossed, appearing completely relaxed despite having just tracked down his escaped prisoner. He'd changed since morning—gone was the business suit, replaced by dark jeans, black t-shirt, and leather jacket that made him look both dangerous and impossibly attractive.
"There's my girl," he said, straightening. "You look absolutely terrible."
"Thanks. You really know how to make a pregnant woman feel special."
Marco's smile was razor-sharp. "Pregnant woman. I do love how that sounds."
I wanted to hit him. Instead, I clutched the pregnancy test tighter. "You did this deliberately."
"Did what deliberately?"
"Got me pregnant. That first night—you didn't use protection because you wanted this outcome."
Marco stepped closer, effectively trapping me against the sink. "Very astute, Victoria. You're considerably more intelligent than I initially assessed."
"Why?"
"Because pregnancy changes everything. Makes escape infinitely more difficult. Makes disappearing completely impossible." His hand rose to cup my cheek. "Makes you mine in a way that can never be undone."
I jerked away from his touch. "You're completely sick."
"I'm thorough. There's a significant difference." Marco produced his phone, displaying the screen. "Your London flight? Canceled due to mechanical difficulties. Terribly inconvenient timing."
Of course. He'd probably bought the airline, threatened the crew, or employed whatever methods wealthy criminals used to reshape reality according to their desires.
"I can book another flight."
"With what funds? I closed the Cayman account this morning. Took considerable effort to locate, but David wasn't nearly as clever as he believed."
My final escape route, eliminated. I was trapped, pregnant, and completely at Marco's mercy.
"What do you want from me?" I asked, hating how defeated I sounded.
"I want you to come home. I want you to accept that escape is no longer an option. And I want you to begin considering what's best for our child."
Our child. The words created a strange flutter in my stomach—partly nausea, partly something else I refused to examine.
"This is completely insane," I said. "You murdered my husband, kidnapped me, impregnated me against my will, and now you want to play happy family?"
"I want to provide our child with the life it deserves. A life David could never have offered."
"David would have been a wonderful father."
Marco's eyes turned arctic. "David was a lying, cheating, traitorous piece of garbage who would have taught our child that dishonesty and cowardice were acceptable life strategies. Is that truly what you want?"
"Don't you dare lecture me about morality. You're a murderer."
"I'm many things, Victoria. But I'm not a liar. I've never pretended to be anything other than exactly what I am." Marco moved closer, near enough that his scent overwhelmed me. "Can you honestly say the same about David?"
I wanted desperately to defend my dead husband, but the words wouldn't form. Because Marco was absolutely right. David had lied about everything—his work, his money, his connections, probably even his feelings for me.
"The pregnancy changes nothing," I said finally. "I still despise you."
"No, you don't." Marco's hand moved to rest possessively on my stomach. "You hate the situation. You hate feeling powerless. But you don't hate me."
"Remove your hand."
"It's my child too, Victoria. I have every right to touch what belongs to me."
"The baby belongs to me. And I'll decide what happens to it."
Marco's expression turned lethal. "Are you threatening my child?"
The raw possessiveness in his voice made me shiver. "I'm saying I have options."
"No," Marco said quietly, "you absolutely don't. Because if you even consider harming what's mine, I'll lock you away until you give birth. And afterward, I'll ensure you never see sunlight again."
The threat was delivered in the same conversational tone he might use to discuss dinner plans, which made it infinitely more terrifying.
"You can't keep me prisoner indefinitely."
"Watch me." Marco's hand moved from my stomach to my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. "But imprisonment isn't necessary, Victoria. You could choose happiness. You could view this as a beginning rather than an ending."
"Beginning of what?"
"Of us. Our family. The life we're going to build together."
His absolute certainty made my chest constrict. "There is no 'us,' Marco. There's only you holding me captive and me searching for escape."
"Is that accurate?" Marco leaned down until his lips nearly touched mine. "Because five minutes ago, you were vomiting from morning sickness. And right now, with me this close, your pupils are dilated and your breathing has changed completely. Your body recognizes what it wants, even if your mind refuses to acknowledge it."
He was right, and I hated him for it. Despite knowing what he was, what he'd done, my body still responded to his proximity. Still craved his touch with an intensity that terrified me.
"Physical reaction doesn't mean anything," I whispered.
"It means everything." Marco's thumb traced my lower lip with maddening gentleness. "It means you're finally beginning to understand that this isn't temporary. This isn't something you can escape or fight your way out of. This is your new reality, Victoria. And the sooner you accept it, the happier you'll become."
Before I could respond, he kissed me. Soft yet possessive, like he was claiming me all over again. And God help me, despite everything, I kissed him back.
When he pulled away, my head was spinning.
"Let's go home," Marco said, taking my hand with natural ease.
"This isn't over," I warned as he led me from the bathroom.
"No," Marco agreed, his fingers intertwining with mine. "It's only just beginning."
As we walked through the airport toward the exit, I caught my reflection in a terminal window. Pale and shaken but unmistakably pregnant, with Marco's hand possessively guiding me, protecting me, claiming me.
I looked exactly like what I'd become—a woman who belonged to a dangerous man, whether she wanted to or not.
The worst part wasn't his manipulation or imprisonment. The worst part was the small, twisted corner of my heart that felt relieved. I didn't have to run anymore. Didn't have to figure out survival alone.
I had Marco. And whatever else he was—killer, criminal, captor—he was also the only person in the world who genuinely wanted me.
Even if his reasons were completely wrong.
Even if I was beginning to suspect that might not matter as much as I'd thought.