Page 40 of Desperate Crimes
And terrifying.
Let’s not forget that.
Because whoever did this—whoever stole me away—doesn’t just want me.
They know me.
Not in the shallow, surface-level way men usually pretend to.
Not just my name, my face, or what shows up in the tabloids after a gala.
No, this is something else entirely.
They’ve studied me.
Carefully. Intimately.
With the kind of quiet, consuming attention that makes me feel seen in a way I don’t know how to process.
They’ve traced the contours of my private world—things I never speak aloud.
The way I keep a tree in my room year-round because Christmas makes me feel safe.
The exact brand of chocolates I hoard.
They found those softest parts of me—the secret ones, the real ones—and wrapped them in fairy lights and frosted glass. Curated this hidden wonderland like an altar to everything I’ve never dared to ask for out loud.
Like an offering.
And I have to wonder, is that what I am?
An offering?
A tribute dressed in lace and silk and nostalgia?
But the real question—the one crawling through my veins like heat and static—is this. An offering for whom?
Am I meant for the kidnapper or someone else?
Some shadowy buyer or twisted collector?
The idea makes me nauseous.
And a part of me hopes that all this—the tree, the lights, the roses, the restraint—is just for him.
For the voice in the dark who calls me Princess like it’s a birthright.
The truth sits just out of reach, coiled in the corner of my mind like smoke I can’t catch.
And I hate it.
I hate how much I want to know.
I should be planning an escape.
I should be plotting, screaming, fighting.
But instead?
