Victoria woke in a bed that was too soft, in a room that was too quiet. The ceiling was modern plaster, not the heavy, oppressive oak beams of the East Wing. She was in Dominic Valerius’s penthouse.
She sat up, her hand instinctively going to her stomach. The baby kicked–a flutter of life that reminded her why she had run into the storm. She was safe here. No phantom music. No vanishing fires. No Lady Beatrice staring at her midsection like a vulture.
But as she looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the skyline, a dull ache settled in her chest. She missed the weight of William’s hand in hers. She missed the man who had slept on the floor beside her during the blackout, terrified to let her go.
In the living room, Dominic stood by the kitchen island, his phone pressed to his ear. His expression was grim.
“She is safe, Croft,” Dominic said, his voice clipped. “Which is more than she was in your fortress.”
Victoria moved to the doorway, listening. She could hear William’s voice on the other end–ragged, desperate, shouting loud enough to bleed through the speaker.
*”I need to speak to her. I need to know she’s eating. Did she take her vitamins? Elena said she missed her dose yesterday. She needs them for the baby!”*
Victoria shivered. The irony was a cold blade. William was begging to ensure she took the very pills that had been hidden from her, the pills that were likely part of the gaslighting campaign orchestrated by the staff he trusted. He was so desperate to protect her that he was trying to enforce the regime that was destroying her.
“I’ll handle her health,” Dominic said coldly. “You handle your grandmother.”
He hung up. He didn’t look triumphant. He looked at Victoria with a heavy, complicated gaze. “He’s falling apart.”
“Good,” Victoria lied, hugging her arms around herself. “Maybe now he’ll listen.”