Jane closed the door of the East Wing suite behind her, the soft click sounding like a final, heavy seal. She and Mrs. Collins had just returned from the rare, supervised shopping trip, and her heart was still hammering—not from the exhaustion of forced normalcy, but from the sudden, cold reality of her confinement.
She walked a few steps into the luxurious room, then froze.
Alexander was there.
He was sprawled on the king-sized bed, one arm propped beneath his head, his dark suit perfectly pressed even in repose. The polished mahogany of the headboard framed his face, which was set in the familiar, formidable stone face that Jane had come to dread. It was a face that promised unyielding control and utter lack of emotion.
She felt the panic rise, a cold, sickening tide. She had been gone for only a few hours, but his presence was a physical weight pressing the air from her lungs. She couldn't move.
Alexander's eyes finally shifted, cutting through the space between them. They were sharp, assessing, and full of the disdain he reserved only for her.
"Why are you standing there?" His voice was low, but every syllable was laced with ice, carrying the unspoken command that she was wasting his time. "Move."
The sharpness was enough. Jane's breath hitched, and she felt the all-too-familiar shiver run down her spine. The raised voice, no matter how slight, always triggered the memory of her recapture, of the rough hands and the crushing finality of his will. She walked toward the bed like a snail, each step heavy and reluctant, feeling like prey approaching a perfectly still predator.
She reached into the shopping bag, her hand trembling as she pulled out the small, awkwardly wrapped gifts she'd been pressured to buy.
"I… I got you these," she managed, her voice barely a whisper. She avoided his eyes, instead staring at the faint blue stitching on his silk pillowcase.
She placed the items on the crisp white duvet: a silk tie, a deep sapphire blue with a conservative, almost antique pattern, and a simple, braided leather bracelet.
Alexander didn't move. He only tilted his head, his gaze sweeping over the objects.
The tie was high quality, certainly, but it looked nothing like the custom-made, surgically sharp accessories he usually wore. The bracelet was the final, baffling insult to his persona. He looked like he was fighting an involuntary shudder.
What was he supposed to use that for?
A muscle in his jaw twitched. His first, instinctual urge was to sweep the ridiculous items off the bed—to remind her that he bought entire stores on a whim, that her pitiable attempt at a gesture was an affront to his taste. But the thought was quickly choked down by a cold sense of duty.
This is for Mother.
He had to maintain the appearance of a comfortable, if turbulent, relationship. He didn't want his mother to see the truth: that Jane was a prisoner, that the debt he was collecting was bigger than a debt, bigger than a mere exchange. He was doing this for a reason that he could not, would not, explain.
A foreign, rasping sound caught in his throat. He realized he was trying to form the word "Thank you." It was a word that had never been necessary in his world, a weakness he had never practiced, and it felt like acid on his tongue. He couldn't say it. Not now.
Just as the silence threatened to stretch into an unbearable chasm, a timely, soft knock sounded at the door.
"Sir? Miss Jane? Dinner is ready." It was one of the senior maids, her voice perfectly neutral.
Alexander felt a rush of genuine, profound gratitude. It was the perfect escape. He shot Jane one last, indecipherable look, a fleeting mix of contempt and perhaps the faintest hint of something tired. He swung his legs off the bed in a swift, decisive movement, his heavy boots hitting the Persian rug. He walked past her and toward the door, his long stride already eating up the hallway outside.
He left Jane standing there, alone, the small gifts still lying pristine on the bedspread. She felt a burning pressure behind her eyes, the humiliating weight of his rejection settling deep in her chest. She wanted to collapse, to scream, to weep until the polished floor dissolved beneath her.
But she didn't. She swallowed the pain, pushing the bitter salt of refusal back down. She closed her eyes for a single, stark moment, picturing Ginny's tear-streaked face. I will do anything to save them. Even if this life, this cage, took everything she had left. Even if it took her life.