The West Wing was not a prison. It was a palace of silence.
Emily’s suite was larger than her entire apartment back in Seattle. The furniture was velvet, the fireplace was marble, and the view of the Alps was breathtaking. But the windows were sealed shut. The door was locked from the outside. And the only sound was the ticking of a grandfather clock that seemed to count down the seconds of her sanity.
She had been here for three days.
Three days without Ethan. Three days without Julian. Three days of nothing but the white noise of Dr. Vane’s "therapy."
"Drink," Dr. Vane said gently.
Emily sat in the armchair by the fire, wrapped in a blanket. She looked at the blue vial in his hand.
"It makes me numb," she whispered. "I can't feel my fingers."
"That is the point, Emily," Vane sooth
