The first twenty-four hours back in the penthouse were a symphony of suffocating luxury. Vincent did not hover. He was too smart for that. Instead, he let the cage itself do the work. He had it filled with everything I had once loved: first-edition scores of Mahler and Shostakovich, silk dresses in my signature crimson, a personal chef instructed to prepare the simple Tuscan dishes I’d grown up on. It was a meticulous reconstruction of a life that no longer existed, a mausoleum curated for a ghost.
I did not touch the books. I did not wear the dresses. I ate just enough to keep my strength up. My compliance was a performance, a prelude to a finale he could not yet imagine. I spent my hours with the Vieuxtemps, its ancient wood humming against my chin. I wasn't practicing his chosen repert
