Chapter 17: False Hopes
I woke to the sound of steady breathing and the warmth of skin against my cheek. For a moment, in that hazy space between sleep and consciousness, I felt safe. Protected. Like I was exactly where I belonged.
Then awareness crashed over me like ice water.
I was pressed against Adrian’s chest, my face nestled between the open buttons of his shirt, my body molded to his like I’d sought his warmth in sleep. His arm was wrapped possessively around my waist, holding me close even in unconsciousness, and I could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my palm.
No.
I pulled back slowly, careful not to wake him, and the movement sent a wave of self-disgust so powerful it nearly made me gag. How had I ended up here? How had I gone from confronting him about stealing my child to sleeping in his arms like a willing lover?
The memories came flooding back—my desperate breakdown, his calculated manipulation, the way I’d begged him for scraps of access to my own son. The way I’d surrendered everything just for the possibility of supervised visits.
I’d prostrated myself before the man who’d destroyed my life, and he’d rewarded me by holding me while I slept.
The shame was suffocating.
Moving to the bathroom on silent feet, I caught sight of myself in the mirror and barely recognized the woman looking back. My hair was disheveled from sleep, my eyes red-rimmed from crying, my lips slightly swollen from pressing my face against Adrian’s chest.
This is what surrender looks like.
But as I stared at my reflection, something else began to burn through the self-disgust: determination. Adrian might have broken me last night, might have reduced me to a begging, desperate shell of myself. But I was still Nathaniel’s mother. And my son—my year-old baby who should be taking his first steps, saying his first words—was somewhere in this house.
If Adrian wouldn’t tell me where Nathaniel was, I’d find him myself.
Moving back to the bedroom, I checked Adrian’s phone. His calendar showed meetings starting at ten—conference calls that would keep him occupied in his study.
That gave me a few hours to search the areas of the house I’d never explored.
I dressed quickly in dark clothes and slipped out while Adrian slept peacefully, unaware that his compliant wife was about to become a problem again.
The west wing had always been described to me as staff quarters and storage, nothing that would interest me. But now, with new purpose driving me forward, I decided to investigate for myself.
The hallways here were just as elegant as the rest of the house, but there was definitely a more utilitarian feel—less ornate decoration, more practical lighting. As I moved through the corridors, my heart began to race as I spotted signs that made hope bloom in my chest.
A small tricycle parked beside a doorway.
Colorful children’s artwork taped to what looked like a break room wall.
A juice box sitting on a windowsill, the kind with cartoon characters that any toddler would love.
He’s here. My baby is here.
I followed the trail of evidence deeper into the wing, my pulse hammering with excitement and terror in equal measure. Each discovery seemed to confirm my hopes—safety gates at the top of a stairwell, a basket of toys in a sitting area, even what looked like a high chair pushed against one wall.
But as I continued searching, opening doors and peering into rooms, a different picture began to emerge. The toys were old, well-used but not recently played with. The high chair was dusty. The juice box, when I picked it up, was expired by several months.
And then I found them.
In what appeared to be a small apartment, I discovered a woman folding laundry while a toddler played at her feet—a little girl with dark curls, maybe eighteen months old, babbling happily as she stacked blocks.
“Oh!” The woman looked up, startled. “Mrs. Thorne, I didn’t know you were… is everything alright?”
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly, backing toward the door. “I got lost. I was just exploring.”
“Of course, ma’am. These halls can be confusing.” The woman smiled politely. “This is Maria, my daughter. I hope she wasn’t making too much noise earlier.”
I stared at the little girl, my heart sinking. This was who the toys belonged to. This was why there were child-safety measures and juice boxes and tiny furniture. Not because my son was here, but because the staff who lived in this wing had children of their own.
“She’s beautiful,” I managed, though the words felt like they were being torn from my throat.
As I made my way back through the west wing, every piece of evidence I’d thought pointed to Nathaniel revealed itself as something else entirely. The tricycle belonged to the groundskeeper’s grandson who visited on weekends. The artwork was created by various staff children during their parents’ work hours. Even the safety gates were installed years ago when the previous head of security had a young son.
By the time I returned to the main house, I felt like I was losing my mind. The hope that had burned so bright when I’d first spotted those toys was now ashes in my mouth. Had I imagined the whole thing? Was I so desperate to find my son that I was seeing signs where none existed?
Maybe Adrian is right. Maybe I am unstable.
I checked the time and realized Adrian’s meetings would be starting soon. I needed to get back to our room, needed to pretend I’d never left. The last thing I could afford was for him to discover I’d been searching the house after promising to be compliant.
But as I climbed the stairs to our bedroom, one thought kept echoing in my mind: if Nathaniel wasn’t in the west wing, where was he?
The east wing was completely off-limits, but there had to be other areas I hadn’t considered. Secret rooms, hidden passages, parts of this massive house that I’d never even imagined.
I would continue searching. Tomorrow, or the day after, whenever I got another chance. I would find my son, no matter how many false leads I had to follow or how many times I had to question my own sanity.
Adrian was still asleep when I slipped back into bed, though he stirred slightly when I settled beside him. For the rest of the morning, I lay there planning my next move, trying to figure out where else a year-old boy might be hidden in this maze of marble and secrets.
When Adrian finally woke, he greeted me with that devastating smile that always made my pulse quicken despite everything I knew about him.
“Good morning, beautiful,” he murmured, pulling me closer. “How did you sleep?”
“Well,” I lied, allowing myself to be drawn into his embrace even as my skin crawled at the contact.
He seemed to sense my slight resistance, the way I held myself just a fraction more rigidly than usual. His eyes sharpened with interest, and I realized my mistake. Without the constant influence of Dr. Hayes’s treatments, my natural defenses were reasserting themselves.
And Adrian had definitely noticed.
“You seem tense,” he observed, his thumb stroking across my cheekbone. “Is everything alright?”
“Just thinking,” I said carefully. “About our conversation last night. About… the future.”
“Ah.” His smile widened, satisfaction radiating from him like heat. “And what conclusions have you reached about our future, Mrs. Thorne?”
The way he said my married name, with such possessive certainty, made something twist in my stomach. But I forced myself to relax into his touch, to play the part he expected.
“That I want to try,” I whispered. “To be the woman you need me to be.”
“My perfect girl,” he breathed, and leaned down to kiss me with a hunger that made my toes curl despite my revulsion.
We spent the rest of the day together—Adrian showing me renewed attention, as if my slight resistance had awakened something predatory in his nature. He was charming, attentive, completely focused on me in a way that would have been flattering if I didn’t know it was really about maintaining control.
But without the constant chemical influence of my usual treatments, I found it harder to lose myself in his attention. Harder to forget what he really was beneath the perfect facade.
And I could tell he noticed every subtle sign of my growing clarity.
Which meant these coming days would bring Dr. Hayes and his needles, designed to blur the sharp edges of my awareness once again.But tonight, in these precious hours of relative freedom, I would plan my next search. Because somewhere in this house, my son was taking his first steps and saying his first words.
And I was going to find him, even if it killed me.