Chapter 16 Three Hours of War
Julian’s escort back to Suite 1404 was swift and silent. Rhys hadn't come, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the lingering, confusing residue of his touch on my neck. I shut the door and stood, listening to the impossible silence of the luxurious room. It was a silence that felt earned by his wealth and enforced by his security—a silence designed to crush dissent.
Three hours. It felt less like a break and more like a psychological test. I already knew I would fail the sleep portion.
I shed the new charcoal suit, tossing the expensive armor onto the bed. It was too structured, too perfect, demanding an energy I no longer possessed. I pulled on the soft hotel robe, walked to the panoramic window, and looked out over the deep, black Mediterranean. The distant lights of the coast were glittering, cold and uninterested in my crisis. They seemed to shimmer with the same calculated indifference Rhys projected.
I desperately needed sleep, but the prospect of closing my eyes was terrifying. The nightmare—the one that started with the sound of the glass shattering and ended with the claustrophobic feeling of being trapped—was waiting. If I slept, I risked losing control, and losing control right now was synonymous with losing the war.
The real battle was in my mind, fighting Rhys's unsettling behavior.
He’s going to crash, Doctor Winslow. You're degrading your value.
I paced the length of the suite, replaying the scene in the War Room. The intensity of his gaze, the deliberate possessiveness of his language, the light brush of his fingertips against the silk collar. It wasn't a professional correction; it felt like a claimed territory. But why? I needed a logical variable to explain the shift, something that fit into the cold equation of Rhys Vance.
I sank onto the chaise lounge, wrapping the robe tightly around me, and let the history flood in. Rhys Vance didn't look at me with desire; he looked at me with ownership and antipathy.
I grew up with three biological brothers (Jace, Grant, Owen) and the three Vance brothers (Aaron, Elias, Rhys), meaning I essentially had six built-in bodyguards. They were all ferociously protective, but Rhys and Owen, as a unit, were the absolute worst offenders. Rhys had constantly policed my life. He treated my personal life like a structural weakness in a bridge he was obligated to protect.
In high school, my life was a living hell. Rhys and Owen took it upon themselves to ensure I didn't date. They didn't just disapprove; they intervened with a chilling lack of subtlety. Rhys had taken it upon himself to beat up three different boys for leaning too close to me at parties, an action that cemented his reputation as untouchable and my dating life as non-existent.
College—going to Chicago while the boys stayed in Boston—was supposed to be my escape. It was the first time my dating life wasn't subject to his direct, physical sabotage. Jace and Grant would still check up on me, offering their usual protective brotherly advice, but Rhys... Rhys would materialize unexpectedly on campus whenever I dared to get close to someone, using his presence alone to make the other man feel inadequate until he backed off. His control was a precise, targeted psychological warfare that convinced me he truly hated my attempts at independence.
The tether finally snapped during my junior year. Rhys had flown to Chicago for the sole purpose of cornering a promising medical student I was seeing. The resulting fight was explosive, culminating in me telling him—in front of Owen and half his F1 development team—that his obsession was sick, abusive, and that I would never speak to him again if he didn't give me distance. Stunned by the public severity of the confrontation, and preoccupied with the demands of officially launching Apex Racing, Rhys finally withdrew.
That silence, and the geographical distance, became my genuine window of freedom. It was during this period, when Rhys was focused entirely on his empire and I finally believed I was truly emancipated from his scrutiny, that I began my relationship with Alex– which turned out great as you can tell.
Yet, for him and my own brothers, the rules didn't exist. They were free to date, make out, and sleep with anyone they chose. Rhys was particularly notorious for cycling through high-profile models and actresses with clinical detachment.
They suit the professional, but they don't suit the woman.
The line was a direct, confusing attack on me he had forced me to become—the guarded, professional academic. But his current, invasive focus on my exhaustion and my vulnerability made no sense unless it was tied to the only motivation Rhys Vance truly understood: control.
He didn't want me because he desired me; he wanted to ensure his expensive, bespoke project—the counter-narrative—didn't fail because of my structural weakness. The touch was a reminder that he paid for the armor, and he owned the space beneath it. The possessiveness was merely the manifestation of his hatred for anything he couldn't fully command.
I hate being stuck here, I thought fiercely. I hate being reliant on him.
I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Two hours and forty-five minutes remained. My pulse was steady, my mind sharp, but sleep was a lost cause. The energy I had reserved for rest had been spent fighting ghosts and analyzing Rhys's terrifying psychology.
If I couldn't sleep, I would work. Work was logic, numbers, and objective success—a fortress against the emotional, confusing mess of my personal life and the history I shared with Rhys Vance.
I powered on the War Room tablet, pulling up Pillar 3: The Fraud Counter. The docuseries needed a hook, a compelling, scientifically rigorous teaser to ensure maximum media impact the moment Phoenix started reeling from the donation news.
I spent the next two hours perfecting the visual layout and refining the script for the opening sequence, pulling in proprietary F1 footage that made my scientist heart ache with appreciation. Rhys wanted an intellectual war. I would give him a masterpiece.
When the alarm chimed a discreet, polite chime signaling the end of the three hours, I was already dressed in the suit, the final script for the docuseries locked and waiting. I felt completely depleted, yet entirely ready.
I grabbed the titanium card from the desk. It was time to return to the man who hated me, who controlled me, and whose war was now my own.