Chapter 5 - The Glass Fortress
The fifty-seventh-floor guest suite was not a room; it was a sprawling, hyper-luxurious apartment that looked like it had been designed for a foreign head of state.
Floor-to-ceiling glass windows offered an unobstructed, terrifying view of the Manhattan skyline, bathed in the orange-grey light of dawn. The floors were thick, soft white oak, covered in hand-woven silk rugs. There was a king-sized bed with Egyptian cotton sheets, a bathroom made entirely of black Italian marble with a deep soaking tub, and a private balcony overlooking the river.
Standing in the center of the living room were eight heavy cardboard boxes. On top of the nearest box sat her cracked yellow desk lamp, her worn paperback novels, and her faded green hoodie—the pathetic, meager remnants of her life in Brooklyn, stripped from her apartment and dropped into this pristine, suffocating palace.
Willa walked slowly through the suite, her worn sneakers looking absurd against the white oak floors.
Titus walked directly beside her.
He hadn't left her side since they exited the fifty-eighth floor. He had wobbled into the elevator with her, sat heavy on her feet during the ten-second ride down, and now followed her from room to room like a massive, slate-colored shadow. He was still weak, his breathing heavy and slow, but the hollow, dead look in his eyes had been replaced by a quiet, fierce obsession with her presence.
Willa sat down on the edge of the massive bed. She buried her face in her hands and let out a long, ragged breath that trembled through her shoulders.
She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream, to smash the expensive glass vases sitting on the side tables, to tear down the silk curtains. But two years of living under threat had taught her that panic was a luxury reserved for people who had a way out. Anger was useless unless it had an edge.
Titus rested his massive, heavy chin on her knee, letting out a soft, low sigh.
Willa lowered her hands, looking into his deep, wrinkled face. "We're both prisoners here, aren't we?" she whispered, stroking the soft velvet skin behind his ears.
Titus blinked slowly, leaning his full weight against her legs.
A quiet knock sounded at the heavy oak entrance door.
Willa jumped slightly. Titus’s ears immediately went back, a low rumble stirring in his deep chest.
"Come in," Willa called out, her voice cold.
The door opened, revealing a middle-aged woman dressed in a crisp, dark navy uniform. She had soft grey hair pulled into a neat bun, sharp blue eyes, and carried a large silver tray holding a steaming teapot, porcelain cups, fresh fruit, and warm pastries.
"Good morning, Miss Thornton," the woman said, her voice warm and maternal, stepping into the room with practiced grace. "I'm Mrs. Gable. I manage the domestic staff for Mr. Kensington."
"Are you his prisoner too?" Willa asked bluntly, not moving from the bed.
Mrs. Gable didn't flinch. She set the heavy silver tray down on the low marble coffee table in the center of the room. She looked at Titus, who was eyeing her with quiet caution, then looked at Willa.
"I've worked for Mr. Kensington for fourteen years," Mrs. Gable said gently. "My husband died of cancer twelve years ago. The hospital bills were seven hundred thousand dollars. I was preparing to sell my home and go into bankruptcy. Mr. Kensington bought the hospital's debt company, erased my file, and gave me this job."
Willa frowned. "He buys people. That's his thing."
"He buys problems," Mrs. Gable corrected softly. "And sometimes, my dear, he buys protection for things that are too fragile to survive on their own." She looked down at Titus, her face softening. "In fourteen years, I have never seen that dog stand up for anyone. Not even Mr. Kensington. Titus was bred and trained by a brutal cartel boss in Colombia before Mr. Kensington took him during a takeover four years ago. That dog was raised on blood and fear. He trusted no one."
Willa looked at the giant silver dog resting against her legs. "He doesn't trust me. He just knows I'm as trapped as he is."
"Animals don't care about cages, Miss Thornton," Mrs. Gable said, walking toward the door. "They care about who holds the key. Eat your breakfast. There are fresh clothes in the wardrobe—tailored to your measurements. Mr. Kensington expects you in his private office on fifty-eight at two o'clock."
"And if I refuse to go?" Willa challenged.
Mrs. Gable paused at the doorway, looking back over her shoulder with a sad, knowing smile. "He won't send guards to drag you, my dear. He knows you won't leave Titus behind. And Titus won't leave you."
The door clicked shut, leaving Willa alone in the vast, silent suite.
She looked at the silver tray, at the fresh pastries, then at the wardrobe across the room. She stood up, walked over, and opened the dark mahogany doors.
Inside hung dozens of expensive silk blouses, tailored trousers, cashmere sweaters, and Italian leather shoes—all in muted shades of cream, grey, and black. They were elegant, soft, and impossibly expensive.
May you like
Willa reached into the back of the wardrobe, past the cashmere and silk, and pulled out her own frayed, bleach-stained green scrub top and worn denim jeans from one of the cardboard boxes. She put them on, pulling her hair back into a messy, tight knot behind her head.
She wasn't going to play his game. She wasn't going to wear his golden livery. If Jared Kensington wanted her in his high office, he was going to get the girl from the Brooklyn clinic—bleach stains, old bruises, and all.
