Page 84 of Modern Romance September 2026 Books 5-8

I can feel it.

I get undressed, and walk into the bathroom. I didn’t really examine it in a meaningful way last night. I was only looking for ways that I could create weapons. But it is absolutely beautiful. What shocks me about this house is that it is beautiful inside. So much less a prison compound than it appears from the exterior.

The shower is exquisite, with a glorious rain head, and I take my time in it. As weird as it is to admit, I’ve never been in a place this nice before. This prison cell is by far the most luxurious place I’ve ever been put in.

It makes me want to laugh. I guess it says a lot about my life.

I get out of the shower, and shut it off. Then I grab a plush towel and begin to dry myself off. There’s lotion there sitting on the counter, and I take my time putting it on. It’s also on another level of quality. Thick and creamy, and I feel like a princess in a way that I never have before. God. That’s fucked-up. Honestly. I am a mafioso’s prisoner, and I’m pondering the quality of the lotion.

I put it back on the counter, and walk out into the bedroom. And there he is. Standing in the doorway, holding a tray. His eyes graze over my curves, and I’m very aware that I only have a towel wrapped around me, my skin still damp from the shower.

“Breakfast,” he says, putting it at the foot of the bed, then standing there looking at me.

“I’m not going to eat in a towel,” I say.

“All right,” he says, and he turns away from me and walks out the door, closing it behind him.

I stare at it, and move forward, locking it behind him, which is different than him locking me in. I don’t have other clothes for myself, I realize. In this whirlwind period of time, I haven’t thought much about my own needs, but I am now. I don’t want to put my dirty clothes back on. I had been given a dress when I first arrived, and I don’t want to put that back on either. I vaguely remember that when I went into the closet to look at the hangers, there were clothes. It was only I was in too much shock to fully recognize that.

I walk in there again, and I am stunned now that I’m actually paying attention. There are clothes—beautiful clothes. And all of them in my size.

It’s a fashion dream, and I’m not immune to it, even now. Such a strange dream for a girl from nowhere. But it has always been mine. Clothes are a particular sort of magic. They can transform you into someone interesting, if you do it right. They can make you invisible, or they can make you the queen of whatever room you’re in.

For all that I love fashion, so much of it has been budget, and relegated to my classes. I make interesting clothes out of whatever I can get my hands on. Recycled materials are a specialty of mine. Repurposing old things and giving them new life.

None of these glorious works of wonder are repurposed.

These clothes are made of soft, stretchy fabrics that will feel nice on my ever-expanding waistline. There’s a sweater dress, and I take hold of it and pull it out. It’s made of cashmere, and I practically purr when I put it on and the fabric clings to my skin.

Cashmere. A whole cashmere dress just resting against my skin. It’s like an orgasm.

I think of him, and I regret the choice of comparison.

I don’t bother with underwear, because I do find it also uncomfortable as my body changes, and I also have to acknowledge that my breasts look amazing with just the soft cashmere over the top of them. And if I want to appeal to the man’s sexuality, it behooves me to make my breasts look as amazing as possible.

So I stick with that bold choice, and I go back to the bed, examining the breakfast that he’s brought me. Herbal tea. Which bums me out. Pregnant women are allowed to have a tiny bit of caffeine. But I suppose that’s a fight I’ll have to have with them later, and of the fights that I want to have, that one is low on the list.

The breakfast itself is lovely. With pastries and cured meats. Farm fresh eggs. I tuck into them with relish. I open up the curtains, and look outside. It’s beautiful out there, the sea an imposing blue that almost hurts my eyes to look at. I should be back in Rome, waiting tables, taking tests.

I’m momentarily stunned by the realization that I don’t have to do anything. The food was brought to me. I don’t have to go to my scheduled work shift. I don’t have to go to class. I won’t have to do homework. I don’t have to pay bills.

I feel like I’m floating for a moment. No. No. I need to be reasonable. This isn’t a good thing.

It’s not a vacation. It’s a kidnapping.

Even if it is a somewhat benevolent kidnap, preventing me from being murdered, it’s still a kidnap.

I finish eating my breakfast, and then I decide it’s time for me to explore the house. He’s given me a little route that I’m allowed to run, and even though I find it to be deeply ungenerous, I’m not going to challenge him on it at the moment.

I creep out of the room, barefoot, wearing just this soft dress against my skin, and I make my way down the hall. For the first time, I walk down the staircase without being carried, or being closely supervised. I don’t know what they think I’m going to do. It’s not like I can run away. I’m not going to go out and fling myself into the sea. I have far too great a sense of self-preservation for that. I think about the way that I responded to him when I came out of the bathroom and saw him. The way that my body felt like it had been struck with a match, burned.

I wrinkle my nose, ignoring that, and make my way down into the lower part of the house. I move quickly by the dining room; I’ve been there already. What I’m looking for is the library.

I pass by several rooms, and I don’t see anyone, which surprises me, because last night I had the sense that the house was fully occupied by a fairly large number of people.

Perhaps they’re all in a meeting.

I wish I had a better sense of what it is he does. For how dangerous he is still.