Chapter 1: Arrival in the Cage

The black SUV wound its way up the private road, snow dusting the pines like the universe had a sick sense of humor about my situation. Kingsley Ridge loomed ahead, all glass and steel jutting from the mountainside. My ankle monitor itched under my sock, a constant reminder that this wasn't a vacation.

It was house arrest.

I gripped the edge of the leather seat, willing my stomach to settle. Four months of this bullshit and the nausea still picked the worst times to show up. The driver, some stone-faced KingsTech security guy, didn't say a word as we pulled up to the massive front doors. He just opened my door and waited.

"Welcome to your new home, Ms. Whitmore," he grunted, handing me my single suitcase. "Mr. Kingsley is already inside."

Of course he was. Sullivan wouldn't dream of letting someone else set the terms of his own imprisonment. I squared my shoulders, smoothed down my sweater, and stepped inside.

The foyer was ridiculous. Marble floors that probably cost more than my entire apartment, a chandelier that looked like it belonged in a museum, and floor-to-ceiling windows showing off the Rocky Mountains like a goddamn postcard. And there, leaning against the curved staircase like he owned the place—which he did—was Sullivan.

He looked exactly the same. Six-three of arrogant perfection in a black button-down with the sleeves rolled up, exposing those stupidly defined forearms. His dark hair was slightly messy, like he'd been running his hands through it. Those hazel eyes narrowed the second they landed on me.

"Rosalind." His voice was clipped, that familiar commanding tone. "They really went through with it."

I dropped my suitcase with a thud that echoed through the cavernous space. "Surprise. Looks like the federal judge has a sense of humor after all."

He pushed off the staircase and stalked toward me, each step measured. My stupid pulse decided this was the perfect time to audition for a romance novel. I hated that my body still remembered exactly what those hands felt like on my skin.

One night. One stupid, glorious night eight months ago, and here we were.

"This is my home," he said, stopping just close enough that I could smell his cologne. Something expensive and woody. "Not a prison cell. Try to remember that."

"Your home?" I laughed, but it came out sharp. "Last I checked, a court order doesn't exactly scream voluntary guest. Or did you forget that part while you were busy ghosting me?"

His jaw tightened. Good. I wanted him uncomfortable. Wanted him to feel even a fraction of what I'd felt waking up alone in that hotel room with nothing but a note that said 'This was a mistake.'

"I didn't ghost you," he said quietly. "I made a tactical decision. Like debugging a system that was about to crash the whole network."

"Tactical." The word tasted bitter. "That's rich, Sullivan. Real romantic."

He opened his mouth to respond, but that's when the wave hit me. Not just nausea—this was the full monty. My vision swam, the marble floor tilting like a ship deck. I pressed a hand to my stomach instinctively, the other reaching for the wall.

"Rosalind?" His voice changed, that predatory grace faltering. He stepped closer, one hand hovering near my elbow like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to touch me.

I waved him off, swallowing hard against the bile rising in my throat. "I'm fine. Just... the elevation. Haven't been up this high in a while."

His eyes dropped to where my hand still rested protectively over my middle. For a second, his expression shifted—something dark and unreadable flickering across those sharp features. Then it was gone, replaced by the cool mask he wore like armor.

"You look different," he said. Not a compliment. An observation. The kind that made my skin prickle.

I forced a laugh, dropping my hand like it had burned me. "Eight months will do that. Especially when you've been dragged through a corporate scandal you had nothing to do with."

"Nothing to do with?" He crossed his arms, the fabric of his shirt pulling tight across his chest. "You were project manager on the AI integration team, Rosalind. Don't play innocent."

The argument felt familiar, comfortable even. Safer than whatever that look in his eyes had been. I latched onto it like a lifeline.

"I quit, remember? The day after you decided I was a mistake. Or did that slip your brilliant mind?"

He stepped even closer, invading my space the way he always did. "You think I haven't thought about that night?"

His voice dropped an octave, and damn it, my body responded. Heat pooled low in my belly, mixing unpleasantly with the lingering nausea. I could feel the flush creeping up my neck, staining my light brown skin in a way that would be impossible to hide.

"Don't," I whispered, but it came out breathy. Pathetic.

The AI system chimed then, a soft feminine voice cutting through the tension like a bucket of ice water.

"Compliance mode engaged. All interactions will be logged for federal review. Have a productive stay at Kingsley Ridge."

We both froze. Sullivan's hand dropped, and he took a step back, running it through his hair instead. The move left it even more disheveled, which should have been illegal.

"Perfect," I muttered. "Big Brother is literally listening."

He didn't smile. Just watched me with those calculating eyes, like I was a puzzle he needed to solve. "The kitchen's stocked. Your room is the one on the east wing, ten feet from mine. Try not to burn the place down."

"Ten feet?" The words escaped before I could stop them. "Jesus, Sullivan. They couldn't have given us separate wings?"

"Apparently the judge thought proximity would encourage cooperation." His tone was dry, but there was an edge to it. "Or maybe they just enjoy watching us squirm."

I picked up my suitcase, needing something to do with my hands. The weight felt heavier than it should, but I wasn't about to let him see me struggle. "I'd say it's nice seeing you again, but we both know that would be a lie."

As I brushed past him toward the sweeping staircase, his voice followed me, low and dangerous.

"You might want to get used to it, Rosalind. We're stuck here. Together. For months."

The east wing bedroom was absurdly luxurious. King-sized bed with what looked like thousand-thread-count sheets, a sitting area with a gas fireplace, and windows that framed the mountains like a painting. I closed the door behind me and leaned against it, finally letting my shoulders slump.

My reflection in the mirror across the way looked pale, eyes too wide. The silver locket around my neck felt heavy—inside was a tiny ultrasound photo I couldn't bring myself to look at right now.

I needed to bake something. Or at least pretend to. The kitchen would be stocked with everything, I was sure. The thought made me want to scream.

Instead, I unpacked mechanically, hanging my few clothes in the massive walk-in closet that could probably fit my old apartment. When I was done, the nausea hit again, stronger this time. I barely made it to the attached bathroom before I was heaving into the toilet, trying to be as quiet as possible.

The cool marble felt good against my forehead as I knelt there afterward, breathing through the aftermath. Pregnancy was supposed to be glowing and magical, not this constant battle with my own body in a mansion that felt more like a prison.

A soft knock at the bedroom door made me freeze.

"Rosalind?" Sullivan's voice, muffled through the wood. "Dinner's in twenty. The chef left instructions."

I splashed water on my face, avoiding my own eyes in the mirror. "I'll be down in a bit."

His footsteps retreated, but I could feel him lingering in the hallway. Or maybe that was just paranoia. The AI was probably logging every word, every movement. I touched the ankle monitor absently, the electronic band a constant weight.

Downstairs, the kitchen smelled like heaven and hell all at once. Some kind of roasted chicken and vegetables, simple but perfect. Sullivan was already there, pouring himself what looked like a very expensive whiskey. He didn't offer me any. Smart man.

"You really don't look well," he said without preamble, sliding a glass of sparkling water my way instead. "If this is going to be a problem—"

"It's not." I cut him off, taking the water and drinking deeply. The carbonation helped settle my stomach somewhat. "Just adjusting. Unlike some people, I don't have a private jet to whisk me to mountain estates whenever I want."

He leaned against the counter, watching me over the rim of his glass. The pose was casual, but nothing about Sullivan was ever truly casual. "You quit, Rosalind. You walked away from a seven-figure package and the best tech in the industry. For what?"

I shrugged, reaching for a plate. "Self-preservation."

The meal was silent at first, the only sounds the clink of silverware and the distant hum of the smart home systems. I picked at my food, eating just enough to avoid suspicion. Every time I looked up, his eyes were on me. Measuring. Calculating.

"Your stomach," he said suddenly, making me jump. "You keep touching it. Are you in pain?"

My fork clattered against the plate. "It's nothing. Anxiety. Being trapped with my ex-boss slash one-night stand slash federal co-defendant tends to do that to a girl."

He didn't laugh. Just set his glass down with deliberate care. "I never meant to hurt you."

The words hung there between us, too honest for the barbed conversation we'd been having. I felt my throat tighten, the familiar sting of tears threatening. Not now. Not in front of him.

"Yet here we are," I managed, pushing my plate away. "Hurting each other seems to be our specialty."

I stood too quickly, the room spinning again. This time I couldn't hide it completely—my hand shot out to steady myself on the counter. Sullivan was there in an instant, his arm around my waist before I could protest.

His touch burned through my sweater. Strong, warm, familiar in the worst possible way. For a second, I let myself lean into him, just a fraction. His body was solid against mine, that athletic build from all those boxing sessions making him feel like safety and danger wrapped in one expensive package.

"I've got you," he murmured, voice rough. His breath ghosted across my temple, sending unwanted shivers down my spine.

I pulled away, even though every cell in my body screamed to stay. "Don't. Just... don't."

His arms dropped, but the look in his eyes stayed with me as I fled upstairs. Possessive. Concerned. Suspicious.

Later that night, after the house had gone quiet except for the occasional soft chime of the AI system, I crept down to the kitchen. The nausea had returned with a vengeance, and I knew from experience that dry toast and ginger tea were my only hope. I moved as quietly as possible, barefoot on the warm floors, not wanting to wake him.

The vomiting started without warning. I barely made it to the sink, gripping the edge as my body rebelled. Tears stung my eyes—from the force of it, from exhaustion, from the sheer absurdity of hiding a pregnancy in a smart home that probably monitored my heart rate.

I didn't hear him approach until it was too late.

"Rosalind." His voice was low, dangerous in the moonlit kitchen. The moonlight streamed through the windows, casting sharp shadows across his face. He stood in the doorway in nothing but low-slung pajama pants, chest bare and hair even more tousled from sleep.

I straightened slowly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "Go back to bed, Sullivan."

He didn't move. Just watched me with those intense hazel eyes that seemed to see too much. "You're hiding something from me, Rosalind. And I always find out the truth."