His Savior Was Never My Sister
I was a ghost in his gilded cage.
The crack came on the third evening. He’d brought tea to the sunroom—my mother’s favorite blend. I was on the secured satellite line with Caleb, the one concession Nicholas had allowed, monitored but unbroken. Caleb’s voice was a calm, steady anchor in the sea of madness.
“I’m counting the hours, mia luna,” he said softly, using the silly, private nickname he’d coined. “Are you safe? Just that.”
“I am… managing,” I said, turning slightly away from where I knew Nicholas lurked just beyond the French doors. “It’s a performance. Exhausting, but temporary. How is your mother?”