Chapter 7 You Belong to Me Alone

The abandoned psychiatric hospital loomed against the morning sky, its Victorian architecture a stark contrast to the modern security measures hidden within its crumbling facade. I parked half a mile away, approaching on foot through the surrounding woods.

Three hours of exploration yielded nothing but empty corridors and outdated medical equipment—a perfect front for whatever might lie beneath. It wasn't until I discovered a service elevator requiring biometric access that I realized I'd found something significant.

My father and I shared enough genetic markers that the scanner hesitated before flashing red. Not a complete rejection—just not enough of a match. I needed another way in.

By the time I returned to the estate, the afternoon was waning. Julian had sent the decrypted audio file—a clinical recording of what sounded like a memory implantation session. A doctor's voice guiding someone through Rowan's childhood memories, correcting details, reinforcing others.

The subject's responses weren't audible, but the doctor's comments painted a chilling picture: "No, her dress was blue at the engagement party, not red. Focus on the sapphire earrings she wore. Remember the way they caught the light when she laughed?"

They'd been programming someone with Rowan's memories—or their version of them. Imperfect copies with critical flaws.

I was running out of time. The dinner with my father was in two hours, and I needed to prepare Rowan.

When I entered his chamber, I found Marcus already there, supervising as Rowan tried on the tailored suit I'd ordered.

"Ms. Rothschild," Marcus nodded respectfully. "We're almost finished here."

Rowan stood before a mirror, adjusting his cuffs. The charcoal suit fit him perfectly, highlighting the lean strength of his frame. He looked exactly like the man who'd stood beside me at countless society events—except for the collar still encircling his throat.

"Leave us," I told Marcus.

After the door closed, I circled Rowan slowly, inspecting him. "You clean up well."

"I've had practice," he replied dryly. "Or at least, I think I have."

I moved to stand between him and the mirror, forcing him to focus on me instead of his reflection. "I visited the hospital today."

His expression darkened. "And?"

"There's something underground. I couldn't access it." I studied his face for a reaction. "But I heard a recording of what sounds like memory conditioning. Someone was being trained to be you."

"Or I was being trained to forget being me." His hands came up to straighten his tie, brushing against my shoulders in the process. "Did you find any evidence of others? Other subjects?"

"No. But I haven't given up." I reached up to touch the control collar at his throat. "This comes off for tonight. My father can't see it."

His eyebrows rose slightly. "Afraid he'll know what you've been up to with your new toy?"

"I don't want him to know I'm controlling you," I corrected, activating the release mechanism. "I want him to think you're there willingly."

The collar opened with a soft click. I removed it, revealing the pale skin beneath—unmarked, as though the device had never been there.

Rowan rubbed his neck, a small smile playing at his lips. "Freedom doesn't feel how I remembered."

"It's temporary," I warned. "Just for tonight."

"Of course." His smile widened. "Heaven forbid I get too comfortable."

I stepped back, suddenly aware of our proximity. Without the collar, he seemed more dangerous somehow. Less contained.

"There will be security everywhere," I said. "Don't try anything stupid."

"Like what? Leaping across the dinner table to strangle your father?" He adjusted his cuffs again. "Give me some credit, Cassia. I've waited too long for this meeting to ruin it with impulsive violence."

The casual admission sent a chill through me. "What exactly are you planning?"

"Just dinner conversation. I have a few questions for Alexander Rothschild." His eyes met mine in the mirror. "As I'm sure you do too."

Before I could respond, my phone chimed with a reminder. "The car will be ready in thirty minutes. I need to finish getting ready."

"Don't let me stop you." He gestured toward the door. "I'll be here. Behaving."

Something in his tone made me hesitate. "Rowan... whatever you learn tonight—"

"I'll share it with you," he finished. "We're partners in this investigation now, aren't we?"

Partners. The word felt both right and utterly wrong.

"Just remember who's in charge," I said firmly.

His smile turned predatory. "I never forget that, Cassia."

---

My bedroom suite felt like a sanctuary after the tension of Rowan's chamber. I selected a deep burgundy dress that hugged my curves before falling in a sleek column to the floor—powerful yet feminine. As I applied my makeup, Elise entered with a jewelry case.

"The ruby set?" she asked, opening the velvet box to reveal my mother's necklace and earrings.

"Yes," I replied, watching her in the mirror. "Elise, did my father call while I was out today?"

"Twice." She fastened the necklace around my throat, the weight of the rubies settling against my collarbone. "He wanted to confirm dinner arrangements and guest list."

"Did he ask specifically about Rowan?"

Her hands paused briefly. "He referred to him as 'your acquisition' and asked if he would be properly supervised."

My father's choice of words was telling—clinical, detached. Like Rowan was a specimen, not a person.

"Thank you, Elise. That will be all."

After she left, I finished my preparations, sliding a small recording device into my clutch alongside my lipstick. Whatever happened tonight, I wanted evidence.

When I returned to the east wing, I found Rowan standing exactly where I'd left him, staring at his reflection.

"Admiring yourself?" I asked.

He turned, and for a moment, something like genuine appreciation flickered across his face. "Admiring you, actually. Red always was your color."

The compliment, delivered in the same tone the old Rowan might have used, caught me off guard. I composed myself quickly. "The car is waiting. Remember our agreement—you behave, and the collar stays off after dinner."

"Such generosity," he murmured, offering his arm in a surprisingly gentlemanly gesture.

I hesitated before taking it, acutely aware of how normal it felt—how easily we could be mistaken for the couple we once were.

In the limousine, I briefed him on what to expect. "My father will have at least two security personnel in the dining room, plus his personal assistant, Edward."

"The yes-man with the wandering eyes," Rowan commented. "I remember him."

I glanced sharply at him. "You've met Edward?"

A slight hesitation. "From before. At your father's birthday gala, three years ago."

Another test—and he'd passed. Edward had indeed been present at that event, though I hadn't remembered him interacting with Rowan.

"What else do you remember about my father?" I asked.

Rowan gazed out the window, streetlights casting shadows across his face. "He never thought I was good enough for you. Too new money, too self-made. He wanted you with someone from an established family."

"He never said that to me."

"He didn't have to. It was in every look, every backhanded compliment." He turned to face me. "He called me two days before our wedding."

This was new information. "What did he say?"

"That he had information that would destroy me if I went through with the marriage." His expression remained neutral, but I sensed the tension beneath. "I ignored him, of course. But then..."

"Then you disappeared," I finished.

"So it would seem." His hand moved to cover mine on the seat between us. "Cassia, whatever happens tonight—trust your instincts, not your loyalty."

The warmth of his touch sent an unwelcome thrill through me. I withdrew my hand. "My instincts tell me not to trust anyone in this scenario. Including you."

"Smart woman." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

My father's mansion was lit up like a beacon as we approached, security personnel visible at every entrance. The grandeur had always seemed impressive before; now it felt like a fortress designed to hide secrets.

As we exited the car, Rowan leaned close, his breath warm against my ear. "He's watching from the second-floor window. Your father. Let's give him a show."

Before I could object, he placed his hand at the small of my back, guiding me toward the entrance with the practiced familiarity of a longtime lover. To anyone observing, we would appear perfectly at ease with each other.

The front door opened before we reached it. Edward stood in the entrance, his thin face arranged in a polite smile.

"Ms. Rothschild, welcome. And Mr. Vale... what an unexpected pleasure to see you again."

The emphasis on "unexpected" wasn't subtle.

"Edward," Rowan nodded, his demeanor shifting to match the formal atmosphere. "It's been too long."

"Indeed." Edward's gaze lingered on Rowan's neck where the collar had been. "Mr. Rothschild is waiting in the dining room. Please, follow me."

As we walked through the familiar halls, I noticed Rowan observing everything with careful attention—security cameras, exit points, staff positions. Not the behavior of someone visiting a familiar space, but of someone mapping potential escape routes.

The dining room doors opened to reveal my father standing at the head of the long mahogany table. At sixty-five, Alexander Rothschild remained an imposing figure—tall, silver-haired, with the same penetrating gray eyes I'd inherited.

"Cassia," he greeted me with a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. "Punctual as always."

Then his attention shifted to Rowan, his expression cooling several degrees. "Mr. Vale. Back from the dead, I see."

"Mr. Rothschild," Rowan replied, voice smooth as glass. "I hear I have you to thank for the resurrection."

The blunt accusation hung in the air. My father's eyes narrowed slightly before his social mask slid back into place.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," he said, gesturing to the table. "Please, sit. We have much to discuss."

As we took our places—me to my father's right, Rowan across from me—I caught Rowan's gaze. A silent message passed between us: the game had begun.

The first course arrived—oysters on crushed ice, my father's standard opening for important dinners.

"I must say, Cassia," my father began, sipping his wine, "your purchase at the Blood Banquet has caused quite a stir in our circles. Ten million for damaged goods seems excessive, even for a Rothschild."

I maintained my composure, though anger flared at his deliberate provocation. "I've always valued quality over cost considerations, Father. A lesson you taught me."

"Quality?" He raised an eyebrow, looking at Rowan. "Is that what you'd call it?"

Rowan picked up an oyster, examining it before responding. "Your daughter has excellent taste, Mr. Rothschild. Though I'm curious—how did you know she purchased me? The Blood Banquet prides itself on discretion."

My father's hand paused mid-reach for his wine glass—a millisecond hesitation that spoke volumes. "News travels quickly in our circles."

"Indeed," Rowan agreed pleasantly. "Almost as quickly as experimental subjects through your Swiss facilities."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop. My father set down his glass with deliberate care.

"Edward," he said without looking away from Rowan, "please inform security that our guest may need assistance leaving after dinner."

"That won't be necessary," I interjected. "Rowan is my guest—and my property, legally speaking. He leaves with me."

My father's cold gaze shifted to me. "We'll discuss that privately, Cassia."

"Actually," Rowan said, leaning forward slightly, "I think we should discuss everything right here. Starting with Project Lazarus and the Helvetica Wellness Institute."