Chapter 8 Prison of Desire

My father's face remained impassive, but I caught the slight twitch of his left eyelid—his tell when cornered.

"Edward," he said evenly, "that will be all for now."

The assistant hesitated before nodding and exiting, closing the heavy doors behind him.

Silence descended, thick and oppressive. My father broke it first, setting his napkin aside.

"Project Lazarus," he repeated, studying Rowan with clinical detachment. "You shouldn't know that name."

"Yet I do," Rowan replied. "Just like I know about the abandoned psychiatric hospital. The underground facility. The memory conditioning sessions."

My father's gaze flicked to me. "You've been busy, Cassia."

"Don't blame her," Rowan interjected. "I've had these memories trickling back for months. Fragments of labs. Scientists. Pain." His voice remained steady, but I saw his knuckles whiten as he gripped his fork. "The question is, what did you do to me?"

My father took a deliberate sip of wine before answering. "Nothing that wasn't already happening naturally."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, Mr. Vale, that your brain was already fracturing when we found you." He gestured for the server to remove the first course plates. "The accident on your sailboat three years ago caused significant neural damage. By the time my team pulled you from the water, your memory architecture was collapsing."

I stared at him in shock. "Sailboat? You told me he disappeared—that no one knew where he went!"

"I told you what you needed to hear." My father's eyes never left Rowan. "He suffered a traumatic brain injury. Extensive memory loss. Personality fragmentation. Conventional treatment would have left him a shell."

"So instead you used him as a test subject," I said, disgust rising in my throat.

"I saved him," my father corrected sharply. "Project Lazarus was designed to rebuild damaged neural pathways using targeted memory reconstruction. He was the perfect candidate."

Rowan laughed, the sound devoid of humor. "Perfect because I was already broken? Or perfect because you wanted me away from your daughter?"

My father ignored the question, turning to me. "You were devastated when he disappeared. Imagine how much worse it would have been to watch him deteriorate, unable to remember your name from one day to the next."

"That wasn't your decision to make!" I slammed my hand on the table, rattling the crystal. "You had no right to keep this from me."

"I had every right," he replied coldly. "As your father and as the head of Rothschild Biomedical. The treatment was experimental. There were... complications."

"Complications," Rowan echoed. "Is that what you call it when someone's identity fractures into pieces? When they wake up with skills they never learned and memories that don't belong to them?"

The second course arrived—seared scallops I no longer had any appetite for. We waited in tense silence until the servers departed.

"The treatment worked better than expected in some ways," my father continued, cutting into his scallop with surgical precision. "Your cognitive functions improved dramatically. Physical reflexes, language acquisition, pattern recognition—all enhanced beyond baseline."

"But not my memories," Rowan said. "Those are still a patchwork of truth and fiction."

"Memory is always fiction to some degree." My father dismissed the concern with a wave. "We provided a framework. Your brain filled in the rest."

I studied my father's face, searching for signs of remorse or uncertainty. There were none. Only the cold calculation of a scientist discussing a successful experiment.

"Why the mark?" I asked. "1037X. What does it mean?"

Something flickered in my father's eyes—surprise, perhaps, that we knew about the designation. "Subject identification. Nothing more."

"You're lying," Rowan said quietly. "The X means I'm not the only version, doesn't it?"

My father set down his fork, studying Rowan with renewed interest. "Your pattern recognition truly is remarkable. Yes, there were previous attempts at reconstruction. Unsuccessful, for the most part."

My stomach turned. "What happened to them?"

"They were decommissioned," he replied, as if discussing outdated equipment rather than human beings.

"Murdered, you mean," Rowan's voice had dropped to a dangerous whisper.

"Euthanized," my father corrected. "They weren't viable. You were our first success—though clearly not without flaws."

I couldn't bear to look at either of them, my mind reeling with the implications. My father had experimented on Rowan—created failed versions of him—all while letting me believe he'd simply abandoned me.

"Why put him in the auction?" I finally asked. "Why risk me finding him?"

A thin smile crossed my father's face. "I didn't. That was his doing." He nodded toward Rowan. "Our subject escaped the facility six months ago, erased his records, and somehow arranged to be placed in the Blood Banquet. I suspect he wanted you to find him."

I turned to Rowan, searching his face for confirmation. His expression remained unreadable.

"You orchestrated this?" I asked.

"Not exactly." Rowan set down his glass. "I escaped, yes. But I was captured again—by someone who recognized my value. They were the ones who placed me in the auction."

"Who?" my father demanded.

Rowan's eyes met mine across the table. "Your mother's former research partner. Dr. Elias Webb."

The name hit me like a physical blow. Dr. Webb had worked closely with my mother before her death, continuing her neural mapping research afterward. I'd met him at her funeral—a solemn man with kind eyes who'd promised to carry on her legacy.

"Impossible," my father said dismissively. "Webb has no connection to the Blood Banquet."

"He doesn't," Rowan agreed. "But his brother sits on their acquisition board. When Webb found me wandering with fractured memories, he recognized the signs of your handiwork. He wanted to expose Project Lazarus—but needed proof that couldn't be buried."

"Me," I whispered, understanding dawning. "He needed me to find you. To make the connection public."

Rowan nodded. "A Rothschild purchasing a human test subject created by Rothschild Biomedical? The scandal would be impossible to contain."

My father's expression hardened. "Webb always was a self-righteous fool. Where is he now?"

"Safe," Rowan replied. "With copies of all the Project Lazarus files. Including the records of the failed subjects."

The threat hung in the air between them. My father broke the stalemate, pressing a button beneath the table's edge. Seconds later, the dining room doors opened and two security guards entered.

"Escort Mr. Vale to the east wing study," my father instructed. "Keep him there until I arrive."

"He's not going anywhere without me," I said, rising from my chair.

"Sit down, Cassia," my father commanded. "This is beyond your understanding."

"Is it?" I challenged. "Or are you afraid I'll finally see who you really are?"

The guards moved toward Rowan, who remained seated, oddly calm despite the threat.

"It's alright, Cassia," he said. "I'll go with them."

His compliance surprised me. "Rowan—"

"Trust me," he said quietly, standing to allow the guards to flank him. "I know what I'm doing."

As they led him from the room, he looked back once, his eyes conveying a message I couldn't quite decipher.

When the doors closed, my father sighed heavily. "That man is not Rowan Vale, Cassia. Not entirely."

"Because of what you did to him," I accused.

"Because of what was necessary." He refilled his wine glass with steady hands. "Your mother started this research, you know. Neural architecture reconstruction. She believed it could cure degenerative brain diseases."

The mention of my mother caught me off guard. "Don't you dare use her to justify this."

"I'm not justifying. I'm explaining." He regarded me with something almost like pity. "After her death, I continued her work. Expanded it. When Rowan's accident happened, it seemed... providential."

"There was no accident," I said with sudden certainty. "You did something to him."

My father didn't deny it. "He was going to ruin you, Cassia. I had reports—gambling debts, insider trading allegations, connections to organized crime. He was using you for the Rothschild name."

"Lies," I whispered, though doubt crept in. Had I been so blinded by love?

"The evidence is in my safe. You're welcome to review it." He took another sip of wine. "But that's irrelevant now. The procedure changed him—improved him in many ways. The man you purchased is actually a better version than the original."

"You're insane," I said, pushing back from the table. "I'm taking him out of here."

"No, you're not." My father's voice hardened. "He's dangerous, Cassia. The neural enhancements have made him unpredictable. That's why he was in the restricted wing at Helvetica—not as a prisoner, but as a containment measure."

I stood, my chair scraping loudly against the floor. "I don't believe you."

"You don't have to." He pressed another button beneath the table. "But you will stay here while I deal with this situation."

The dining room doors opened again, revealing not guards but Dr. Miranda Liu—my own behavioral specialist.

"Miranda?" I stared at her in confusion. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm sorry, Cassia," she said, her expression genuinely regretful. "Your father consulted me when he learned you'd purchased Subject 1037X. I've been monitoring your interactions."

Betrayal cut deep. "You've been spying on me?"

"Protecting you," my father corrected. "Miranda, please escort my daughter to the blue suite. Make sure she's comfortable."

"You're locking me up?" I backed away, looking between them in disbelief. "In my own family home?"

"Just until we resolve the situation with Mr. Vale," Miranda said soothingly, approaching with professional caution. "Your father is concerned about your safety."

"My safety?" I laughed bitterly. "He's concerned about his secrets."

"That's enough, Cassia," my father said sharply. "Either go with Miranda voluntarily, or I'll have security assist you."

I recognized the futility of resistance—the mansion was filled with my father's men. But compliance didn't mean surrender.

"Fine," I said coldly. "But this isn't over."

Miranda led me through the mansion's east wing, up to the third floor where the "blue suite" awaited—a luxurious guest room that, I now noticed, had been subtly modified with reinforced doors and no balcony access.

"I trusted you," I said as she ushered me inside.

"I know." She looked genuinely remorseful. "For what it's worth, I believe your father is wrong about many things. But the subject—Rowan—he is dangerous, Cassia. The neural modifications have created instabilities."

"Did you know from the beginning? When I hired you to assess him?"

She nodded reluctantly. "Your father contacted me the morning after the auction. He asked me to monitor and report."

"Get out," I said quietly.

After she left, locking the door behind her, I surveyed my gilded prison. Despite appearances, this was a containment room—likely used for other "subjects" who had outlived their usefulness to my father's experiments.

I had no doubt he would "resolve the situation with Mr. Vale" permanently if given the chance. Whatever Rowan had become—whoever he was now—he didn't deserve that fate.

My clutch lay on the bed where I'd dropped it. Inside, the recording device had captured everything from dinner. Evidence, if I could get it out. But first, I needed to find Rowan.

The blue suite had no obvious weaknesses, but I knew this house intimately. As a child, I'd discovered the servant passages that connected many of the older rooms—relics from when the mansion was first built a century ago.

Behind the heavy wardrobe in the corner, I found what I was looking for—a small door, disguised as part of the paneling. It would be tight, but I could fit through.

The passage was dark and dusty, lit only by the flashlight on my phone. I navigated carefully, trying to orient myself toward the east wing study where they'd taken Rowan.

Voices drifted through the thin wall—my father and someone else.

"—complete memory suppression," my father was saying. "The conditioning room is prepared."

"The sensory deprivation approach failed last time," another voice replied—Dr. Chen, I realized with another stab of betrayal. "His mind resisted."

"We'll use stronger measures this time," my father said. "Once his memories are fully suppressed, we'll return him to the facility for reprogramming. Cassia will be told he escaped."

"And if she doesn't believe it?"

"She'll have no choice. After tonight, Rowan Vale will cease to exist—again."

I pressed my ear closer to the wall, straining to hear more, but their voices moved away. I needed to find another access point, one that would get me into the study.

Moving further down the passage, I came to a junction. Left would lead toward the main wing, right toward the studies and library. I turned right, descending a narrow set of stairs that I knew connected to the first-floor service corridors.

The east wing study had been my father's sanctuary when I was growing up—a place I was rarely allowed to enter. Now I understood why. It likely contained access to whatever lay beneath the mansion—the true heart of Project Lazarus.

I found the hidden door that opened into a storage closet adjoining the study. Voices filtered through—but not my father's or Dr. Chen's. Guards, discussing their assignment.

"—weird shit, man. You see his eyes? Not natural."

"Just do your job. Rothschild pays enough to keep your mouth shut."

I peered through the keyhole. Two guards stood near the study entrance, while a third watched over Rowan, who sat calmly in a leather chair, his hands now cuffed before him.

I needed a distraction.

In the storage closet, I found cleaning supplies, including a bottle of industrial solvent. Flammable, according to the warning label. I soaked a rag, then used my lighter to set it ablaze, tossing it into the far corner of the passage before shutting the hidden door.

Smoke would soon fill the old passages, triggering the mansion's fire alarms. In the chaos, I might have a chance.

I didn't have to wait long. Alarms blared throughout the house, and I heard the guards cursing, rushing to respond to the emergency protocols.

"What about him?" one asked.

"Lock the door. He's not going anywhere."

Footsteps retreated, a key turned in the lock. I counted to thirty before emerging from the closet, coughing from the smoke that had begun to seep through.

Rowan looked up, unsurprised to see me. "Dramatic entrance."

"We need to go," I said, moving to his side and examining the handcuffs. "Where's the key?"

"Guard took it. But—" he twisted his hands in an unnatural angle, and to my shock, one slipped free of the cuff. "I have certain advantages now."

I stared as he freed his other hand. "How did you—"

"Increased joint flexibility. One of my 'improvements.'" He stood, rubbing his wrists. "Your father will have the exits covered."

"Not all of them. There's a tunnel from the wine cellar that leads to the groundskeeper's cottage." I moved to the study door, listening for movement outside. "We can take my secondary car from there."

"Cassia." Rowan caught my arm, his expression deadly serious. "Your father wasn't lying about everything. I am dangerous. The things they did to me—" he hesitated. "I'm not always in control."

"I know," I said softly. "But I'm not leaving you here to be erased again."

His eyes searched mine, and for a moment, I glimpsed something vulnerable beneath the hardened exterior—a flash of the man I'd once known, buried beneath layers of programming and pain.

"Then let's go," he said finally. "But first—" He crossed to my father's desk, quickly typing on the computer there. "Insurance policy."

"What are you doing?"

"Sending the Project Lazarus files to every major news outlet." He hit enter with a grim smile. "Your father's empire is about to crumble."

As alarms continued to blare and smoke filled the corridors, we slipped into the passage I'd used, descending toward the wine cellar and whatever freedom—or danger—awaited beyond.