Chapter 2 Fairytale Safe House, Weapons Storybook

# Chapter 2: Fairytale Safe House, Weapons Storybook

I woke up to the smell of antiseptic and gunpowder—a combination I'd grown uncomfortably familiar with over the years. My head throbbed where it had collided with something during Luna's impromptu demolition of our apartment building. Flexing my fingers experimentally, I registered the soft restraints binding my wrists to the bed rails.

Amateur hour. I'd escaped worse by the time I was twelve.

"Mommy's awake!" Luna's excited voice came from somewhere to my right. I turned to see my daughter perched on a pink princess throne—an actual throne, complete with gold filigree and velvet cushions—surrounded by what appeared to be a mountain of stuffed animals and coloring books.

Behind her, through a large bay window, I could see perfectly manicured gardens and high stone walls topped with razor wire that glinted in the morning sun. A castle. We were in an actual castle.

"Luna, are you okay?" I croaked, my throat dry. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm perfect!" she chirped, bouncing off her throne and skipping to my bedside. "Daddy got me everything! Look at my room! It has a secret door behind the bookcase and everything! Just like in the movies!"

Daddy. The word sent ice through my veins. I tested the restraints again, calculating escape routes even as Luna continued her enthusiastic report.

"And he says I can have a pony, but it has to stay outside because ponies aren't good at stairs, and we have lots of stairs, and there's a big swimming pool shaped like a heart, and my closet is bigger than our whole apartment, and—"

"Luna," I interrupted gently, "where exactly are we?"

"Home!" She twirled in place, her sundress—new, definitely not one I'd bought her—flaring around her knees. "Daddy calls it the Pink Palace. It's for princesses. That's me!"

The door opened, and Alexander Marsh strolled in, looking infuriatingly composed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. No sign of injury from the explosion. Bastard probably had nine lives.

"Ah, Sleeping Beauty awakens," he said, his smile not reaching his eyes. "Luna, sweetheart, would you go find Ms. Eliza? She has your lunch ready."

Luna hesitated, looking between us with surprising perception for a five-year-old. "Are you going to fight? Grown-ups always make the kids leave when they're going to fight."

Marsh knelt to her level, his entire demeanor softening in a transformation so startling I almost didn't believe it was the same man. "No fighting. Just boring adult talk. I promise your mother will be right here when you get back."

My daughter—my brilliant, terrifying daughter—narrowed her eyes skeptically. "Pinky promise?"

To my shock, the notorious gangster extended his pinky finger and solemnly linked it with Luna's tiny one. "Pinky promise."

Luna seemed satisfied with this sacred pact and skipped from the room, pausing only to blow me a kiss from the doorway.

The moment she was gone, I had my restraints off and was reaching for the closest weapon—a ceramic water pitcher—when Marsh's voice stopped me.

"I wouldn't," he said calmly. "There are sixteen armed men in this wing alone, and all of them have strict orders to use non-lethal force on you. For Luna's sake."

I lowered the pitcher but kept it within reach. "Where the hell are we?"

"One of my properties. Officially, it's registered as a historical landmark and private museum. Unofficially, it's the most secure facility I own." He moved to the window, gazing out at the gardens. "No one knows about this place except my most trusted people."

"So it's a prison."

"It's a safe house," he corrected, turning back to me. "And before you start plotting your elaborate escape, let me make something perfectly clear: I have no intention of harming either you or Luna. Quite the opposite."

I laughed bitterly. "Right. That's why you've kidnapped us and why I woke up restrained."

"The restraints were a precaution. You have a rather impressive record of violence, Ms. Jocelyn Armitage."

Hearing my real name after so many years of aliases sent a chill down my spine. So he knew who I was. Of course he did.

"That's right," he continued, noting my reaction. "I know exactly who you are. Sole surviving heir to Armitage Military Technologies. Graduated MIT at nineteen. Presumed dead in the same explosion that killed your parents and brother five years ago." His eyes narrowed. "An explosion my organization was framed for."

"Framed?" I spat the word. "Your men planted the bombs. We had security footage."

"Footage that showed men in masks using tactics my organization has never employed," he countered. "But we're getting off track. The point is, I know who you are, what you're capable of, and most importantly, I know why you stole my genetic material."

I kept my face impassive, though inside my mind was racing. How much did he really know?

Marsh continued, "You wanted revenge. You thought creating a child with my DNA would be the ultimate insult. What I don't understand is why you kept her. Why raise her? Why not just use the embryo for some twisted blackmail scheme?"

The question hit a nerve I didn't know was still raw. "You think I would create a life just to throw it away? What kind of monster do you think I am?"

"The kind who teaches a five-year-old how to make explosives," he replied evenly.

"That's survival," I shot back. "Luna needs to know how to protect herself in a world where men like you exist."

Something flickered across his face—not anger, but something more complex. "And yet here she is, in my home, calling me 'Daddy' after less than twenty-four hours."

That stung more than I cared to admit. "Children are adaptable. She'll call anyone who gives her ice cream and ponies 'Daddy.'"

Marsh smiled thinly. "Is that what you think happened? That I bought her affection with toys?" He moved to the door. "Perhaps you'd like to see the rest of your new home."

Against my better judgment, I followed him out of the room, mentally mapping every corner, every potential exit. The "Pink Palace" was indeed pink—at least on the outside, which I glimpsed through massive windows as we walked down a long hallway. The interior was a bizarre juxtaposition of fairy-tale castle and high-security compound. Chandeliers hung from reinforced ceilings. Renaissance artwork adorned walls that I suspected were lined with bulletproof materials.

"The east wing is Luna's domain," Marsh explained as we walked. "Bedrooms, playrooms, educational spaces. The west wing contains my offices and security operations. You'll have access to most areas except the armory and command center."

"How generous," I muttered. "And where exactly am I supposed to sleep? The dungeon?"

He stopped at a set of double doors and pushed them open, revealing a suite that made my jaw drop despite myself. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked a private garden. A four-poster bed dominated one wall, while a sitting area with bookshelves occupied another. A door to the left presumably led to a bathroom.

"Your quarters," Marsh said. "I thought you might appreciate the privacy. Luna's room connects through that passage." He pointed to a discrete door partially hidden by a tapestry.

I stepped inside cautiously, searching for cameras or other surveillance. They were there, of course—tiny, nearly invisible devices in the molding—but fewer than I expected.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked finally. "If you know who I am, you know I'll never stop trying to escape. You know I hate you for what your family did to mine."

Marsh's expression hardened. "What you think my family did to yours. But that's a conversation for another time." He checked his watch. "Luna will be finishing lunch soon. She's been asking for a tour of the grounds."

"You still haven't answered my question."

He studied me for a long moment, his blue eyes—Luna's eyes—unreadable. "Because she's my daughter. Because I've missed five years of her life already. And because despite whatever you may believe about me, family means everything."

With that, he left, the door closing softly behind him. I immediately began searching the room for weapons or tools I could repurpose. The windows were bulletproof and didn't open. The furniture was too heavy to break easily. Even the bathroom fixtures seemed specifically designed to prevent dismantling.

I was examining a vent when Luna burst in, her face smeared with what looked like chocolate.

"Mommy! Come see my playroom! It has a SLIDE inside the house!"

Despite everything, I smiled. "Let me clean you up first, munchkin. What did you eat, the entire dessert cart?"

"Mr. Marsh said I could have ice cream because it's a special day," she explained as I wiped her face with a tissue from the bedside table. "He has men with guns everywhere, Mommy. Just like our old apartment building."

My heart sank. I'd tried so hard to give Luna some semblance of normalcy despite our circumstances. "Does that scare you?"

To my surprise, she shook her head. "Nope. They're nice. One showed me his gun when I asked. It's a Glock 19. Better trigger than the one at the party." She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I think they're scared of me. Because of the boom."

Before I could respond to that concerning statement, Marsh appeared in the doorway. "Ready for that tour, princess?"

Luna squealed and ran to him, grabbing his hand without hesitation. The sight of my daughter's tiny fingers wrapped around the hand of the man I'd spent years hating made my stomach twist.

"Coming, Ms. Armitage?" Marsh asked, his use of my real name a subtle reminder of our new power dynamic.

I followed them through the sprawling mansion, watching in disbelief as Luna charmed every armed guard we passed. She skipped alongside Marsh as though she'd known him her entire life, asking endless questions about the house, the gardens, the security systems. And he answered each one with inexhaustible patience, explaining things in terms she could understand without talking down to her.

The tour ended at a room that made my blood run cold. It looked like a children's library, with comfortable chairs and low bookshelves, but the titles on those shelves were not typical children's fare: "The Little Ballistics Expert," "Goodnight Ammunition," "If You Give a Mouse a Grenade."

"My bedtime story collection," Marsh explained, noticing my expression. "Educational materials presented in an age-appropriate format."

"Age-appropriate?" I hissed. "These are weapons manuals disguised as children's books!"

"They're knowledge," he countered. "The same knowledge you've clearly already been teaching her."

"That's different. I taught her for protection."

"And I'm continuing her education," he said smoothly. "Luna, why don't you pick one for tonight's bedtime story?"

My daughter, oblivious to our tension, happily browsed the collection before selecting one titled "How to Make Friends and Molotov Cocktails."

"This one has pretty pictures," she declared.

Later that evening, after an elaborate dinner during which Luna regaled Marsh with stories of her homeschool adventures (carefully editing out our frequent relocations and identity changes), I tucked her into her new princess bed. The room was a child's fantasy—canopy bed, twinkling lights, even a small carousel horse in the corner.

"Mommy," Luna whispered as I kissed her forehead, "I like it here. Can we stay forever?"

My heart cracked. "We'll see, baby. Get some sleep now."

"Kay. Love you to the moon."

"Love you to the stars and back," I finished our ritual, then slipped out through the connecting door to my own room.

I nearly screamed when I found Marsh sitting in an armchair, watching the security feed on a tablet. On the screen was Luna's room, where she was already fast asleep.

"What the hell are you doing?" I demanded, keeping my voice low.

"Checking on my daughter," he replied, not looking up. "She snores. Like my mother did."

The casual observation caught me off guard. "I need to know what your endgame is here, Marsh. What happens next? We can't live in this twisted fairytale castle forever."

He finally looked at me, his expression unreadable. "Can't we? Luna seems happy. She has everything she needs here. Safety, education, opportunity."

"She needs freedom," I argued. "A normal life."

"Normal?" He laughed softly. "She disassembled a gun at five and blew up an apartment building hours later. 'Normal' was never in the cards for her, Jocelyn."

Hearing my first name in his mouth felt strangely intimate. I pushed the feeling away.

"I spent the afternoon reviewing the security footage from the past few weeks," he continued. "You've moved four times in five months. You homeschool her because you're afraid to enroll her in a real school. You've been running her through exit drills and teaching her to use weapons since she could walk." His eyes locked with mine. "So tell me, how is your version of parenting superior to what I'm offering?"

I had no good answer, and he knew it.

Over the next few days, a routine emerged. Luna spent mornings in the educational wing with tutors Marsh had hired—actual professors from prestigious universities, not the makeshift lessons I'd been piecing together. Afternoons were split between physical activities in the garden and what Marsh called "specialized training"—which I discovered meant everything from basic self-defense to rudimentary explosives safety.

I was permitted to observe all of it but found myself increasingly sidelined as Luna blossomed under the structured environment. She'd always been bright, but with proper resources, she was demonstrating abilities that astonished even me.

One evening, a week into our captivity, I decided to explore while Luna was having her nightly story with Marsh. I'd noticed the security was lightest during this time, as if the guards had standing orders not to disturb their boss's daddy-daughter time.

I made my way to what I assumed was Marsh's private office, picking the simple lock with hairpins I'd collected. Inside, I found what I expected—expensive furniture, security monitors, a wall safe that would take more time than I had to crack.

What I didn't expect was the framed photo on his desk: Luna, clearly taken from surveillance footage, playing in a park we'd visited months ago. Next to it was a folder labeled with my name. Inside were reports tracking our movements for the past three years, medical records for Luna, even copies of the crude birthday cards she'd made me.

He'd known about us. For years.

As I processed this, my eyes fell on the computer screen, still unlocked. The screen showed the weapons vault, and to my shock, every single high-security door had a simple six-digit code: 061792.

June 17, 1992. My birthday.

I was still staring at the screen when another monitor flickered to life, showing the library where Marsh sat reading to Luna. He'd finished the story and was tucking the blanket around her as she dozed off on the window seat. Then, believing himself unobserved, he leaned down and gently kissed her forehead, his expression so tender it was almost painful to witness.

"Sleep well, little one," he whispered. "Daddy's got you."

I backed out of the office, my mind reeling. The weapons vault codes were my birthday. The security lightest during Luna's bedtime. The connecting door between our rooms left unlocked. It was almost as if...

As if he wanted me to escape. As if he was daring me to try.

Back in my room, I paced until dawn, trying to make sense of it all. When morning came, I watched Luna coloring at her little desk, humming happily to herself.

"What are you drawing, baby?" I asked, sitting beside her.

She proudly held up her masterpiece: a crayon drawing of three people holding hands in front of a pink house. "It's us! You, me, and Daddy."

My heart stuttered at how easily she'd accepted him, but what truly chilled me was the background of her "family portrait"—what appeared to be random splashes of red, blue, and green, but which I recognized immediately as a blood type distribution map of Marsh's biggest rival family.

"Luna," I asked carefully, "where did you see this pattern?"

She shrugged, adding more red dots to the corner of the page. "In Daddy's big room with all the screens. He said these are the bad people." She looked up at me with innocent eyes. "He said they wanted to hurt you before I was born. That's why he has to find them first."

Before I could process what that meant, Marsh himself appeared at the door, holding a small box.

"Good morning, ladies," he said, then knelt in front of Luna. "I have something for you, princess."

Luna squealed with delight as he opened the box to reveal a pair of tiny patent leather shoes—pink, with delicate straps and bows.

"Every princess needs proper footwear," he said solemnly as he slipped them onto her feet, his large hands incredibly gentle with the small buckles. "These are special shoes."

"Because they're pretty?" Luna asked, admiring how they sparkled in the light.

"Because they'll keep you safe," Marsh replied, tapping the sole. "Bulletproof material. Light enough to run in, strong enough to protect."

My daughter launched herself into his arms, hugging him fiercely. "Thank you, Daddy!"

Over her head, Marsh's eyes met mine, challenging me silently. I wanted to hate him for this—for buying her love with gifts, for inserting himself into her life so seamlessly.

But as I watched him holding her, his face softened by a genuine smile, I felt my certainty waver. Because in that moment, he wasn't the monster I'd built him up to be in my head.

He was just a father, kneeling before his daughter, making sure her shoes fit properly.

And that terrified me more than anything else.