Sergio chuckled, scraping his chair back as he popped the buttons of his uniform jacket. “You sure about that, Miss Snow? You’re not lying again, are you?”

I ground my teeth. “How do you explain me staying in one of the most expensive hotels in Rome?” I rolled my eyes. “Did you even look at the check-in registry? Quincy Mercer—my fiancé—will be on the registration.”

Sergio placed his wrists on the table, linking his fingers together in a threatening display. “See, that’s where your little story falls apart. A man named Joseph Roy checked in with no extra guest into the suite earlier this evening.”

The breath in my lungs clogged, but then cleared in a rush. Of course Q wouldn’t travel under his real name. Not now. Not with men hunting him.

I winced as a spike to the heart caught me by surprise. It didn’t matter what precautions he’d taken—he’d still be stolen.

Stay alive. Please stay alive.

I placed my elbows on the table, pressing my forehead against my palms. The world had become too much. I never thought I would want to be in captivity again but at least being the one stolen lent a certain luxury to my fate. I either survived or died. I wasn’t responsible for someone else. I didn’t feel the weight of an entire galaxy pressing down upon me with every passing second of failure.

Tick…

Tock…

Sergio kicked back his chair, standing over me. “Do you wish to change any of the details you’ve given? Last chance to stop lying before I go run your records.”

I looked up. I didn’t have any effort to speak. I shook my head.

Without a word, he disappeared.

Tick…

Tock…

The clock taunted me with every passing second. One minute passed, then ten, then twenty.

My body vibrated with the need to run. I couldn’t sit there for too much longer without going certifiably insane. I felt so useless.

Finally the door opened. Sergio returned with a stack of paper and a blank face.

Grabbing the chair, he shuffled closer to the table, placing everything in front of him. He dragged out the suspense, spreading the papers, fanning them into some sort of order, driving me mad.

“Do you know what I found when I called up your file?” he asked, almost softly. He’d lost some of the arrogant tone. He still wasn’t friendly, but he seemed…what? Open to listening. Less likely to laugh and throw me in a cell and swallow the key?

I sat straighter, feeding off his change of mood. Hope trilled through me, fast and sweet. “I don’t know.” Glancing at the upside down copies, I couldn’t read them—all in Italian.

I’d never contemplated if I had a file. Briefly, when I returned home to Australia after Q sent me back, I wondered why the police hadn’t come knocking. I’d been reported as missing after all—but no one came to question, no one asked a thing.

Sergio held up a piece of paper. “It says here you were listed as missing by the Australian Federal Police. Then a few weeks later, your parents, Stephen and Mary Snow, closed your file under pretence of death overseas and asked for a death certificate.”

My chair legs squeaked against the floor as I jumped in dismay. A rush of grief mixed with disbelief. My own parents told the police to stop looking for me? They’d been so eager to close that messy chapter and become the grieving parents. All to garner the sympathy vote at their next bowling club rally.

I always knew they didn’t love me. It wasn’t news, but it still hurt like a bitch.

Sergio watched my reaction, but I kept my tormenting emotions free from my impassive face.

He continued, “Your file was closed, but then reopened when you magically reappeared, with no flight manifest or record of how you entered the country, and slotted right back into life with”—his eyes dropped to the paperwork—“Brax Cliffingstone.

“You retuned to university, finished your degree, then a month later picked up and flew to France.”

Shuffling the pages, he said, “Why wasn’t there a wrap-up interview from your disappearance. Why was there no closure or interrogation on your supposed kidnapping, brought to the attention of the AFP by Brax Cliffingstone? Care to explain how you had the AFP close your file with no conclusion whatsoever?”

The all-consuming love I had for my monstrous master overflowed. It was like swallowing a bowl of colourless light, trickling through my body, giving me strength I sorely need.

I laughed.

Q.

He tampered with my file. Somehow, he had contacts to ensure his anonymity and unique charity remained a secret. There was no explaining how I came into his company, or talking away the length of my stay at his chateau. So he did what he had to. He swept it all away.

God, I loved him. I’d never met a man with more resources, intelligence, or a bigger heart than him. And he was mine. And I was failing him by allowing this stupid cop to detain me.

I was done.

“Quincy Mercer can explain. Let me go and I’ll fetch him for you.”

Sergio ran a finger along his bottom lip. “Yes, and that brings me to him. You say you’re together? But I don’t see any mention of a marriage announcement or any news related articles of your relationship.”

Tick…

Tock…

I didn’t care. It no longer mattered.

I was getting out of there.

Now.

Crossing my arms, I demanded, “I want my phone call.”

He glowered, his black eyes battering me with law-keeping authority. But I wasn’t ruffled. I glowered right back, not backing down.

Finally, he huffed. “Fine.” He stalked to the door, holding it open. “This way.”

The moment light from the corridor bounced into the interrogation room, my heart leapt from my chest and flew away. Flew to find Q. Flew to give him hope.

I’m coming.

We’re coming.

I struggled to keep my feet slow and plodding as Sergio guided me through a typical police station with cubicle workstations, brown walls, and oscillating ceiling fans. The reek of burned coffee hung stagnant in the air.

He stopped beside a desk strewn with notes and empty cups. He pointed to a phone partially buried beneath manila files. “You have two minutes.”

Not for the first time, I thanked my photographic memory. Ever since Q gave me the note hidden in the pocket of the dress I’d worn back to Australia, I’d memorized his office number. It’d been embossed in gold on the heavy parchment of his business card.