Page 50 of Captive Audience
“What are you doing?” I shrieked, chasing after him.
“I told you. Making sure no one can track you.”
He could force me to marry him and have me put in jail, but destroying my phone was going too far. I didn’t trust the cloud, so I kept almost everything on that device. Treasured photos, podcast notes, log-in details I couldn’t possibly remember. My life, pulverized in a crunch of glass and plastic.
“I swear to God, I’m going to?—”
“Calm down, Wildfire.” He pulled a phone from a kitchen drawer. “Use this one from now on.”
It was similar but a more expensive model than the one he’d just shredded.
I snatched it and turned it on. My regular passcode worked. The wallpaper matched mine, and most of my apps were there, too. As I thumbed through folders and messages, it looked like all the important stuff was safe.
Damn, his tech guy was good, which was more than a little unsettling.
Rook pointed to the screen. “It’s encrypted and untraceable. Almost everything from your old phone is on there. Since we’re married, I took the liberty of removing a few things.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Like what?”
“Your dating apps, phone numbers of your ex-boyfriends, and photos of any men who aren’t members of your immediate family.”
I snorted. “Unbelievable.”
“I’ve also added my credit card to the phone wallet. I want you to use that for any expenses.”
“I told you I don’t want your money.”
“That’s not the point. Rook O’Connell’s wife doesn’t pay for anything.”
I slipped the phone into my purse. “Were you raised with such archaic, sexist beliefs, or is this a gangster thing?”
“It’s a respect thing.”
“You mean if someone catches your wife paying her own way, it makes you look bad?”
“Not respect for me. For you. My ma raised me right, and she’d turn in her grave if she found out I wasn’t looking after you. Come on. There’s something I want to show you.” Rook curled his finger, and I trailed after him down the hallway. The scent of fresh paint grew stronger the farther we traveled.
“This will be your workspace.” He pushed open a door.
When I saw what lay inside, I almost fell over.
Instead of sharp and modern, this room was soft and elegant. Dusky olive and peach accents warmed the space. Candles in delicate holders, framed art prints of city skylines, a chunky throwdraped over a pale-green armchair. My books lined the shelves. My houseplants looked even healthier than I remembered, basking in the perfect light from the windows.
My computer sat atop a large white oak desk; my pens and notepads sat neatly beside the keyboard. It felt stylish and homey and instantly put me at ease.
There was a closed door on a side wall. A closet or bathroom perhaps?
“What’s in there?” I asked.
Rook shoved his hands into his pockets. “Go see.”
I twisted the handle, and?—
Oh my God. A recording studio.
And not a ramshackle closet lined with egg cartons, like mine. This was arealstudio. One with quality soundproofing and its own desk and laptop. There were also headphones, boom arms, an audio interface, a mixer, and an ergonomic chair. All of it the best that money could buy.
This was more than equipment. It was freedom. It was my voice. It was Rook keeping his word, and that made me hate him just a little bit less.
