Page 50 of The Wrong Man

Maybe I have something he wants. Something he needs. Something I could use.

The thought is ugly. Cold and calculating in a way I’ve never been before. I’ve always been soft. The kind of person who apologizes when someone else bumps into me, who tips generously even when the service is terrible, who cries at sad films and rescues spiders instead of killing them.

I’m not the kind of person who manipulates. Who schemes. Who looks at another human being and thinks about how to exploit their weaknesses.

But then again, I’ve never been kidnapped and tortured before. I’ve never watched a man die while he screamed my brother’s name. I’ve never been so completely at someone’s mercy that my survival depended on their goodwill.

Dante did this to me. He broke something inside me that day in his torture chamber, and what’s growing in its place is harder. Sharper. More willing to do whatever it takes to survive.

I don’t like it. I don’t like who I’m becoming. But I don’t have the luxury of staying soft. Soft people don’t escape from monsters. Soft people don’t survive.

I look at Dante, really look at him, and for the first time I see not just a threat but an opportunity.

He wants me to like him. He wants my forgiveness, my gratitude, my affection. He is so desperate for connection that even the tiniest kindness makes him light up like a child on Christmas morning.

What would happen if I gave him more than tiny kindnesses? What would happen if I made him think I was starting to care about him? What would happen if I played the long game, built his trust piece by piece, made myself so essential to his happiness that he couldn’t bear to keep me prisoner anymore?

Could I charm my way to freedom?

The idea seems absurd. I’m not charming. I’m not clever or manipulative or seductive. I’m just Dylan, the anxious baker who can’t even stand up to his own brother.

But Dante doesn’t see me that way. Dante looks at me like I’m something precious. Something worth protecting. I don’t know if he is gay, or interested in experimenting. But I do know he looks at me like I’m something he wants to keep.

He might just be craving platonic companionship. That’s still a want, a need.

Maybe I could use that.

Maybe I could make him love me so much that he lets me go.

Or maybe I could simply make him trust me so completely that he gets careless. Leaves a door unlocked. Gives me access to a phone. Creates an opportunity for escape that I can seize when the moment is right.

It would take time. Patience. A willingness to pretend feelings I don’t have and swallow revulsion I do.

It would be dishonest. Manipulative. Everything I’ve never been and never wanted to be.

But I want to go home. I want to see Aunt Moira again. I want to stand in my bakery and feel flour between my fingers and know that I’m safe.

I want to live.

And if that means becoming someone I don’t recognize, someone harder and colder and more calculating than the Dylan who was dragged into this nightmare... then so be it.

Dante made me this way. He can deal with the consequences.

“What would you need?” he asks, oblivious to the revolution happening inside my head. “For baking. What equipment?”

I take a breath. Steady myself. Push down the guilt already churning in my stomach.

Then I smile at him. A real smile, or close enough to one that he won’t know the difference.

“Mixing bowls,” I say. “Different sizes. Measuring cups and spoons. A good whisk, and a wooden spoon. Baking trays. A cake tin or two.” I let warmth seep into my voice. Let my eyes go soft with gratitude. “A stand mixer would be amazing, but I can manage without one. Oh, and a kitchen scale. Baking is all about precision.”

Dante nods along like he’s memorizing every word. “And ingredients?”

“Flour. Sugar. Both granulated and caster. Butter, obviously. Eggs. Baking powder and bicarbonate of soda. Vanilla extract.” The list flows out of me, automatic and familiar. “Salt. Milk. Cream, if you want anything fancy.”

“Write a list and I’ll get everything,” he says. “Tomorrow. I’ll make a proper shopping trip.”

The eagerness in his voice makes something twist in my chest. He wants to please me. He wants to give me things, do things for me, make me happy.