5
Sara
Peter doesn’t release me until we’re inside the house, and even then, when he sets me on my feet, he keeps his steely fingers wrapped around my wrist, chaining me to his side as I take in my gorgeous new prison.
And it is gorgeous. Even with the anger and frustration choking me up inside, I can appreciate the clean, modern lines of the open floor plan and the postcard-pretty views of the mountains and the lake visible through the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows. In the middle of the space, next to an ultra-modern kitchen, a set of plank-style hardwood stairs spirals to the second floor—and that’s where Peter leads me, his hand still possessively holding my wrist.
“A Japanese businessman built this twenty years ago, but I renovated it when I bought it last year,” Peter says as
