Rhys was chained to a chair.
Hands cuffed. Ankles shackled. Designer shirt wrinkled beyond salvation.
The cops had rattled off a laundry list of charges: "Theft. Breaking and entering. Trespassing. Assault. Disturbing the peace. Kidnapping."
Rhys screeched, "You've got it all wrong! That's my fiancée! We just had a little lovers' spat, that's all!"
One of the officers didn't even look up from his notes. "You stole a passcard to Oakwood Apartments. Broke into her flat. Dragged her out against her will. That's not a spat, Mr. Granger. That's criminal trespass. And according to our records, she's not your fiancée. You two broke off the engagement. You're strangers."
Rhys opened his mouth, closed it, then blinked. Hard.
Technically true. But still. Bit harsh.
"Look at me
