I had thirty-nine minutes.
Thirty-nine minutes to transform myself from a terrified prisoner into the composed, compliant wife of Jason Vanderbilt. I spent the first ten of those minutes in the kitchen, my hands moving with a mechanical precision. The ritual of the tea was a performance in itself. I chose the fine bone china—the set Jason had bought in London—and listened to the whistle of the kettle, a sharp, piercing sound that mirrored the scream trapped in my throat.
I set the tray with a lace doily, lemon slices, and honey, making sure everything was centered. If a single spoon was out of place, it was "evidence" of my fractured mental state. I was hyper-aware of the security cameras. I knew Jason might be watching the feed from his office, checking to see if I was a "good girl."
A
