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The door opens, and his frame looms in the doorway. He’s dressed in black silky pants and a matching button-up shirt. It’s open, revealing his muscular chest. But it’s not his perfect body that draws my attention. It’s the fact it’s heaving and his jaw is hard. His eyes are cold pools of fury.
I haven’t tried escaping today. Has someone else? He’s fuming, but it’s quiet, except for his eyes, and I stare at the floor because the eyes—dark and devouring—are too much to bear. I shrink farther into the covers, but the truth is I know there’s no hiding from him.
“I need my girls. All my girls,” he says, with that sultry tone that had once sent delicious shivers coursing through me. It’s so strange how one voice—the same voice—can make me feel safe and loved and then hours later fill me with dread and terror.
His approach to my bed is calm and measured. Even angry, he’s not bursting into flames. It’s a quiet cold that permeates the room as if someone has poured dry ice over his bones and created an unseen fog. He unlocks my chain. “Did you enjoy your dinner last night?”
I remain silent. I will not give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s my master and I’m a slave. As if a nice meal is something I should be grateful for. Maybe it is. But I’m not.
“Cat got your tongue, lovely?”
He waits a beat and sighs through his nose, then removes the heavy iron cuff. My wrist feels like a feather, but it’s tender and bruised. My finger throbs and is crooked. I know it’ll never be straight again.
“How long are you going to keep me?” I ask, my voice raw and hoarse from endless yelling.
He gently turns down my covers, and the cool air raises chill bumps across my body. He grins at the sight. “That’s a good question, and one I honestly can’t answer. I do apologize.”
Does that mean he plans to kill me? Surely he’s not going to let me go. I’m some kind of pawn in a sick game he’s playing, but I’m not sure why.
He uses my good hand to draw me up, gripping me like a vise, but I don’t howl. He guides me down the hall I ran through before, only to reach the dead end, but there’s another secret door. I know it’s going to lead into the solarium garden thingy he’s built into the house.
Inside, the room is bright with sunlight, and warm but not uncomfortable. The other girls are in their hanging baskets with heads on their knees and arms wrapped around their shins. Their hair is pulled into tight ballerina buns. Mine is not.
“I’ve had some irritating news. I need to relax. Release.”
I swallow hard and take a stab. “What kind of news?” If I can befriend him—again—he might let his guard down. Because I really don’t care what disturbs him.
“The kind only arrogant fools dish out. You’d think he’d have learned his lesson not to open his mouth in public. But he did. For all the viewing area, giving a false sense of security to locals. As if he can control me. Me!” He raises his voice on the last word, but not in a burst of uncontrollable rage. An emphasis. As if that word meant something more powerful than one person. “One or one hundred press conferences won’t save you.”
He commands me to lower myself on the chaise. His chaise. Is that where it’s going to happen? The violation. My intestines protest, and I need to go to the bathroom.
“Why?” I ask because I need an answer. I need five seconds to prepare. Five seconds to go to another place and block it out.
He cocks his head and lifts my chin. “When I tell you to do something, you don’t ask why. You simply abide by my request. It’s called obedience, my dear.” He makes a quick sweep of my pinky finger. My broken pinky finger. A silent warning of what’s to come if I utter another word.
Defeated, I sit on the chaise, awaiting him to push me back. To have his way with me. I already know it won’t be like the first time. Nothing special or romantic about it. He straddles the chaise from behind me and I go into that same kind of shaking when you come out of anesthesia. It’s induced by anxiety. Unwanted tears leak down my cheeks. Inside, I beg and plead and pray he won’t touch me.
His fingers gently comb through my hair. “You have lovely hair. It needs washing. Maybe later.” He smells like money and power and temptation, and I wish I’d never succumbed. I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t, and I cry harder now. I’m furious at myself. People I know and love would tell me it’s not my fault. I did nothing wrong. But that’s not true. It is my fault. I made my choices. I should have... I don’t even know. He’s gathering my hair and lifting it off my neck. His breath is warm and minty, and I cringe as a memory invades of how sweet he’d tasted. Now I want to vomit.
I feel a brush go through my hair. One stroke. Two. Over and over he brushes my hair like I used to with my dolls when I was a little girl. When my innocence hadn’t been stolen.
He’s pulling up my hair and twisting it into a bun. Then an elastic band twines around the knot, holding it in place. I now look like all the other garden girls in cages, only with a different flower.
One leg swings over the chaise, then the other, until he’s kneeling in front of me. I wrap my arms around my chest as a shield and covering.
“Oh yes, yes, yes, yes,” he coos. His finger trails down my cheek and neck, then traces my collarbone, and I flinch. “Shy girl now, are you? You were quite lively before.” His chuckle is breathy and full of flirtation. Everything that had roped me in. “Now, up you go,” he says like a father putting his child on a bike for the first time.
My pinky finger is throbbing and I don’t want another one broken, so I stand on wobbly legs and follow him to the wrought iron barred cage. He opens the massive door, and I step inside. The other girls have yet to glance up or express any interest. It’s like they’re mannequins of flesh. His bare feet pad across the room back to the chaise, and he picks up a remote control and presses a button.
I don’t know what to expect and lurch as loud classical music filters through unseen speakers. Stringed instruments bring hairs to attention on my neck. The deep thrum of the cello bumps in my chest, a sense of foreboding, and the violins screech like wailing victims. I cringe and crouch. What is he going to do? The others never move position. They’re used to this. But what is this?
He lowers the remote to the table and claps his hands twice as he glides across the tile, his dark hair falling into his eyes. He’s in the center of the cages, which are positioned in a circle around the fountain. “Bloom for me, girls.”
What does he mean? What are they going to do? What does he expect me to do?
I watch in horror, my heart slamming against my ribs, as these women rise to their bare feet and perfectly plié in unison like ballerinas in a private performance.
He throws his head back and his arms stretch to his sides as if the dancing has empowered him. I do not rise to my feet. I do not dance. I can’t. I’m frozen in place at the chilling display.
