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It’s wrong of me to ask her about Natasha. I don’t particularly care what happened to the bitch, but asking about her serves to deepen the chasm between me and the beautiful woman opposite me. It serves as a reminder of who I am.
Monica doesn't know that I intended to get caught, that I wanted her to see me burning our bridges. She doesn't know that I meant to hurt her so badly that she’d be scarred from the wounds I inflicted. But she does know exactly why I’m asking about Natasha now, and it isn't because I care to know how she’s doing. "I ran into her at the farmer's market a few weeks ago." She nods, her slender throat bobbing as she works to keep anything more from slipping off her tongue. "Would you like me to call her?"
I arch an eyebrow as I contemplate the offer. I’m pent up and in need of release, and it would be nice to not have to work for it. Natasha most certainly won’t make me work for it.
And if Monica is testing me, just trying to see if I still feel anything for her, she’s not about to see me fail. There’s nothing left of the love that once existed between us, and more than that, there’s nothing left of my need for her. My cock isn’t even hard at the sight of her despite how beautiful she really is and how much fun we used to have.
"Please do." I nod.
Monica nods too and turns to go but stops when I speak again. "And Monica?"
She meets my eyes slowly, blinking away more tears like that will prevent me from seeing them. "Sir?"
It’s not even weird to hear her call me by the formality. The divide between who we were and who we are now—who I was then versus who I am now—is brutally evident.
"You know why I'm here, don't you?"
Her attention turns to her feet, trying to escape my probing gaze. The red tinting her cheeks is enough of a tell even without seeing her eyes. "I'm in no position to guess about your business."
"Maybe you shouldn't." I concede. "But I think you know what I’m here for. And I'd appreciate your discretion until I've had the chance to speak to Rhiannon myself."
"Of course." She grimaces just the slightest bit before she can hide it, but I excuse it as a smile and watch her go, the hem of her dress riding her curves.
Monica's family has been employed by mine for years. It is their family business to serve my family in every manner. Her mother was a fantastic cook, her father a sort of advisor to mine, and her uncle was one of several drivers we'd had on hand growing up. Their apparent loyalty was curious, to the extent that rumors had once circulated that they were indentured to my family… that we owned them. Knowing what I know now, it’s not entirely out of the question. Did her parents know what mine did? Were they involved in the family business, or were they just product bought and sold at auction?
Monica grew up in the servant's house out back, and she always liked me. Even before I cared for her, we were friendly enough. Somehow we became lovers, and we thought we were meant to be together right up until the day I tore her heart out and left it on the kitchen floor.
I was admittedly awful to her in the end, sure to sever the ties between us so crudely that there was no hope of repair. I'd never planned to come back to the States when I left them, and I wanted Monica to break free of her family business the way she'd always talked about. It seems that only half of my plan worked; She wants nothing to do with me, clearly.
But she’s still here.
It takes a lot to surprise me, but that fact does it. We always talked about getting out of here, leaving it all behind. The fact that she’s still in this prison is disappointing. After the whole show I put on for her, after thinking I’d drive her away from any reminder of me, she decided to stay. I’d worry that I failed at what I set out to do, but it’s clear that the spark between us is gone. That spark was the only thing that put her in danger, and now that it’s been extinguished, I guess it doesn’t really matter where she works.
Of course, I’d like it if she moved far away and never spoke the Boudreaux name again, but I know it’s a wasted effort. She’s on their radar and will never be off of it. If someone decides they want her at any point, they will do whatever they want to get her. If she is going to stay here, though, I’ll have to be sure she gets a pay increase at the very least. I’m sure my father never considered offering more money to the help.
Monica reappears after a few moments, still refusing to hold my gaze when she speaks. "Natasha will be here within the hour."
My throat is dry as I contemplate what to say to her by way of response, so I say nothing, nodding brusquely.
"I'll be in my room if you need anything." She finally looks up at me, blushing furiously as she realizes the way I could take her words. In another life, I would have teased her and made an innuendo about her word choice. But I say nothing, letting her trip over her own tongue instead. “That is to say, I will make myself scarce while Natasha is here. If you need anything, just call me."
"Goodnight, Monica." I turn away from her, finishing the last of my bourbon in front of the crackling fire.
I hear her scurry away and laugh to myself, but it’s a sound devoid of humor. Monica has changed. It isn't entirely unexpected... to live is to change. Houses may stay the same, but people don’t. They rot as they die, each day stripping them a little more of the innocence of youth, each day leading them further from the light.
I changed first. But was it my own metamorphosis that changed her, too? I really was pretty awful to her.
"Change happens where pain happens." I remind myself, flexing my fingers into a fist. Money, power, women... none of those have ever been in short supply around me. But the most plentiful thing in these halls is pain. It exists in every photo, every memory, every cell of my body, every molecule of air in this place.
The ghosts of my past whisper their grievances with me as I watch the slow burn, my grip tightening on the glass. If pain gives life to change, then I’m a different person entirely from who I once was.
That is both a blessing and a curse.
The crystal shatters as it meets the jagged stone at the back of the fireplace, and the flames roar as they devour the rest of the drink I left behind. Orange and red blazes threaten to spill out the sides of the grate, but I don't move. It’s an empty threat; The inferno mellows a moment later. I watch it glinting over the shards of broken glass and heave a sigh.
No matter how I try to cast it off or how deep down I shove it, I can never escape the guilt.
Chapter two
