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“Thank you,” I say softly.
We are close enough now that I can see more defined features of her appearance. Though I had originally thought her dirty based mostly on her attire and our surroundings, I could now see she is very clean. Oddly so, considering she was barefoot in a dirty cellar. Her nails are short, but no dirt caked underneath them. Her blonde hair shines bright as if freshly washed. Even her dress isn’t dirty… worn… but not dirty.
Her eyes are bluer than any eyes I have ever seen. They stand out the most on her nearly angelic face. She’s smaller than most women, and skinnier but not necessarily malnourished or starving. Stunted, would be a word best to describe her. Almost as if her body is brainwashed—just like her mind—to believe she is an innocent child even though she is a grown woman.
“Ember.” Saying her name feels odd. “Did your father tell you what his plans are?”
“In regard to our wedding?”
I nod as I take the seat and twist my body so I am looking right at her. “Or about me in general.”
She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes for a brief moment. “He hasn’t told me much. I didn’t know he wanted me to be married. I didn’t know this was the plan. He’s told me to allow him to worry about all the details and to just focus on… us.”
“Us?”
“On falling in love,” she says with over-bright eyes filled with foolish beliefs.
I think up to this point, I never actually felt true panic. Not until this very moment.
Panic.
Fucking Hell…
Love? Love? Love?
The word seems absurd. The emotion seems deranged. Love and madness is my new reality, and all I can do is drown in my wave after wave of hysteria.
“I should really go and start supper,” she says as she steps away from me for the first time since bringing me the chair.
I wonder if she can see the lunacy in my eyes. Can she see how it has finally hit me like a brick that I am held captive and may never escape? In a matter of hours, I will be dead to all who know me. They will have no reason to doubt the ranger that I fell to my death. They know I would always go the extra distance to get the perfect picture, even if it meant falling to my death in a pit of acid.
“I was going to make stew… if that is alright with you?” She wants my approval. She is nearly begging for it with those eyes of hers.
I have nothing left in me to continue on. Not now, and maybe not ever.
Jesus fucking Christ.
“Stew is fine,” I mumble.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
7
Christopher
I hate the fact I actually allowed myself to sleep last night. I even hate myself more for eating the stew Ember made and settling into the pillows and blankets she brought me as a dutiful hostess would do.
I should fight more. I should not allow any acceptance of this situation.
The bright light shining through the window only reminds me it is now official. In the real world, I am a missing man.
My editor will be waiting for me to send photo proofs. I’m pretty sure I have a lot of unread emails, unreturned text messages, and missed phone calls. My mother won’t be particularly worried yet, since she has become accustomed to me not speaking to her every day. Although my sort of girlfriend, Marissa, will no doubt think I am banging some other chick and currently be in the middle of a stream of texts ranting about what an asshole I am and how my failure to commit to her only proves I am a spoiled, silver spoon-fed momma’s boy with no hope of ever finding true happiness. It’s likely some will assume I’m on a bender, though not my work. No matter what, the workaholic in me has forced me to show up every day, meet every deadline, and act in the utmost professional manner. Odd, that it will be my employer who will notice my disappearance and find it concerning before my mother or my… well… the woman I sleep with, will.
If any one of them knew I’m actually chained up, in a cellar, held captive by a psychopath grooming me to marry his physically and mentally stunted kidnapped pretend daughter, they wouldn’t believe it. Who could believe this? I’m struggling to grasp the reality myself.
I wonder if Richard is reading all of my texts and getting pleasure in watching my life implode one angry message at a time.
My poor mother, and not for the reasons one would think. This will be all the gossip and really hurt her socialite status. The pity in the eyes of all her lunch date besties will truly eat her alive. The hushed rumors, the well wishes laced with hidden agendas just to dig for more gossip. Her invites to parties will decrease because no one wants a dark cloud to attend a gala. And of course, she won’t be able to hold a proper funeral for me where she can wear a ten-thousand-dollar designer black dress and dab her eyes with a handkerchief once belonging to some queen of another country and considered a priceless antique. She will not be able to have all eyes on her as she throws her body over my open casket declaring she doesn’t know how she can go on without her only son.
