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Already getting ready to be my house wife, huh?
Angel’s taunting words clang down my chest.
If I wasn’t stuck, I might feel inclined to trash the place in retribution.
Instead, I sit on the living room couch, staring out onto the now familiar view of the sparkling downtown skyline, trying to remember what fresh air smells like. The semi-serious thought of wrapping my hand in a table cloth and punching a hole in one of the penthouse windows crosses my mind, but I don’t have the gusto right now.
So, I just lazily tilt my head over to the locked front door. The stack of newspapers taunt me, a reminder of how long I’ve been locked away.
Fuck. There’s nothing else to do. Defeated, I finally saunter over to the door and grab the newest bundle, dragging it back to my place on the couch, where I settle in for another boring evening.
The front page is all about some soccer match. I miss watching soccer.
I flip through the rag, only half paying attention, until something familiar suddenly catches my eye.
A paparazzi shot of Angel outside of some club fills up an entire page.
CALI’S MYSTERIOUS BILLIONAIRE PLAYBOY HAS A HEART OF GOLD
That’s the headline.
I’d laugh if I wasn’t so instantly pissed off.
Heart of gold!? I’m guessing the reporter doesn’t know anything about Angel’s penchant for kidnapping women from underground garages.
My first reaction is to throw the newspaper away in disgust, but there’s an article attached to the image, and I can’t seem to look away.
I skim through the story. It’s all about Angel’s past charitable donations, written as though the information was leaked to the journalist.
Bullshit. Who’s stupid enough to believe anyone but Angel and his people are behind this puff piece?
I toss the paper away, furious that my tormentor is getting such good press. The fluttering pages hit the floor just as the front door suddenly swings open. I whip towards the visitor, ready for a fight, expecting it to be one of the maids or security personnel.
Instead, a well-groomed Angel looms large in the doorway.
“What the fuck are you doing here!?” They’re the first words out of my mouth. I can’t stop them.
Angel raises a playful eyebrow. He’s wearing a dark blue blazer over a crisp white dress shirt. His tapered trousers cut off at the ankles, where they’re met by dark brown leather shoes. His stubble is shaved down to a 5 o’clock shadow and his thick black hair is styled up and back.
Fuck. He definitely looks the part of a mysterious billionaire playboy. If I didn’t know what a cruel captor he was, I might fall for it, too. But there’s no ignoring what he’s done to me; what he’s doing to me.
“I own the place,” Angel responds, looking around the penthouse, as if scanning for something to call me out on. It’s spotless, though.
Already getting ready to be my house wife, huh?
I can practically hear him say it. The bastard.
When he can’t find anything wrong with the room, his attention turns to me.
“Get dressed,” he orders. “We’re going out.”
I’m up off the couch in an instant; my anger evaporates in a beam of hope—anything to finally be outside again. I move for the door, but I don’t get far before Angel stops me with the palm of his hand.
“Not like that,” he shakes his head, gesturing to my nightgown. “Put on one of your new dresses. A nice one.”
Maybe, if I hadn’t spent the past four days locked in a tower, essentially by myself, I’d have the energy to resist his order, to fight back like I want to, but it’s no use. Even my anger at Angel’s puff piece article fades into the background. I need to go out, and if that means dolling myself up for the man who’s become my tormentor, then so be it.
The fresh air might even give me a chance to make a run for it.
