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Closing the door behind me, I breathe in the floral aromas of the herb and flower bath Carmina has prepared for me, the surface of the water in the square sunken tub decorated prettily with rose petals. I undress in front of the gold ornate free-standing mirror, forensically examining the status of the bruises on my ribs and hips, the scratches on my arms and legs and neck, the weals on my wrists and ankles, and the black eye and split lip on my face. All slowly healing. Despite Carmina’s nourishing broths, thick wedges of homemade bread and generous slices of pie, I still haven’t gained back the weight I’ve lost, and because of my petite stature, I look younger than my eighteen years. I frown at my image, annoyed that my body is behaving this way. I want curves, I want to feel womanly, I want to be the happy girl who smiled back at me on the yacht on my birthday again. That day feels so long ago now.
As I stare at myself, I think back to the first time I saw my reflection here, in Michael’s house, after he saved me. There were no mirrors in my bedroom, and I didn’t realize at first. I only saw myself through Michael and Carmina’s eyes, in the dimness. I lay in bed, the heavy drapes drawn across the windows, my mind an abyss, my body a warzone. My face felt tight and sore, and I could only open one eye properly, but Carmina’s gentle voice assured me the doctor said I would make a full, physical recovery, eventually. I just had to be patient. But I am not known for patience, and I demanded to see what had happened to me, to literally face it head on. Carmina tried to dissuade me, to calm me, but it was futile.
“Let her see,” instructed Michael from the end of the bed. Standing there, he seemed like my guardian angel, always watching over me.
The housekeeper returned a few moments later clutching a hand mirror to her chest, reluctant to turn it over to me.
“Please turn on the light,” I said, gingerly pulling myself up to a sitting position.
Carmina switched on the bedside lamp and handed me the mirror. I looked across at Michael, a solid and steady presence, and took my strength from him. He nodded once, nothing but kindness shining in his dark eyes.
I’ll never forget the mangled mask I saw in that mirrored glass. For a split second, in my still woozy state, I thought I had somehow conjured up a deformed doppelganger, trapped genie-like beneath the surface. With an anguished cry, I dropped the mirror and covered my damaged face with my hands. I couldn’t bear the thought that Michael had had to endure the sight of me, the grotesque beast to his beauty.
As Carmina snatched up the mirror like an offensive weapon, I felt the bed depress next to me and sensed that Michael had sat down. He gently moved my hands away from my face, overcoming my resistance, and lowered them onto the white cotton covers. I kept my head down, too ashamed to meet his eyes but he hooked a finger under my chin and brought it up to face him. In the lamplight I could see his own eyes glistening as he wiped my tears away with his thumbs.
“Come now, let’s have none of this, bella,” he said. “These wounds will heal. You will recognize yourself again soon.”
I shook my head, my long, wild, curly hair moving like ropes against my back as my body juddered with sobs. “I’m hideous!” I exclaimed. “Who did this to me?”
“Shush now, don’t upset yourself,” he soothed. “You need to rest. Carmina?”
Michael called for his housekeeper and between the two of them they settled me down, back under the covers. Already exhausted, I let them, closing my eyes as soon as one of them turned off the light.
Now, I turn back to the bath and step down into the warm water. It’s the perfect temperature and I submerge myself completely, head and all. Resurfacing a few moments later, I slick my long hair back and recline, enjoying the feeling of the water and the petals against my skin and the view out of the tall sash window directly in front of me. The sun is beginning to set, and the sky is a stunning palette of pink and orange. Everything is impossibly perfect here.
On the right-hand side of the bathtub Carmina has left white fluffy towels, cleansing lotions, shampoo and conditioner, and some scented tea lights and matches. I light the candles then take my time nourishing my skin and hair with the rose fragranced products as the sky darkens outside, growing more excited about my meeting with Michael with each passing minute. I imagine him watching me from the doorway, the way that I watch him, and appreciating what he sees. If he was watching me, would he make his presence known or would he take pleasure in being a voyeur? From what I’ve observed of him so far, I know he likes to be in control.
My brain suddenly twists as I think about the way he took control of rescuing me that terrible, terrifying night. All I can remember is waking on a cold flagstone floor in a tomb-like room. The dampness seemed to emanate from the brick walls and my bones felt as though they were filled with ice, my head with splinters of glass. I recall hearing scuffles and movement as I floated towards consciousness, shivering violently. Panic overwhelmed me as I realized I was bound at my wrists and ankles and shackled to the wall with ropes, but I didn’t have the mental or physical strength to struggle against them. I have never felt such suffocating terror in my life. And then I saw a magnificent sight: Michael’s shadowy face behind the beam of torchlight.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he repeated, stepping towards me. Despite feeling scared, something deep down inside me instinctively knew I could trust him, that he was going to help me. His young, handsome face expressed pity and concern and kindness. His body language expressed assurance and confidence and protection.
He reached out a strong hand to touch me and although I knew I had nothing to fear from him, I automatically recoiled and…
Frustrated, I shake my head, willing myself to remember more but I can’t. It’s as though my memory is a movie, and it cuts off mid scene. But in this movie Michael is my leading man, my hero. The one who saved me from that underground dungeon and brought me here, to his home. The one who looks at me with such affection and considers my needs so attentively. What would have happened to me if he hadn’t been there that night? My nightmares show me that answer.
A little while later, after I have returned to my bedroom and eaten the food Carmina brought me on a tray, I begin to get ready to meet Michael in his study. I dry my hair, combing it until it shines, apply a little bit of the make-up that I found arranged on the dressing table, taking extra care around my sore eye and cracked lip, and slip into the short green dress that was hanging on the armoire door when I returned from my bath. The fact that he’s requested a more formal meeting gives me hope that he’s finally going to tell me what happened to me, to give me the answers I simultaneously crave yet am terrified to hear. But I do need to know them. And I also need to know exactly how long he intends to keep me here as a pampered, protected prisoner. In return, I’m going to show him exactly how thankful I am for the care he’s given me because amongst all the confusion and strangeness, my feelings towards my savior and protector have grown into something more than just gratitude.
As I admire the silk dress and the way it clings to my body in the re-installed cheval mirror, I feel my cheeks flush as I imagine Michael’s dark eyes drinking me in. I imagine his tongue touching his top lip, his hand stroking his strong, square, stubbled jaw. I imagine his…
A knock at the door stops that escalating train of thought. “Miss DeMarco? It’s almost nine o’clock. Signor Luciano is expecting you.”
“Thank you, Carmina,” I say, smiling to myself as I smooth down the dress and take one last look in the mirror. For the first time since I got here, I almost look like the old Cecelia again.
Barefoot, I make my way down the back stairs to Michael’s study, which is situated on the ground floor to the rear of the house. The door is closed. I take a deep breath, raising my hand to knock when I hear a voice from inside, and it’s not Michael’s. It sounds like Gianni’s, a measured voice I have come to recognize over the past few days, although I wouldn’t be able to put a face to the name yet. I step back, worried about intruding on a private conversation, but his voice carries through the door anyway.
“What about the girl, boss?” asks Gianni.
“Cecelia?”
I gasp at Michael’s mention of my name and automatically take a step towards the door again, turning my head to press my ear against the wood. I should feel ashamed of eavesdropping but the desire to hear what they’re saying overrules my conscience.
“Have you found out anything else about her?” asks Michael.
There’s a pause then Gianni answers. “Nothing to worry about. She’s a nobody.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” replies Michael.
I bend at the waist, feeling like I’ve been physically winded, and back away from the door—did I hear that right? I’m a nobody? I’m nothing to him? Have I imagined all our looks, our brief touches, his kind words so far? As fast as my shaky legs will allow me, I rush back upstairs to my bedroom, waiting until I’m safely inside before throwing myself on the bed and letting the tears flow. What a fool I’ve been! What ridiculous, fanciful notions I’ve entertained! He’s just been doing the right thing by a random, injured girl—just as he would help an animal by the roadside—and I’ve imagined feelings between us.
