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DAPHNE
I wake up to an empty bed.
Emerson’s empty bed.
Damn him. If I hadn’t been wrung out with orgasms and anger, I could have kept fighting.
Lie. The last thing I remember is a clean desperation to rest my head. Then his hand in my hair. Then nothing.
Pearl-gray clouds cover the sky outside. I feel like I’ve been sleeping for a hundred years, but no—I don’t think so. It was only last night that I came here.
It was only last night that Emerson took me prisoner. That fight in the studio—
Getting out of bed seems like the only way to clear my mind. I move to the window and scrub my hands over my face. No sign of Emerson in the ocean. He’s somewhere inside the house.
Okay.
The door leading out of his bedroom is closed, but the doors to the studio are wide open. I cross with quick strides. It’s my full intention to ignore the easel. Naturally, I fail. Emerson has put the stool back in its place. He put out a fresh canvas. Washed the brushes, and the palette. They wait for me on the side-wall shelves.
It would feel good to paint. The urge is already building in my hands. In my head. But screw that. I’m not painting for him.
The bed in the second master—in the room he made for me—is still crisply made. He slept next to me, if he slept at all.
God, what a mess. I slept with him last night. I let him fuck me in the studio. I fucked him back. The man who’s taken me captive. The man who thinks I’m part of his collection. Nothing could be more shameful. Nothing.
It makes me wet to be treated like an object. Heat blooms on my face and I try pointlessly to rub it away.
It’s just too early for this line of thinking. I’ll understand it when I paint again, probably. I’ll understand what was happening in his mind, too. What I saw in his eyes. One moment stands out to me—that blanked-out second when I hit him.
That night on the beach, I flinched when he reached for me. He noticed. Someone hurt you, he’d said. Someone hurt Emerson, too.
Unless I’m wrong. I haven’t been right about much of anything lately. It’s equally possible that Emerson has always been like this.
I go to the walk-in closet, which is not empty. It’s also not a generic collection for any guest who happens to stay. It’s all for me.
Pushing apart some of the shirts only confirms it. These are all my size, and all in brands that I’ve worn in front of Emerson. Anything that’s not is similar enough. Dresses I like. Soft leggings. Softer sweaters. I pull open a drawer and find neat rows of panties. Some lace, some cotton. Matching bras.
“What the hell,” I murmur. He’s included gowns, like he’s going to be taking me out. He’s included everything. Socks. Shoes. Even a small selection of jewelry.
It’s more than the wardrobe I keep in my apartment. Worse yet…
I like it.
I tip my head back and stare at the ceiling. Rage is an option. Another tantrum is an option. I could try to smash the windows again. I could summon that emotion, I think.
But if I’m honest—and why be anything else, here in this obsessive walk-in closet?—my arms are sore. My muscles are tired. And I’m curious.
I know I shouldn’t be. I know the essentials. Emerson is a bad person. He’s holding me captive. He’s never going to be good, and I can never love him.
I’m drawn to him, though. I can’t help it. It’s like—
“Oh, shit.” I tug down a soft sweater from its hanger. Find a pair of leggings. Underthings. “God, Daphne.”
The en-suite bathroom is enormous and sparkling. Done up in black and white. Fresh towels hang on hooks. There’s also a bathtub, if I wanted. Matte black and deep. Relaxing in the tub seems like surrender, so I turn on the shower. Brush my teeth. Emerson knows my brand of toothpaste. He didn’t just leave the Lehmann painting when he came into my apartment. He took things, too. Facts about me that he filed away.
I shrug off the shiver and step into the shower.
A laugh bubbles up. It sounds a little wild. A little stunned. I should be used to this, I guess. But Emerson’s put two kinds of shampoo and two kinds of conditioner in here. Two kinds of body wash.
