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We have a late breakfast, this time in the kitchen. Part of me thought since I’m their slave, and they can do whatever they want with me, that I would start taking over domestic duties. Even if they have a cleaning service, maybe they don't have a cook. But they seem to be content doing the cooking themselves.
I've been allowed clothing today—jeans and a pale pink tank top. In fact, I was shocked to find my closet and drawers filled with clothes and shoes and undergarments all in my sizes. I suppose if they were planning this for a long time, they had plenty of time to get clothes for me.
Declan and Seven are both dressed sharply in suits, and it occurs to me I have no idea what they even do with their lives. I know Seven at least has always been well off, but what do they actuallydoduring the day now that their life is back to the status quo? I don't bother asking because I'm sure they'll tell me it's none of my business, and I'm not sure I want to know the way men without conscience manage to acquire this much wealth and power over the police force.
Seven glances down at his watch. “Eleven a.m., Kitten. You're off the leash. See you at six. Each of them kiss me as though we are in some sort of unconventional, yet still fairly normal relationship. Then they just... leave. The house.
I stare after them, gaping like a fish. When I'm able to snap out of this fugue state, I step outside the main door to find that yes, they're driving off the property in separate cars. I find my blue Porsche sitting shiny and gleaming in the circular driveway. I have no idea how it got here, and it looks like someone washed it.
A young man who I hadn't noticed before, hands me the keys. “The car is ready, Ms. Mitchell. Mr. Kelly said to take care of it for you.” He speaks in good but slightly broken English. His accent is unmistakable, but I can't fully place its origin.
“What about the gate?” I find myself asking.
“There's a programmed remote in the glove box.” He opens the passenger side and shows me a slim black remote control with a single button.
“Thanks,” I manage. My fingers drift unconsciously up to touch my collar. With the pink gemstones, it looks like regular jewelry, especially since it matches what I'm wearing, but still, I feel exposed. I also feel a bit like a puppy with a shock collar to keep me from straying too far.
They must feel very confident in their powers to keep me while giving me the illusion of freedom.
I put the keys in my pocket and take a walk around the property. There are a few gardeners in the gardens. There's an enormous pool on one side of the house with what I would consider a “party jacuzzi”. It's all decked out on the far end of the house for BBQs as though this is an activity Seven and Declan engage in routinely. I just can't see it.
When I make my way back around to the front of the house, there are several white vans parked in the drive.
The guy who washed my car notices my wariness and says, “It's just the cleaning service, Ms. Mitchell.”
I manage a weak smile. Then I go inside and as unobtrusively as possible do a walk-through of the house. It's just beginning to dawn on me that Ilivehere now. The penthouse was swank, no question, but this is on another level.
For all my ambition when I worked at the ad agency and the level of success I'd acquired, I'd never thought of myself as materialistic. Aside from the Louis Vuitton bag, I didn't put a lot of stock in things. And they didn't impress me. My drive for success was more about the pleasure of being the best at something and less about the financial rewards even though Ididenjoy them.
But I can't help but stand in absolute awe of this exquisite house. There's a huge formal dining room on the first floor just off the generous entryway. There's a sort of fancy game room with billiard tables. There is literally a room which I think is meant just for smoking cigars and drinking whatever manly drink men prefer to have with cigars.
There is a solarium and an indoor pool. A library that extends up two stories. A fitness room. A fucking ballroom. Is there any reason to ever leave a house like this and go out into the world? I half expect to come across a restaurant or a gift shop, but of course I don't. There are a few smaller, cozier rooms that most people would call things like “living room”. At the end of the hallway is a nice large office, but when I push the door open to one, a maid says, “I wouldn't, Ms. Mitchell, that's Mr. Kelly's private office.”
I'm a bit troubled that I don't know which one of my masters Mr. Kelly is. I think it's probably Seven, but I don't know for sure, and I feel confident Seven and Declan won't submit to an interrogation about the matter, so I quietly shut the door.
“Sorry, I was just exploring.”
She smiles, not unkindly, and goes on about her business.
I'm also a little weirded out that every single bit of staff knows my name. The second floor has several large nice bedrooms with balconies, several of which have their own bathrooms, like mine. None of the rooms are Declan's or Seven's. It's the third floor where I find their rooms. They look different in the day. Both are understated and masculine.
Having seen just about everything there is to see, I go back outside and get in my car. I don't remember the way here, so I program the address of my penthouse into the GPS.
It only takes about thirty minutes to get back to the city. It seemed farther away, but I guess every drive feels long when you're drunk, scared, and about to lose all your freedom to people you know you can't truly trust.
I go back to my penthouse and just sit on the sofa, staring out at the view of the city. I'm still processing all of this. I order in pizza and watch TV and take a bubble bath trying to feel normal. I'm still not sure if that drunk phone call was my worst idea or my best.
I get back home ten minutes before six to find Seven standing in the main entryway, still wearing the suit. My mouth goes dry. That look really works for him. “We're having dinner in the formal dining room. I'm told you've snooped around so you know where it is.”
I'm not sure if he's upset about that. They didn't say I couldn't look around. They never said any area of the house was off limits.
“I'm sorry, Master,” I say even though I don't really feel I owe him an apology.
He smirks. “For knowing where the dining room is? Yes, you should surely be punished for that high crime. Go upstairs. There's a dress for you on the bed. Put it on and come down. Dinner's almost ready.”
Upstairs, draped across the bed is the most sophisticated black evening gown I've ever seen, and a pair of silver heels. I dress and fix my hair and makeup then stand for a few minutes admiring myself in the leaner mirror. The pink gemstones glitter in the light. The band isn't too thick and clunky, so it doesn't seem out of place.
“You really are a pretty toy.”
