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As I made my way back to my tent in the homeless camp just outside Manhattan, I saw rogue garbage cans, siding ripped off houses, and every manner of backyard furniture strewn across the streets. Not to mention the tree branches that littered almost every inch of the neighborhoods I walked through. It was a mess.
The homeless camp barely survived. A majority of our tents and items had gone flying across the field that spanned to the east of our site, but nothing major had disappeared. I gathered what items I could find and wound up stealing someone else’s tent when I couldn’t find mine, but no one ever approached me about it.
That wasn’t the only time I was homeless, it was just the worst. I was kicked off a friend’s couch after he returned home drunk from the bars one night and tried to climb under my blankets. When I told him that it wasn’t like that between us, he told me to get out. At three in the morning, I gathered the few items I had and hit the streets. Thankfully, it was summer.
I spent three months living in that homeless camp before I found a job that paid enough for me to get an apartment. It was only waitressing at Texas Roadhouse, but they were so busy that I collected enough tips to get myself a place in the most rundown part of the town. It was nicer than sleeping on the ground though.
Life hasn’t been easy. I’ve gone through periods of wealth and periods of poverty, neither of which I’d choose to go through again.
At my most comfortable, I was twelve years old living at home with my father. My mother had disappeared a few years before, but we moved on. Weprevailed, as dad would say. But that year I started blossoming. My body filled out and my face looked more mature than pudgy. One day my father came home from work, took one look at me, and brought the back of his hand across my jaw. It was all downhill from there.
At my lowest point, I was sleeping with a brick in the park praying that no one would find me. If the police came across me, they’d take me in, then I’d have to deal with my father taunting me. The brick was to protect myself against thieves and rapists, both of which existed in droves depending on the time of day. Thankfully, it was all uphill from there, I just didn’t know it at the time.
A year ago a friend of mine, Cynthia, from high school found me working the front desk at a local hotel. She was there for a work conference when she stopped to chat with me for a bit. She talked about how she left high school not entirely knowing what she wanted to do with her life. Her parents were wealthy and they floated her along while she figured it out, but eventually, she settled into real estate. Now she had a husband and she was making $60,000 a year selling other people’s homes. Cynthia claimed that it wasn’t the wealth that she’d come from, but it was good enough for her.
I couldn’t imagine what making $60,000 a year would be like. I could afford an apartment that didn’t come with the threat of break-in any time I was gone. I could buy food every week instead of trying to ration the spinach I’d gotten from Aldi twelve days ago that was looking a little limp. I could probably even afford to keep my heat above 60 in the wintertime. If I could make $60,000 a year, I would be living large.
I called Cynthia the next day during my break. I didn’t tell her about everything that had happened to me since high school, but I gave her enough details so that she could paint her own picture. I wasn’t rich and I didn’t need to be, I just wanted to make enough money to survive.
Cynthia mulled it over for a few days before returning to the hotel. She offered to pay for the classes I’d need to get my real estate license. She claimed that it was because we were such good friends back in high school and she couldn’t bear to see me failing at life. I was just poor enough to take her up on the offer.
Life didn’t magically change when I became a real estate agent. I didn’t suddenly have all the money Cynthia bragged about. Instead, I had to wait six weeks before I sold my first home and then another two months on top of that before the commission came in. I was still working part-time at the hotel to pay my bills because no one said that being a realtor could make you rich or it could break you.
But when my first commission came in, 3% on a $225,000 home, I had enough money to take care of myself for the next three months. I couldn’t buy name-brand food at Kroger, but I could fill my cart and not feel bad that I splurged on an extra box of granola bars.
I think with a couple more years, I could have gotten to that coveted $60,000 number that Cynthia talked about. But now I’d never know.
Raniero drove me out past the lake. I watched Manhattan disappear in the rearview as he took me to his home. I could vaguely remember a news article sayingnever let the kidnapper take you to a second location, but I’d already fucked that up. He was racing down backroads and whistling along to the song on the radio. I thought when he got me to wherever he was taking me, he was going to rape me, kill me, and leave my body to be eaten by the coyotes.
Instead, he brought me to a sprawling home that I would have given my right arm to sell and get the commission on. It had to be at least 5,000 square feet if not more. The house had a view of the lake from one side and an expansive backyard that felt like it continued for miles. It was the nicest place I’d ever been in.
When he brought me to what would be my room, I almost felt like Cinderella. I’d been swept off my feet by a morally grey Prince Charming and he was turning my life upside down. I didn’t want to think about it too much because that’s when the realization kicked in that he had still kidnapped me and I had no idea what his plans for me were.
Until he spilled the beans, of course. Babies, marriage, and pissing off my father. It was one hell of a shock to the system.
But, as I’d told myself a thousand times since leaving my father’s house at seventeen, it couldalwaysbe worse.
Marrying Raniero could be exactly what I need to finally turn my life around. He’s handsome, of course, even if he is a bit older than me. Despite the gun he shoved into my back at the open house, he was very gentle with me.
I never wanted to have kids. I couldn’t imagine bringing anyone into this world when I was doing such a shit job of surviving already. But the money this man hashasto count for something. He can financially take care of a child. He can even take care of me.
It could be worse. He could be a poor man holding me hostage in a shack trying to knock me up while living off of canned beans. Instead, he has me locked in a bedroom with temperature control, nice sheets, and a closet full of clothes handpicked for me.
This is every girl’s dream, but mine, especially. I suffered under my father’s abuse for five years. Surely I can handle whatever Raniero can throw my way in exchange for a warm bed and plenty of food in my stomach.
Surely…
5
RANIERO
Sampson brings Calliope to the dining room at 7:00 pm sharp, as requested. He holds an all-encompassing role as my bodyguard. He does my bidding in a number of situations, but his only part in my kidnapping is leading my victim around the house and making sure that she doesn’t escape.
An hour ago one of the maids informed Calliope that dinner would be taking place soon and she needed to get ready. With a closet full of clothes at her disposal, she settled on a full-length skirt and a loose-fitting blouse. Neither item accentuates the curves she has beneath them, something I had a decent view of when she was dressed in her Sunday best for her open house, but that’s okay. If she wants to wear something comfortable, I won’t stop her.
Calliope steps over the threshold and I raise my hand to stop her in her tracks. “Get on your hands and knees.”
A frown creases her forehead as she stands twenty feet from me on the other side of the kitchen. “Wh-what?”
