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The next day, I ended up taking the Corvette to the dealership, but rather than change the color, I changed the car entirely. As much as I liked the Corvette, I ended up switching it up for a more sensible Camry. It would call less attention to me and was something I could more easily keep up with once this whole arrangement was over.
If I got to keep the car at all, that is.
Chris must have seen the Camry when he came back that day, but he didn’t say anything about it. There were no fights or accusations of me being ungrateful. He simply accepted it as something I wanted and left it at that.
As I said, strange.Totally strange.
But that wasn’t even the strangest thing about my captivity, and it wasn’t the craziest thing he gave me. Neither were the expensive dinners he sometimes catered for me when he couldn’t make it home nor was it the few times he bought me jewelry to go with my powersuit.
Somehow, he always seemed to know what would look good on me.
But all those things I could excuse away as a need to keep up my image. If I were truly the wife of a wealthy man, I needed to look the part, and that meant driving fancy cars, eating fancy dinners, and wearing fancy jewelry.
So I could excuse all those things.
But the one I couldn’t excuse, the one that baffled me, was the flowers.
Actual, real-life flowers. Not the plastic, fake-looking kind.
That one left me puzzled the first time I saw them on the dining room table when I came down around evening time.
It came attached with a card that said, “Sorry, I can’t make it home on time today. Have a few meetings to attend. Getting some soup delivered for you. And no, it’s not from the chicken-head-cutting place. Chris.”
I was glad he signed his name on it because if not for that—and the chicken reference—I would have thought the delivery guy got the wrong house.
I frowned down at the flowers and wondered how he knew daisies were my favorite flower. I picked them up and analyzed them, waiting for the joke or the trap. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.
But no. It was just a bouquet of daisies and a note waiting for me.
How on earth did he know I liked flowers? That I thought they might be the most romantic thing a man could do for a woman.
Because they were. They were so pure and real.
Is this part of his game?Was he trying to win this bet so much that he would be willing to go to these lengths? Or did he simply want me to sleep with him?
Well, either way, I was determined not to fall for it. No matter how much he gave me or held me at night, I was not going to give myself to him.
Even if it killed me.
And even if I had to masturbate every morning to keep my promise to myself.
But then the week passed, meaning I won the deal, yet he continued sending flowers. Sometimes with food, sometimes by itself, and sometimes for no apparent reason.
It would always be attached to something else, like a note. Or sometimes nothing at all.
And the craziest part was that he never mentioned it. I wanted to see if he would bring it up, but he never did. He just continued talking about whatever it was we were supposed to do next, or we would talk about other random things like how he’d never seen a single episode of Seinfeld and didn’t get the hype behind cereal.
We would talk and argue and sometimes laugh.
But he would never talk about the flowers, and I was determined not to be the one to bring it up.
However, it made me feel a little like I was going crazy.
Plus, there was an unfamiliar feeling that grew within me day by day.
After the second week, I realized what it was. Comfort. I was getting comfortable.
I was no longer looking over my shoulder all the time and no longer stressed about money or being caught by the Moranos. And the reason why was even stranger. It was because, ultimately, somewhere along the line, I’d started trusting Chris. At least when it came to protection. I truly felt like he wouldn’t let anything happen to me.
