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On the sink was a bottle of painkillers and a glass of water. I took three and chugged half the water bottle. Then, taking deep breaths so I wouldn’t panic, I turned on the shower and stepped in.
My mind kept going back to the shut door in my hall. The last thing I saw before the drugs hit me was the lock that kept my sons safe. I squeezed my eyes shut beneath the hot spray and prayed silently that Lucien had come home for the boys. The thought of them alone, waiting for me to return, broke my heart.
They were my babies, they needed me.
It took me several minutes to stop the tears flowing from my eyes and wash up. I dried off and put on the makeup. There was a skimpy dress and even scantier undergarments folded on the sink. Robotically, I put them on. Perhaps I harbored a faint hope that if I obeyed my captor, he would have mercy on me and let me go home to my children.
Disassociation came easily to me.
It was muscle memory. I was a survivor and I would make it through this and see my family again. My instincts were still strong.
The clothing was a short black dress with a low sweetheart neckline and off the shoulder straps. There were no shoes, but the anklet I wore with Lucien’s initials sat on the edge of the tub in a little dish. Chest aching, I fastened it on.
It’s just a night out, I told myself as I pinned up my hair and fluffed my curtain bangs. Just keep pretending it’s just a night out, just another dinner with a stranger.
The woman who came for me didn’t speak. She walked me out into a hallway that looked nothing like the room I’d woken in. It almost reminded me of back home with its fine, antique light fixtures and dark gold wallpaper. The lighting was dim and I kept my eyes on my bare feet as I padded over the burgundy carpeting and down a set of spiral stairs.
The woman led me into a dining room decorated like that rest of the house. At the head of a long table sat Riccardo Mezzasalma in a deep brown English suit.
“Olivia,” he said, like we knew each other. “Come, sit down.”
I glanced at the woman, but she was gone and the door was shut. And I was sure it was locked. Overhead, the chandelier burned with a pale yellow light. Behind Riccardo stood two suits of armor and between them hung a dark red curtain.
“Come here,” he said, his voice firm.
I obeyed. He pulled out the chair diagonal to his and I sank into it.
“I hope you’ll behave and not try to run off. I don’t feel like giving chase,” he said, offering a polite smile. “At least not tonight.”
His eyes dropped, skimming over my breasts. Lingering on the rise of my cleavage over the neckline. Heat and irritation moved up my spine and I looked away, staring down at my empty plate.
“You are a beautiful woman,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said coldly.
He poured two glasses of wine and pushed one over to me. I shook my head.
“Are you pregnant?” he asked. “Perhaps I should have had you tested while you were still out.”
“I’m not pregnant,” I snapped.
“Of course, it’s not my place to inquire into such personal matters,” he said, sitting back. “I only ask because you’ve been pregnant constantly since your marriage.”
That was objectively false, but I didn’t argue. Two men in suits appeared and filled our plates and water glasses. I stared down at the food and my stomach twisted. It was Cornish hen, roasted to perfection and smothered in gravy, scalloped potatoes, pickled eggs, and tender asparagus.
“I have no intention of poisoning you, Olivia,” he said. He leaned across the table and speared a bit of my meat and put it in his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and shrugged. “It’s very good.”
“If I eat, will you tell me what the fuck you want?” I asked.
He considered it, jaw working. “Alright, fine. It’s a deal.”
I lifted my knife and fork, using my best manners, and cut my meat. The taste spread over my tongue and I had to force myself not to stuff the rest into my mouth. The last time I’d had something to eat was the pheasant Lucien had shot and that was at least two days ago.
“Alright,” I said. “Start talking, Mr. Mezzasalma.”
He laughed aloud, his head falling back. “You’re an uppity little thing.”
“I wasn’t always,” I said coldly.
