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How could I have ever been stupid enough to believe his lies? Why did I think anything so amazing could happen to me? I haven’t written, released, or promoted in a year. I’m barely alive—a shell of who I used to be. I don’t leave my house. Don’t see my old friends. I don’t even enjoy reading anymore. I sit on the couch, or in bed, watch television, and drink until I fall asleep. My life is unrecognizable from two years ago. Why on earth would I think something so good could happen now? Why did I think I deserve anything good?
And what the hell is taking Kassara so long with the cops?
It has to at least have been a day since I arrived here. She was supposed to call the police if I didn’t reach out when I left that night. I know I told her—twice—that everything was okay, but surely by now she’s realized it very much isn’t.
When Not-Owen reappears, he’s holding a silicone wineglass that readsI’m the fun grandma.He holds it out, and when I don’t take it, he places it on the end table. “Chardonnay,” he reminds me. I hate the way my throat begs for it, like we aren’t in a bit of a situation here. Like there aren’t more pressing concerns. “Your favorite.”
I hate that he knows me so well. Hate that I’ve made myself so open and available online to anyone who cares to look. Hate that I did it all for the sake of a career I no longer care about because someone somewhere told me it was the only way to reach readers, to make a name for myself, to be someone.
“Are you okay? Is there anything else I can get you? I want you to be comfortable here, Mari. It’s important to me.”
I refuse to answer, grinding my teeth together until my jaw hurts.
“Suit yourself,” he says eventually, just before he turns to leave. When he does, I eye the wineglass. It’s likely drugged, yet somehow it’s still tempting. Alone, wounded, and scared, whatever’s in this drink is the least terrifying part of my new reality.
I lift it and sling the glass across the room, refusing to buy into his games.
Then, I lay my head on the pillow and think of Declan and Liam. Dec would know what to do if he were here. I listen closely, waiting to hear their voices as I always do while I fall asleep. When they don’t come, when I realize how completely and utterly alone I am, tears begin to fall, and I wish more than anything else to wake up from this nightmare.
CHAPTERSEVEN
Several hours pass before I see Not-Owen—or whatever his name is—again. At least a day, I think, but probably more.
By the time he returns, my body is trembling with pain from the lack of alcohol and food. I’ve licked up the droplets of wine from the wall and carpet, but there wasn’t enough to matter. Not enough to stop the withdrawals. I’ve eaten all six of the peaches he left for me and several of the LifeSavers. Still, it’s not enough. My stomach feels as if it’s caving in on itself, crying out for anything of substance. I curse myself for not having the foresight to eat before I arrived, but I’d anticipated a meal, and nerves had prevented me from even snacking.
Now, my body burns from lack of nutrients. Which is why, when he appears in the doorway holding a tray of food and another silicone glass of wine, I resign myself to the fact that I don’t care if it’s drugged or not.
I’m too hungry.
I sit up, eyeing the tray, my mouth practically watering. There’s a peanut butter and jelly sandwich—thank goodness I don’t have any allergies, but then again, mynumber-one fanprobably knows that—and a handful of baby carrots on a small plate, plus two clear, silicone glasses—one of wine, the other of water. Not iced.
Not exactly a five-star meal, but it will do.
He lowers the tray onto the bed and eyes the wineglass on the floor with a wry smile. I don’t wait for permission or assurance this meal won’t poison me. Instead, I grab the glass of wine and guzzle it down. It’s gone in two gulps. When I’m done, I read the writing on the front.I don’t give a sip. I’m retired.
I grab the sandwich and inhale the scent. The sweet, grape jelly and peanut butter between pillowy-soft slices of bread fill my mouth as I take the first bite. The groan I release is involuntary.
Despite my attempts to make it last, the sandwich is gone in four bites, and I wipe the corners of my mouth with my fingers, popping the remnants of peanut butter and jelly onto my tongue and licking them clean. Next, I grab the carrots and chomp on them more slowly, my hunger slightly satiated.
All the while, this man watches me without saying a word. As if I’m a zoo exhibit. I half expect him to start taking notes or to pull out his phone and snap photographs to put on whatever creepy Marietta Morgan blog he’s undoubtedly in charge of.
Watch Mari eat—see how she chews! Does she prefer strawberry or grape jelly? Find out now!
When I’m done, when every crumb has been cleaned from the plate piece by piece, I take the water. “Thank you,” I say softly. Perhaps it’s my deeply ingrained manners, or the fact that I’m hoping if I’m polite, he won’t hurt me anymore. Either way, I want to be kind to him. And I hate myself for it.
He sits down on the bed, placing the empty tray on the floor. “How are you feeling?”
I stare at him, not understanding how he expects me to answer.
“Does your head still hurt?”
“I’m okay,” I say finally. “Still hungry.” I eye the tray on the floor. “Could I have more?” I hate how pathetic I sound, despise the fact that I have to ask him for anything.
“Soon.” He reaches down and picks up the wineglass I tossed on the ground before, setting it on the tray. “You didn’t drink this.”
It’s not a question, but I shake my head anyway.
“I’m proud of you,” he says, releasing a long breath. “You have to quit drinking so much if you want to be able to write.”
