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I’d seen the Nutcracker the night I took her, and her dance was glorious.
I’d never been much for the visual arts, let alone dancing. But to see Harlow Granger on the stage, when she was in her element, in the zone, was an absolute treat. I had no doubt she would be feted by the community. That she would gain countless fans and admirers along the way. It was hard not to fall in love with what she displayed when she stood center stage. The incredible range of emotions she managed to show with her body. The way her legs and arms and torso twisted, danced, twirled. She was incredible. And when I saw something as beautiful as she was, I had to keep it. Take it. Treasure it. Steal it.
I was a collector, always had been, since I was a little boy. I saw beautiful things and I took them away from where they grew and prospered. It was the case with Harlow, and it had been the case with my very first rose.
I still remembered wandering into the gardens when I was a little boy. How fascinated I’d been by the beautiful trellis of climbing, velvety red roses. So entranced I had to take one, cut it down with my pocket knife and hold its trembling dew-covered petals between my fingers.
I’d been punished for it harshly. When my father found out, he decided to teach me a lesson. He worked as a gardener for a rich man, and if the man found out the gardener’s kid was going around stealing his property, we’d both be punished. That is what my father explained to me calmly before he gave me ten lashes of the whip they used with the horses. I still bore the marks, the scars the whip had carved into my back.
The rose, I was allowed to keep. My father deemed it would be important for me to remember the lesson I’d gotten that night in the barn. So I’d kept it. But instead of drying it like my father had imagined, I’d become entranced by the idea of keeping the fragile flower alive. I tried so many ways of keeping it from wilting. Kept trying. I still had the rose. It was nowhere near as beautiful as it had been on the day I stole it almost thirty years ago. Yet it symbolized a tortured part of my past I couldn’t bring myself to let go of.
In a lot of ways, Harlow reminded me of that rose. I’d always been fascinated by the luscious flowers, ever since that moment of seeing the sunlight peeking through the trellis, illuminating the heads of the crimson red flowers. Harlow had stood out just like that, and when I saw her for the very first time, I knew I would once keep her for myself. That night when she danced in the Nutcracker had been a rash decision. It would have probably been best for me to stay away, so no one would connect me with the girl or recognize my face. Yet I needed to see her dance. And I wasn’t fucking disappointed.
Now, I watched her on her knees, submitting to a man whom I’d practically raised like a kid brother. I watched her crying openly, her expertly applied makeup running down her pretty face in black streaks. Her lipstick was smudged from where Ellis had forced his fingers into her mouth, and she looked tired, her eyes red-rimmed and filled with terror.
I didn’t want to cause the girl harm. My goal wasn’t to damage her permanently. Just train her into the perfect little whore, who would come to me willingly and be desperate for me, her new owner. I wanted someone to break her into the woman I wanted first. And then I would continue to do the job until she was in pieces.
“Deep in thought?”
I turned around at the sound of my voice, my vision darkening when I noticed I had a visitor.
The REC room was off limits to most of my employees. It was a room covered in screens, with one large one dominating the space. I was watching the room Harlow was in from every angle. I didn’t want to have company while I was doing it, and the mere fact she’d deemed it acceptable to join me in the room annoyed me.
“What are you doing here?” I asked coldly.
“Seeing if you’d like anything,” she whispered, stepping next to me and leaving a fleeting kiss on my cheek.
A kiss that might have destroyed me years ago but left me cold in the presence of Harlow Granger, my new obsession suffering so beautifully on the big screen.
“I’m fine,” I replied dismissively, my attention back on the big screen. Suddenly, I decided I wanted her input. Maybe she would have an opinion on Harlow. “What do you think of her? Is she cut out for this?”
