Текст книги "Madame X "
Автор книги: Jasinda Wilder
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 17 страниц)
I move to my stomach.
“On your knees.”
I draw my knees beneath my stomach.
“Give me your hands.”
I reach back with both hands, and my wrists are pinioned in one large, brutally powerful hand. My shoulder blades touch each other as my arms are drawn together, and my face is pressed into the mattress. I swallow hard, brace, breathe.
Oh, the ache, the fierce throb as I’m penetrated. I’m rocked forward and my shoulders twinge and the grip on my wrists holds me in place.
I have no choice but to feel the burgeoning blaze, no choice but to let it push through me and make me breathless, and I want to cry, want to cry, want to cry.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
I let myself go when I’m told to do so: “Come for me, X.”
And then it’s over, and I’m turned to lie on my back, gasping, and whispers bathe over me. “So good, X. So beautiful.” A finger to my chin, lifting my gaze. “Did you enjoy that?”
“Yes.” It’s not a lie. Not entirely, at least.
Physically, I am rocked to trembling. Physically, aftershocks still seize me and touch makes me shiver and I am breathless. Physically, yes, I enjoyed it. I cannot help but enjoy it.
Yet . . . there is a space within me, a deep, deep, deep well where truths I do not even dare think live hidden and always buried. Down there, where those truths reside, I know I crave . . . absolution, freedom, a breath taken in privacy, a word spoken without ulterior motive.
But I cannot let those thoughts bubble up. Cannot, and do not. I am a master of self-control, after all. I could hold off orgasm indefinitely. I could go without breathing until told to breathe or pass out. I could remain sitting motionless for hours, until told to move. I know I can do these things, because I have. I learned total control in the harshest of schools.
And so it is child’s play to let my body drape loosely in the guise of intimacy on a hard, taut, muscular body until a chime from discarded slacks demands attention.
“I have to take this.” A pause, a breath, a tap of finger on a cell phone screen. “This is Caleb. Yes. Yes. Sure, give me twenty minutes. Of course. No, don’t let him in until I get there.”
A kiss to my temple, a finger tracing my body from shoulder to hip to foot. “I have to go.”
“All right.” I don’t ask when to expect a return, because I don’t want to know, and because I wouldn’t get an answer.
“Will you miss me?”
“Of course.” This is a lie, and we both know it.
“Good. Your next client is in two hours, so you have time to shower, dress, and prepare. His name is William Colin Drake, and he’s the heir to a technology development company worth fifty billion. Usual terms and conditions apply. The file on William will arrive in the usual manner.”
“Should I expect as much trouble with William as with Jonathan?”
A quirk of a smile, amusement. “No, I should think not. William is a much different animal, from what I’ve observed.” A pause, and a speculative glance at me. “But, X?”
“Yes, Caleb?”
“Watch yourself with William. He’s got a mean streak.”
“Thank you for the warning.”
“He needs to learn to control it, so you’ll have to draw it out of him and make him aware of it. But be careful.”
Draw out his mean streak. Poke a snake, prod a sleeping bear. Risk injury. It won’t be the first time, and it won’t be the last. Hopefully I won’t need medical attention like I did last time. That’s not covered in the contract, of course, but it’s understood: Never, ever harm the property of Caleb Indigo; it’s just not smart business.
When the door closes behind a broad, suit-swathed back, I shower the sex-stink off. I scrub harder and longer than I have to and fight the boil of forbidden emotions. When my skin is rubbed raw, I force myself out of the shower and dress, apply makeup, remake the bed, prepare tea.
And then I seat myself on the couch and breathe, compose myself, push down the vulnerability, put away the fear and the desire. Once again, I am Madame X.
• • •
I spare a single, momentary glance at the small dark dot in the ceiling, hidden in a corner, and let my eyes betray me. I imagine I see a red dot within the black depths of the camera, and I imagine I can see all the way along the trail of electrons and through the monitor to the faces on the other side.
I imagine, but that is all I can do.
There is a decisive rap on the door, and I rise, breathe out slowly, lift my chin, smooth my dress over my hips, and wiggle my foot in my shoe, breathe, breathe, let the moment linger.
And then I open the door, and I welcome you.
You are handsome, but not beautiful. You hold yourself with dignity, and your gaze betrays arrogance. And yes, as I meet your narrow gray gaze, I see ugliness, a propensity for cruelty, a viciousness.
“I see they didn’t exaggerate how hot you are,” you say.
I ignore your remark, and gesture to my couch. “William, welcome. Thank you for coming. Have a seat, please. Would you like some tea?”
You eye the decanter. “Scotch would be better.” And then you sink down on the couch, cross your ankle over your knee, and wait to be served, and your eyes follow me hungrily. I hand you the tumbler, three ice cubes, a finger of scotch. “I read the contract, and I have to say it wasn’t what I was expecting. Neither are you.”
I hand you the contract, and you read it yet again, and then you sign it, and so do I. “What were you expecting, William?”
“Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting item three, that’s for sure. I signed it, so I’ll abide by the rules, but I’m disappointed, Madame X. I’d love to get you out of that dress.” Your eyes peruse me, take their time cataloging and critiquing my body.
“I’m sure you would, William.”
“Call me Will, please.” You sip with casual elegance.
“All right then, Will. Tell me, what do you hope to get out of our sessions together?”
“I have a better question.” You lean forward, lift the contract as if about to rip it. “What do you say we tear this puppy apart and get to the good stuff? We can always sign it again later.”
I must still smell faintly of sex, despite how ruthlessly I scrubbed: Your nostrils flare, and you inhale, lean closer, let your shoulder touch mine. I take the contract from you, gently but firmly, set it on the coffee table, and slide it away from you.
“I think not, William.” I stand, take the tumbler from you. You don’t protest, but your eyes harden. “You signed it, and you are legally bound by it now. If you do not wish to continue, you may petition to have the contract absolved. If not, then I must insist you keep any further such comments to yourself, as they are neither allowed nor desired.”
You stand up, and you are right in front of me. Your eyes are hard, deep, and swirling with potent venom. “Oh, I think you lie, Madame X. I think they are desired. But . . . I signed the contract, and I’m a man of my word.” You resume your seat on the couch and cross your ankles and grin at me. “So. Teach me. I’m ready to learn.”
I walk away from the nugget of truth in your words, breathe slowly, and then turn to you, let my razor-sharp gaze rake over you, let the silence expand. You don’t shift, but you begin to show signs of discomfort.
“Tell me, William. What is your deepest, darkest secret?”
You are the one to let the silence breathe, this time, and your eyes pierce, and burn. “I’m not sure you really want to know, Madame X.”
“Oh, but I do, William. I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.” I take two steps closer to you. “You don’t really think you can shock me, do you?”
You swallow, and blink, and then you let a smile curl your lips. “Fine, but you asked for it. And . . . this is covered under the contract, yes? You can’t talk about this to anyone?”
“I cannot, and I would not.” I don’t tell you about the cameras, or the microphones.
“I like it . . . rough,” you say. “And I like them . . . unwilling.” You eye me, as if to assess the effect of your words.
I nod. “Go on.”
And you do go on, in ever more graphic detail.
I’ve never been so glad of the third stipulation as I am now.
TWO
I wake abruptly; I am not alone.
Expensive cologne, just a hint of it in the air. There are other scents layered beneath the cologne, but they are too faint for me to identify. My bedroom is blackout dark, so there is nothing to see but shadows within shadows. My noise machine shushes, the soothing, gentle crash of waves on a shore.
Sleep is nearly impossible for me, because of the dreams.
“Caleb.” I keep my voice low, steady.
There is no answer. I need none, however. I will wait. I sit up, tug the sheet across my chest, tuck it under my arms. The flat sheet—a thousand thread count, softest Egyptian cotton—is my only shield, and it is a thin and flimsy one at best.
Click. Low amber light washes over me, bathing the room in a dim glow. There, in the Louis XIV armchair in the corner beside my bed, next to the floor-to-ceiling window with its black-out curtain. Tailored black slacks, from a suit. Crisp white shirt, cuff links with two-carat diamond inserts. The collar is unbuttoned. Only one button, just the very uppermost; the concession to the late hour is shocking in its uncharacteristic casualness. No tie. I see it folded, the thinnest end hanging out of an inner pocket of the suit coat, which is draped over the back of the chair.
Dark eyes fixed on me. Unblinking. Piercing. Steady, cold, unreadable. Yet . . . there is something. Wariness? Something I cannot fathom.
“Lower the sheet.”
Ah. A slight slur.
I release the sheet, let it pool around my waist. My nipples harden in the coolness, under the scrutiny of that dark gaze.
“Kick it away.”
I bend my knee, lift my leg, push the sheet away with my toe. Red silk underwear, bikini cut. I keep my gaze level, my breathing even, do nothing to betray the hammering of my heart, the churn in my belly.
“To whom do you belong, X?”
“To you, Caleb.” It is the only answer. The only answer there has ever been.
“What do I want, X?”
“Me.”
One button, two, three, and then the shirt joins the suit coat, folded neatly on the back of the chair. Shoes, set aside. Socks folded, tucked into a shoe. Trousers, next. The zipper, so slowly. A torture of moments, waiting for the zzzzzzhrip. Waiting for the thin, stretchy cotton of black boxer-briefs to find their resting place atop the trousers, folded in department-store-precise thirds on the cushion.
I do not look away. I follow each motion, and I keep my expression neutral. The body revealed is a study in classic masculine beauty. A sculpture of perfection carved from flesh. Muscles toned, carefully and exquisitely crafted. A smattering of dark hair on the chest, a trail from flat belly to thick erection. It is a body designed to engender desire in the viewer. And it does. Oh yes, it does. I am not immune.
The bed dips. Long, thick fingers with neatly manicured nails sweep through my thick black hair, which is loose around my shoulders at the moment. It is never down, unless I am in bed. Otherwise, it is done up in a chignon, or a neat braid pinned in a coil. Never down. The curve of a woman’s neck and throat is as exotic and erotic as breasts, when properly displayed; this was an early lesson. A tug of the hand, and my throat is bared, my head pulled back. This roughness is unexpected. I stifle a gasp of surprise. Not fear. I cannot, must not fear. I dare not even allow myself to feel it, much less let it show.
Lips, nipping and kissing my throat. Wet, slow, ever so slightly clumsy. Those lips, on my cheek. Sour alcohol-laced breath wafts over me. Fingers delve, dig, pierce. I am not ready, but that does not matter. Not now, not in this moment. Perhaps not ever. Momentary discomfort, and then a finger finds my most sensitive bundle of nerves, sweeps across it, and I feel wetness lubricate me, seep through my privates. A gasp, then. A male grunt, as uncharacteristic as the unbuttoned collar and the intoxicated late-night visit.
A tongue, sweeping across my nipple. Hardness nudging my softness. Penetration. Once, twice, lips on my cheek, my chin, my throat, my breastbone. I am pressed into the mattress by heavy weight, a hand on my hip, a trim waist pressing my thighs apart. I begin to wonder, deep in the recesses of my mind, how long this will last, this face-to-face encounter.
Not long.
Hands on my hips, turning me to my stomach. Drawing my hips up, my knees beneath me. A hand fisting in my hair, another on my hip. Hot, hard presence behind me, fingers searching, finding me damp and ready, guiding the thick bare member into me.
Long, slow, unhurried. Not exactly rough, but sloppy. Not with the usual efficiency and masterful pacing. No, this is a slow rhythm, lazy at first and then building and building and building. I cannot resist the burgeoning within me, the pressure of an impending climax throbbing through me. I dare not release it, however, so I clench my fists and squeeze my eyes shut and focus on containing it, holding it back.
The pace becomes punishing, then. Closest to rough as it’s ever been. But still, even in intoxication, exquisitely masterful. This body was created for sex. Designed to own, to pleasure, to dominate. And I am, all of those things.
Whether I will it, or no.
“Now, X. Come for me, right now. Give me your voice.” A rasping murmur, low and strong.
I finally let go with a panting moan at the base of my throat, let the climax burn through me.
Finished, I am allowed to fall forward. Absence behind me. Faucet running. I am nudged to my back, handed a damp, warm washcloth.
“Clean yourself.”
I obey, and return the cloth, roll to my side, and let my eyes slide closed. Let my emotions welter, tumble, let the post-orgasmic drowsiness tug me under. Let the deep, powerful riptide of my most private thoughts and fears and desires spin me into a disoriented tumble, far beneath the tumultuous surface of the sea that is consciousness.
• • •
Blood. Sirens. Loss. Confusion. Rain in the darkness, lightning gouging the blackness, thunder throbbing in the distance. Weeping. Alone.
“X—wake up. Wake up. You’re dreaming again.” Hands on my waist, lips at my ear, a comforting whisper.
I bolt upright, sobbing. Hair sticks to my forehead in sweat-smeared tangles. Strands in my mouth. My back is damp with sweat. My arms shake. My heart is hammering.
“Sshh. Hush. You’re okay now.”
I shake my head. I’m not okay. Eyes closed, fighting for breath—I can see nothing but snatches of nightmare:
Blood, crimson and thick, swirling and mixing with rain on a sidewalk. A pair of eyes, open, vacant and unseeing. Limbs bent at unnatural angles. A stab of lightning, sudden and bright, illuminating the night for the space of a heartbeat. An all-consuming sensation of horror, terror, the kind of loss that steals your breath and sucks the marrow from your bones.
Sobs. Wracked, shaking, incapable of speech. I try to push it down, gain control, but I cannot. I can only sob and gasp and tremble, shiver and weep. My lungs ache. I cannot breathe, cannot think, can only see the blood, the blood, scarlet and thick as syrup, arterial, lifeblood leaking away and mixing with rain.
“X. Breathe. Breathe, okay? Look at me. Look at my eyes.” I seek dark eyes, find them strangely warm, concerned.
“Can’t—can’t breathe—” I gasp.
Pulled against a firm, smooth chest. Heartbeat under my ear. I tense; comfort like this is alien. I still cannot breathe, or blink. Paralyzed with fear, with the poison of nightmares in my blood.
“How did we meet, X?”
“You—s-s-saved me.”
“That’s right. What did I save you from?”
“Him. Him.” I feel a presence from my dream, a malevolence, a hunger for that scarlet lifeblood.
“I found you on the sidewalk, bleeding to death. You’d been badly hurt. Beaten nearly to death. Savaged almost beyond recognition. I took you in my arms and carried you to the hospital. You’d crawled, alone, dying . . . so far. A mile, almost. They think you knew where the hospital was, and you were trying to get there. But you didn’t quite make it.”
“You carried me to the hospital.” In reciting the words, I can begin to find my breath.
“That’s right.” A pause, a breath. “I brought you in, and they wouldn’t let me go back with you, but you had no identification and you were unconscious. I just couldn’t leave you alone, not knowing what had happened to you. Not knowing if you’d be okay. So they let me stay in the triage room while they worked on you.”
“You waited for six hours. I died on the table, but they brought me back.” I know these words, this story. It is the only history I have.
“Your head had been badly damaged. Of your many injuries, your cranial injury was the most worrisome, they told me. You might never regain consciousness, they told me. And if you did, you might remember nothing. Or some things but not others. Or everything. Or you might be paralyzed, or have a stroke. With the damage to your brain, there was no way to know until you woke up.”
“And I almost didn’t wake up.”
“I had to leave eventually, but I came back the next day, to check on you.”
“And the next, and the next.” I know all the beats, all the pauses, where to say my lines. I can breathe. I can work my lungs: inflate, deflate; inhale, exhale. Flex my fingers, blink my eyes, focus on curling my toes. Familiar exercises.
“The police found the crime scene where you’d been attacked. It was murder. You had a family, but they’d been murdered. And you’d witnessed it. Seen it all. Barely survived.”
“And he’s still out there.”
“Waiting for you to show your face. Waiting to make sure you can’t ever tell anyone what you know.”
“But I don’t know anything. I can’t remember anything.” This is true. This is a part of the ritual, but it is true.
“I know that, and you know that. But he doesn’t. The murderer is out there, and knows you survived, and knows you saw everything.”
“You’ll protect me.” Another truth.
One of very few. I am protected. Provided for. Kept safe.
Kept.
“I will protect you. You have to trust me, X. I’ll keep you safe, but you have to trust me.”
“I trust you, Caleb.” Those four words, I must bite them out. Sometimes, I do not believe them; other times, I do. Tonight is the former.
It is like eating an orange, trying to separate the seeds from the flesh and spit out the seeds only. There is truth, but also lies. Trust, but something bitter as well, something foul.
“Good.” Fingers in my thick black hair. Smoothing. Petting. “Sleep now.”
Click. Darkness now, a blanket settling over me, the noise machine soothing me with gently crashing waves on an imaginary shore. I let the sound of the waves take me away, like floating away on a tide.
Distantly, I hear the door open, close.
I am alone.
THREE
The light of dawn brings with it shame. I am weak. I was weak. The nightmares, they sap me of my strength. Turn me into this creature, this soft, vulnerable thing, all underbelly and no armor. Starved for oxygen, starved for light, hungry for touch to remind me that the dreams are only fiction, to remind me that I am safe, I turn to the only comfort I can find.
The ritual.
The words.
The history.
But in the light of day—showered and dressed, hair braided and twisted into a knot at the back of my head, makeup carefully applied, feet sheathed in expensive heels—garbed in my armor, I am not that mewling kitten, and I despise her. If I could get my claws into that version of myself, I would shred her without mercy, tear her to bits. Shake her until her teeth clack together, give her a taste of the verbal venom I use to keep errant rich boys in line. Tell her a lady does not show fear. A lady does not cry in front of anyone. A lady does not ever show weakness. Chin up, I’d say. Back straight. Find your dignity, put it on like a suit of armor.
I do those things. Scour myself of emotion. Turn away from the mirror in my walk-in closet, away from the temptation to examine the scars on my belly, my arms, my shoulder, beneath the roots of my hair on the left side of my skull, midway up between the top of my ear and the crown of my head. There are no scars. No reminders of a lost past. No weakness, no nightmares, no need for comfort.
I am X.
It is just past five in the morning. I prepare a breakfast of free-range egg whites, hand-ground wheat toast with a thin scrim of organic butter. Slice open a grapefruit, cover half with plastic wrap and return it to the refrigerator, tap a few granules of Truvia onto each wedge of the grapefruit. Black tea, no sugar or milk. Organic vitamin supplements.
Later, between clients, I will spend an hour on the rowing machine, and then an hour doing yoga. Then there will be lunch: a salad of fresh, organically grown spinach, walnuts, dried cranberries, crumbles of bleu cheese, and a drizzle of vinaigrette, a bowl of fresh fruit sliced and mixed, a bottle of distilled, deionized water. Or, alternatively, a superfoods smoothie, green, bitter, and healthy.
An extra twenty minutes in the gym, I’d been told. Trim down, that meant. The diet and exercise instruction had come with the packet I received every morning, a large manila envelope slipped under the door, containing the dossiers on my clients for the day and the attendant contracts.
Timed correctly, there are always a few extra minutes after breakfast and before my first client of the day. I finish breakfast at 5:45 A.M., and my first client arrives at 6:15 A.M.; the earliest slot is reserved for the most difficult of clients, those most in need of a jarring lesson. If you cannot make the early time, you fail the course, and you are charged the termination and grievance fee.
In the thirty minutes to myself, before William Drake arrives, I stand at the window in the living room, staring down at the bustling streets below. This is my favorite pastime, watching the people scurry here and there, talking on their cell phones, newspapers tucked under business-suit arms, slim pencil dresses slit just so in the back and hugging stockinged legs. I imagine their stories.
That man, there, in the charcoal suit just a little too loose around the middle, shoulder pads a little too thick, slacks a little long at the heel. Balding, a tea-saucer-sized bare spot at the back of his head. Talking on a cell phone, hand gesturing frantically, angrily, forefinger stabbing the air. Red in the face. He’s a struggling businessman, fighting upstream in a cutthroat business. Stocks, maybe. Or law. Corporate law. He’s always behind, just barely not making it. A wife, a young son. He’s older than his wife by several years, and his son is just starting school. He’s old enough that taking care of a child on top of fighting to make it at the firm is a Sisyphean task. His wife married him because she thought their fortunes would improve, a promotion would put them in an easier place, and she needed a green card, maybe. There’s affection, but no real love. He’s too busy for love, too busy clocking sixty or eighty hours per week trying to make the exorbitant New York City rent. They live in the Bronx, maybe, so she can be nearer to her family, because she needs help. She’s probably working a job on the side while her son goes to school, stashing away money unbeknownst to her husband, because she’s losing faith in his ability to take care of them. Enough that she could move out and provide for her son if worse came to worst.
It is a pleasant distraction, focusing on the fictional, normal lives of random people. It allows me to safely wonder what life is like out there, for them. Safely, because to wonder what such a life out there would be like for me? That’s dangerous. A threat to my sanity, which depends on a careful balancing act.
I hear the faint ding of the elevator arriving. I glance at the Venetian-style wall clock: 6:10 A.M.; five minutes early. But a moment or two passes and there is no knock at the door. I move across the room, keeping my heel clicks as silent as possible, and stand by the door, listening.
“Yeah, I’m almost there,” you say, your voice low. “I fucking hate these early-ass appointments. No, my dad makes me go. Some kind of stupid corporate training, basically. Make me a better leader, bullshit like that. Put my ass in line. No, man, it’s not like that. I can’t really get into it. No, for real, I’m not allowed to talk about it. I signed a contract, and if I fuck this up my dad’s going to cut me off totally. After what happened with that slut Yasmin, I’m on real thin ice with him, so I’ve got to toe the fucking line. . . . Or what? Or he’ll basically gut the position of president out of the charter and turn all the power over to the board, which means I won’t inherit dick when he retires. He’s got the documents drawn up. He showed them to me. No, man, I fucking saw them, okay? It was after he got the judge to let me out on bail. He had to pay a shitload of money to keep the whole thing quiet. Paid Yasmin like half a mil to keep her fat mouth shut about what happened. My plan? My plan is to go along with this training program, keep my dad happy, play the game. I’ve got friends on the inside, on the board, certain members who are unhappy with where Dad’s been taking the company. If I can string things along another year or two, I can probably work a little magic behind the scenes, steal the whole shit show from the old fucker, and I mean pull a real-deal coup d’état. And as soon as I’ve got my hands on the company . . . man, I’ll be set. I’ve got plans . . . no, I can’t make it out tonight. I’ve got . . . other plans. . . . No, I let that bitch go, she was a screamer. This is a new one. She’s all wrapped up like a sweet little present. She ain’t wearing a damn thing except the handcuffs, and I didn’t even have to gag her. No, you asshole, you can’t help. Last time I let you help, you took it way too fucking far, and I had to pay the slut to keep her from yapping about what your stupid ass did to her. I’ve told you, there’s an art to it. Listen, dude, I’m gonna be late, I’ve gotta go. The bitch that runs this show doesn’t fuck around, I can tell you that much for free. Anyway, for real, I’ve got to go. And Brady? Stay the fuck away from my place, okay? I’m serious. I’ll kill you for fucking real if you go anywhere near her. All right, bye.”
My heart thuds as I take a couple quick steps away from the door, smoothing my expression into neutrality.
Deep breaths. Focus. Put on the armor. No cracks, no chinks. Hard. Cold. Smooth. Unassailable. Imagine claws in place of fingernails. Viper eyes. Ice.
Knock-knock.
I glance at the clock: 6:17 A.M. One last deep breath, blown out through pursed lips. Twist the knob, swing open the door. “Mr. Drake.” An arched eyebrow. “You’re late.”
You bring up your arm, extend your wrist, bare your extravagant Blancpain watch. I loathe that movement: arm rises, flick the wrist forward. It’s ostentatious, vain. And that watch? Easily three hundred thousand dollars. Alligator leather, eighteen-karat gold, sapphire crystal face . . . all the fancy trappings of the insecure wealthy. I am not impressed.
“By like, two minutes, X.” You breeze past me, and I gag on your cologne. You had to have bathed in it to stink so thickly of it. “It’s cool, man. No big deal. Two minutes, whatever. I’m here.”
I remain standing by the door, hands at my sides, head high, staring down my nose at you. “No, Mr. Drake. Not whatever.” I gesture at the door. “You may go. We are done here.”
You have the decency to look at least a little worried. “X, come on. It’s two minutes. Who the fuck cares about two little minutes? I was on the phone.”
I know, I heard—I know better than to say this, however. “I care about two minutes, Mr. Drake. One minute, thirty seconds, a single moment. Late is late. You should be knocking on this door at six fourteen. Punctuality is a key trait of the successful, Mr. Drake.”
“My dad is late for board meetings all the time,” you point out, not moving from your position three steps into my condo.
I quirk an eyebrow. “Your father is the founder, CEO, and majority shareholder of one of the most powerful corporations on earth. He has power, which grants him the privilege of being late, to show up whenever he wishes, because he wields the control. You wield nothing, William. You receive an allowance. You are tolerated. Your lot in life is to do what you’re told, to show up where you are told to show up, when you are told to show up, and not a single millisecond later. Your father is one of the biggest, baddest sharks in the ocean, and you are a guppy. Good-bye, William. Perhaps next week you will think twice about yapping on your mobile phone outside my door, thus wasting my time, which—need I remind you—is infinitely more valuable than yours will ever be.”
You cross the three steps between us in a blur. Your hand is on my throat, cutting off my air supply. Leaving bruises, certainly. You are nose-to-nose with me, eyes radiating fury, panic, and hate. “What did you hear, whore?”
I blink, forcing myself to remain calm. My toes barely touch the floor, my high heels drooping off my feet. I cannot breathe. Stars blink and flash in my eyes. I do not fight, do not scrabble at your arms or wrists. I stare at you. Make sure you are holding my gaze. And then, deliberately, I let my gaze flick upward, to the corner of the ceiling where the camera is hidden. Your eyes follow mine, and although you cannot possibly see it as it is far too well hidden, my meaning is clear. I lift my chin, arch an eyebrow.
You drop me. I inhale a deep breath, forcing myself to do so slowly, to lock my knees and remain upright, on my feet. Instinct has me wanting to collapse to the floor, gasping, rubbing my throat. But I do not. Dignity is my armor.
Ding.
Elevator doors whoosh open, and you go pale. My door is still open. You back up a step, two, three. Shake your head. Four enormous men stalk through the doorway, wearing identical black suits, white shirts, and slim black ties, with earpieces in their right ears, cords trailing under their collars.
“You will come with us, please, Mr. Drake.” One of them speaks, but his lips barely move so it could have come from any one of them.
