Chapter 47
BIX
Asleek, white limousine glides smoothly to a stop in the driveway of the Hotel Majestic. The chauffeur, clad in a black suit, hops out to swing open the rear door.
“Ms. Bismark?”
I nod and enter the opulent interior, lined with plush leather seats.
“Would you like some water?” he asks as he returns to the driver’s seat.
“Sure,” I say, accepting it with gratitude. My throat’s already dry. It needs all the hydration it can get.
As the limousine winds its way up the remote hills, I’m glad Carlos sent the car. A taxi might have struggled to find a villa this secluded. And I certainly couldn’t have walked.
The limousine turns up a final winding stretch, and I spot a modern-looking mansion with floor-to-ceiling windows standing out against the lush green landscape.
Carlos is waiting outside. With his expensive-looking white shirt over pressed jeans, he exudes confidence and wealth.
“Welcome, Bix.” He looks at my conservative suit and raises an eyebrow. “That must feel like a straitjacket in the Saint-Tropez heat.”
“It does,” I say. “I hope your house is air conditioned.”
“You bet.”
He guides me to the front door, his fingers lightly touching my back as we climb the stairs. When we reach the top, his touch lingers. Subtle, but enough that I register it.
As I step inside, an unsettling silence envelops me. Where I would expect the distant chatter of household staff or the clink of espresso cups, there’s nothing.
The air feels still. Like the house is holding its breath.
I glance toward Carlos.
He seems to sense my curiosity. “I give my employees Sunday off,” he says. “They’re all at church. Come, follow me to the studio.”
Something about his timing and his calm invitation into a silent house makes my skin crawl. But I follow anyway.
We ascend a staircase and enter the studio, which is more minimalist, colder than Sterling Records’s was. The walls are pristine white. The enormous windows overlook the hills.
“What would you like me to sing?” I ask, turning to him.
“Well, that depends on you,” he says, his boyish smile appearing. “But first, I insist, take your jacket off. You look so uncomfortable. I get hot and stiff just looking at you.”
His words make me cringe. I do feel hot and stiff. But his intonation was odd. Almost dirty. The charming smile that seemed professional at the party now seems slightly off.
But I have a silk tank top beneath, so I slip out of the jacket and fold it over a chair.
“Back to what you want me to sing…”
“Do you know ‘Lollipop Blues’?”
I frown and shake my head.
“Have a listen,” he says, flicking a switch on a nearby device.
A few bars in, I pick up on the lyrics. Suggestive. Cheap.
I’m not a prude, but this isn’t audition material.
“I don’t know that one,” I say.
“Well, how about ‘Cigarette Blues’?”
This one’s even worse, with the singer describing his cigarette and suggesting his girlfriend draw on it “all night long.” The pattern’s becoming clear.
“How about ‘Over the Rainbow’?” I suggest.
“Excellent.” He nods. “Would you like some background music?”
“No. I’m fine.”
He settles into a seat in the front row.
When I look up, I pull in a sharp breath at the expression he wears. His eyes glint, as though he harbors a secret.
It’s probably just your nerves, I tell myself. Just paranoia. It’s been a weekend full of everything. Celebrities. Headlines. Emotional whiplash.
I close my eyes to ground myself in the song.
But when I open them again, Carlos has his hand resting on his crotch. Obvious. Intentional.
Through his tailored pants, I can see he’s fully aroused.
Creepy.
Alarming.
I force myself to keep singing. My voice stays steady as I pretend not to see what I see. If I show fear or disgust, will it escalate?
When I finish, he applauds. “Well done,” he says, smiling. “Your voice is just amazing!”
“Good.” I remain on the stage, gripping the microphone stand. “Are you interested in signing me to your label?”
“Well, Bix, I might be. Why don’t you come sit here by me?”
“If you’re not sure, maybe I should sing another song to help you decide.”
“No need. I’ve heard enough.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, my tone sharp. “You say you can’t decide, but you’ve heard enough?”
“It means I find you very attractive. And when I sign an artist, it’s kind of like a marriage. Each of us must do our part.”
“My role is to sing,” I say, my voice flat.
“That’s only one of your roles. I must be sure you’re mine. My creation. When I present you to my colleagues, they need to know you’ve been hand-picked. The chosen one.”
My stomach turns. This was never about my talent. “That doesn’t sound like a contract,” I say softly. “That sounds like a proposition.”
He shrugs. “It’s the way my father did business. And the way I’ve done business for twenty years.”
“You know Slayer is my boyfriend,” I say, panic rising.
He laughs. “I know it’s fake. Everyone knows it. Come off your high horse and sit down here by me.”
“I’m leaving.”
“Go ahead,” he says, with a thin laugh that barely hides the threat.
I grab my jacket and bolt for the door, heart pounding. Twenty years of doing business this way? How many women before me?
The front door is locked.
I tug the handle.
Nothing. No movement. I try again, slower this time. But the door won't open. There's no way to unlock it.
My pulse spikes. I snatch off my shoes—one less thing to slow me down.
I glance toward the driveway. The limousine is gone. Not just moved—completely vanished from sight. No tire marks, no brake lights. Just a vacant stretch of gravel winding out of view. I press my palm against the glass near the entry, half expecting it to fog under my skin. It doesn’t.
No motion sensors. No latches. The windows are for show—Carlos said as much during the tour. “They’re sealed, better for temperature control.” It seemed like a point of pride.
My stomach tightens—not from panic exactly, not yet—but from a kind of focused dread. I should’ve told someone where I was going. Milo, Slayer—anyone.
But I hadn’t wanted to make a big deal out of an audition and I let my hurt and frustration get the best of me.
Right now, that seems absurd.
I turn slowly, scanning the house with new eyes. Oh God.
The air shifts slightly, faint pressure from the upper floor. Then footsteps. Slow. Thoughtful.
Hard soles over polished wood.
I move toward the far end of the hallway, edging past a tall ceramic vase that suddenly feels like it’s watching me.
Every sound carries. There's no carpet or soft surface to swallow the noise—just echoing walls, muted light, and open space that now feels like a trap.
I look around for anything I could use as leverage. A lamp. Even a heavy book. But everything here is clean-lined and fixed in place.
The entire atmosphere is…curated. Like parts of the house were designed more for aesthetic than function.
“Bix,” comes Carlos’s voice from upstairs, playful but stretched thinner than before. “Let’s not make it awkward. You want this.”
He’s not hurrying. The sound of his shoes is lazy now, casual. He laughs softly. The laugh of someone watching a game play out as expected.
For God’s sake, where’s the back door?
Sprinting through the house, I try every window, every door. There’s no escape.
“Bix! Feeling alone?” Carlos’s singsong voice swirls through the hallways like vapor. “No worries. I’m coming for you!”
I turn down a narrow hallway and twist the handle of a door. It's a utility room with a concrete floor, white tile walls, and industrial shelving along one side.
A washer and dryer sit against the back wall, surrounded by neat rows of detergent bottles and folded towels. It looks unused. Like everything else in this house, it feels more like a movie set than a space.
Then I see it: a narrow window behind the dryer. No trim, no curtains. Just a clean glass rectangle tucked into the wall a few feet below the ceiling. It’s small, but maybe not too small.
“Thank God,” I whisper.
I clamber onto the dryer, shift the latch, and the window creaks open. I wedge one leg through, then another, and ease myself down to the cement below.
I sprint down the drive, bare feet slapping pavement as I move toward the distant rows of houses. They’re too spread out.
I reach into my bag for my phone. No signal. No way to call for help. No maps. Just me and silence.
I run anyway. Past long driveways, empty patios, deserted mansions shimmering like ghosts.
Then, a flash of red ahead. Tail lights.
There’s a car backing out at the end of the street.
I sprint. It may be my only hope.
Gasping breathlessly, I pounce on the driver’s window, finding a woman with a young girl buckled into the front seat beside her.
“Help,” I sputter. “There’s a man attacking me. Please let me get in. Please drive me to the village.”
She blinks, startled. Then her eyebrows lift.
For a moment, I think she doesn’t understand me. Then I see it—the way her eyes track me. Not the words, but the fear. She sees it. She knows.
“Let me in, please,” I say, looking over at Carlos’s mansion.
She hesitates, her hand on the gear shift. The child in the front seat looks at me like I’m some sort of entertainment.
At last, the woman nods and clicks the button to unlatch the back door. I open it and slide in, heart pounding. Only when the lock clicks behind me do my muscles loosen slightly.
“Where... where go?” she asks in broken English.
“The village,” I say. “Just the village is fine.”
The car rolls out slowly—not fast enough for my taste.
I don’t feel safe until the woman drops me off in the center of the village. The little girl takes one last look at me as I get out.
I thank her profusely and then wave as I make my way back to the hotel, feeling cheap and disgusted with everything.
In my room, I strip off my clothes and take a long, hot shower, washing the horrible events of the day out of my hair.
How stupid I was to go to a man’s house without telling anyone where I was going? What was I thinking?
When I’ve dried off, I call Sade and tell her what happened.
“You can’t sign with him,” I say. “He’s an animal. He’s not interested in your voice. Promise me you won’t.”
“I won’t. I won’t,” she says, sounding strangely reserved.
“Sade? Did Carlos already try the same thing with you?”
She’s silent.
“Did he?”
“Yes,” she says. “That’s why he kept saying he needed to hear me audition again and again. But he really meant he needed to sleep with me again. And it wasn’t just normal…” Her voice breaks off.
I give her a moment to recover.
“Bix,” she sobs, “he did things to me I would never allow. He was an animal. I’m ashamed. I’m ashamed to go to my village and show my face in front of my mother.”
“Your mother doesn’t need to know,” I say as gently as I can. “You did what you had to do. Don’t blame yourself. Just don’t go back to him. Swear that to me.”
“But who will sign me?” she laments.
“Don’t worry. We’ll find a great label for you and for me. Nothing is worth what Carlos asks.”
“Okay,” she says. “I trust you. I trust you.”