Chapter 33 Elliot
ELLIOT
Iwake with a start, disoriented for a moment before remembering I’m in Julian’s bed. Something pulled me from sleep—a strange scraping sound coming from somewhere in the penthouse. The space beside me is empty, the sheets cool to the touch. Julian must have gotten up already.
“Julian?” I call out, my voice thick with sleep.
No answer.
The scraping sound comes again, followed by a soft thud. My body tenses, instinct telling me something isn’t right. Julian would have answered me.
I’m reaching for my phone on the nightstand when the bedroom door bursts open. Two massive men in black ski masks rush in, moving with frightening purpose.
“What the fuck?” I scramble backward against the headboard, naked and vulnerable. “Julian!”
The larger man lunges forward. I kick at him, my foot connecting with his chest, but it barely slows him down. My hand fumbles for anything I can use as a weapon, finding only a decorative crystal paperweight on the nightstand. I hurl it at the second man, grazing his shoulder.
“Get the fuck out!” I shout, hoping someone will hear me.
The men exchange a glance before both converging on me at once. The bed dips under their weight as I try to roll away, but I’m not fast enough. The larger one grabs my arms, pinning them above my head with crushing force.
I thrash beneath him, bucking my hips and twisting my body, desperate to break free. “Julian! Help!”
The second man reaches into his pocket and pulls out a white cloth. A sickly-sweet smell hits my nostrils before he even presses it to my face.
I jerk my head to the side, holding my breath, but the man grabs my jaw with bruising force, forcing my head still. The cloth covers my mouth and nose, pressed tight against my face.
My lungs are already burning from the struggle, and holding my breath becomes impossible. When I finally gasp for air, the chemical fumes flood my system. My vision starts to blur, my limbs growing heavy.
The chloroform burns through my lungs, my muscles weakening with each second. I manage one last desperate kick, but it’s feeble, and I don’t even come close to my aim. The larger man chuckles, the sound muffled through his mask and my drug-addled brain.
“Stop fighting. You’ll only make it worse for yourself,” he says.
My phone. It’s still on the nightstand, just inches from my outstretched fingers. If I could reach it—
The man notices my gaze and knocks the phone to the floor with a casual sweep of his hand. “None of that.”
My head swims, consciousness slipping away in waves. The room tilts and spins around me, the men’s masked faces blurring at the edges.
Julian. I need to warn Julian.
But Julian’s not here. He must have left for work hours ago, probably sitting in his corner office, sipping coffee and reviewing spreadsheets. He has no idea what’s happening.
I try to focus, fighting against the chemical pulling me under. Something about this feels personal, targeted. Not a random break-in. My gallery is gone—what else could anyone want from me?
Unless...
This is about Julian. Or about us.
With the last shred of my consciousness, I will my arm to move. My fingers find the emergency call button on my smart watch—the one Julian insisted I wear after the fire. I don’t know if the signal goes through.
My last coherent thought floats through the darkness closing in around me: Julian will find me. Julian will know something’s wrong.
Then nothing but black.
Pain. That’s the first thing I register as consciousness slams back into me like a freight train. My head throbs with every heartbeat, a nauseating pulse that makes my stomach roll. I blink against the dim light, trying to piece together where I am and how I got here.
I try to move, but my arms won’t budge. Panic surges through me as I realize I’m bound to a chair. The ropes around my wrists are too tight, biting into my skin, sending fiery pain up my arms with every twist I attempt.
“What the fuck?” My voice comes out as a rasp, my throat dry as sandpaper.
The room slowly comes into focus—a basement of some kind.
Cold stone walls catch the light from a single bulb hanging overhead.
The chill seeps through my clothes, raising goosebumps across my skin.
I don’t recognize anything about this place, but the walls are adorned with crosses—wooden ones, metal ones, some ornate, others simple—at least a dozen of them staring back at me like silent judges.
A church. I must be in a church basement.
I strain against the ropes again, earning nothing but more pain as they scrape against raw skin. Blood trickles warm down my fingertips, contrasting with the cold air.
“Hello?” I call out, my voice bouncing off the walls. “Is anyone there?”
Only silence answers me. I try to remember how I ended up here. The last thing I recall is falling asleep in Julian’s arms after he promised to help rebuild my gallery, after I told him I loved him.
Julian. Does he know I’m missing? How long have I been here?
My head pounds harder as fragmented memories try to surface. Hearing that noise and going to investigate. The masked men. And then nothing. Just darkness until now.
The basement reeks of incense and damp stone. A small table sits in the corner, holding what looks like an open Bible and more crosses. This isn’t just any church basement—it feels personal, deliberate.
The door at the top of the stairs creaks open, sending a shaft of light spilling across the stone floor. I squint against the beams of light that assault my vision without warning, my heart hammering in my chest as footsteps echo down the wooden stairs.
My mother emerges from the light, her face set in that same righteous expression I’ve seen countless times throughout my life.
Behind her follows Pastor Williams, the severe man who’s led our family church since I was a child.
His eyes burn with the same zealous fire they did when he preached about sin and damnation from the pulpit every Sunday.
“Margaret, what the fuck is this?” I pull against my restraints again, the rope cutting deeper into my wrists.
My mother’s lips press into a thin line. “Language, Elliot. You’re in God’s house.”
“You’ve lost your mind.”
Pastor Williams steps forward, his gaunt face half-shadowed. “Your mother has brought you here for healing, Elliot.”
My mother nods, her hands clasped tightly at her waist. “This is for your own good, son. We’re going to save your soul from damnation. The path you’ve chosen—that man has corrupted you.”
I stare at her in utter disbelief. “You burned down my gallery! You destroyed everything I built, and now you’re kidnapping me?”
“Sometimes we must be cruel to be kind,” she says, her voice steady and certain. “God tests us all. Your gallery was a temple to sin, a monument to your corruption. And now we will purify your soul.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. My own mother, who raised me, who I spent decades trying to please, has moved from emotional abuse to arson to actual kidnapping. There’s no trace of maternal love in her eyes—only the cold determination of a fanatic.
“Purify my soul?” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “You actually think you can pray the gay away? Are you serious right now?”
Pastor Williams approaches, Bible clutched in his bony hand. “We’ve prepared a week-long spiritual intervention, Elliot. Through prayer, scripture, and guided reflection, we will help you resist these unnatural urges.”
“A week?” The reality of my situation crashes down on me. “You’ve kidnapped me for a week?”
My mother’s face hardens. “It’s not kidnapping when it’s for salvation. We had to act quickly after your... public displays with that man. The entire town is talking about it.”
“His name is Julian,” I say through gritted teeth.
She flinches like I’ve slapped her. “Don’t speak that name in this holy place.”
I look around at the crosses staring down at me, at the restraints cutting into my wrists, and suddenly understand the full magnitude of what’s happening. This isn’t just my mother’s usual disapproval or even her desperate act of burning my gallery. This is something far more dangerous.
“You’re not going to let me go until you think I’m ‘fixed,’ are you?” My voice shakes despite my effort to keep it steady.
“Not until God has cleansed your spirit,” Pastor Williams confirms, placing a cold hand on my shoulder. “However long that takes.”
A chill runs through me that has nothing to do with the basement’s temperature.
I’ve spent my whole life hiding who I am to please this woman, wasted decades denying my own happiness for her approval.
And now that I’ve finally found the courage to live authentically, she’s literally tied me to a chair to force me back into the closet —well basement in this case.
“You’re sick,” I tell her, looking directly into her eyes. “You’re not doing this out of love. You’re sick, and you need help.”
“No, Elliot.” She shakes her head sadly. “You’re the one who’s sick. But we’re going to make you well again.”
My mother turns to leave, but then stops. There’s something else in her expression now—something beyond the righteousness, something colder and more ruthless.
“If the spiritual intervention doesn’t work,” she says matter-of-factly, “I’ve made other arrangements.”
“What are you talking about?”
“There’s a neurosurgeon—a godly man from my prayer circle’s extended network—who has developed certain... procedures. For cases like yours.”
The words hit me like ice water. My entire body goes rigid. “Are you fucking serious right now?”
“He’s had success with others like you. Men and women who couldn’t be reached through scripture alone.”
I stare at her, unable to process what she’s suggesting. My mind is both racing and completely blank at the same time. I want to scream, to cry, but I’m too shocked to do either.
“A lobotomy?” My voice sounds distant, like it’s coming from someone else’s mouth. “You’re talking about a fucking lobotomy?”
She shrugs, her face unnervingly calm. “Call it whatever makes you comfortable, Elliot. The procedure has a technical name, of course.”
Pastor Williams stands silently beside her, nodding slightly, complicit in this insanity.
“You’ll be leaving this town cured,” my mother continues, her voice flat and decisive. “Or you won’t be leaving at all.”
Without another word, she turns and ascends the stairs. Pastor Williams follows, glancing back at me with something that might be pity, but certainly isn’t mercy. The door closes behind them with a heavy thud, followed by the distinct sound of a lock engaging.
I sit there in the silence, in too much shock to move, to think, even to cry. This goes beyond anything I could have imagined, beyond the pain of watching my gallery burn. That was my livelihood, my passion—but this is my mind, my very self, she’s threatening.
The weight of her words settles over me like a shroud. My own mother would rather have my brain mutilated than accept who I am. The hurt runs so deep it transcends tears, lodging itself into the deepest recesses of my psyche. I’ve never felt more betrayed, more utterly alone than in this moment.