Chapter Twenty-Seven
In which the Corporate Retreat is so much worse than Violet feared.
Violet…
Despite my prayers at every traffic-snarled intersection, we're not slowed down much.
Roy and his creepy friends get us to a private airfield where a jet is waiting.
It's mid-sized, a gleaming white with Pinnacle Ventures on the side in bold blue lettering.
Dragging my feet, trying to slow down their abduction does absolutely nothing.
Roy loses patience and throws me over his shoulder, racing up the jet stairs, my ribs bouncing painfully against his shoulder.
He straps me into a seat and handcuffs my left wrist to the padded leather arm. Iris and Rose are across the aisle.
"Where are you taking us?"
Roy, of course, ignores me. He and George sit in the front of the cabin, talking in low tones.
They occasionally glance back at us, as if I might have managed to unbolt my seat from the floor to use it as a battering ram.
Pressing my forehead to the window as the plane takes off, I watch the city, my last connection to Roman get smaller until it disappears.
It's not a long flight, which is lucky because we weren't given any complementary beverages or snacks, much less a trip to the ladies’ room.
I tried to track the jet's progress, I know we went north.
We spent about an hour in the air. I think we might have landed in New Hampshire, but most likely, Maine.
The car passes a sign for Bar Harbor, so my guess is correct.
The Range Rover leaves the main road and makes its way towards the coast. Maine's stark beauty is especially powerful here, the waves crashing ferociously against granite cliffs, the tall pines looming eagerly toward the road, as if ready to take it back.
We drive alongside a beach that quickly transitions into a granite quarry; huge blocks of black and gray stone still settled on the sides and piles of rusting equipment, a crane, giant hooks meant to lift enormous crates of stone, and three or four cable lines meant to transport the rock to a boat.
As we pass by, I turn to stare at it in the rear window. "Is the quarry where they throw the bodies of unwilling wives?" Iris whispers.
Stroking her hair, I lean in to whisper, "Not us. We're getting the hell out of here."
"Got it," she gives me a tremulous smile and my heart twists painfully.
Two more turns, and a beautiful Dutch colonial style mansion looms up in front of us.
The house is enormous, with two wings stretching from the main building.
It's surrounded by a heavy iron gate that opens reluctantly for us, slamming shut again eagerly.
I barely hold in a snicker when we pass a Pickleball court.
"Such a Chad thing," I whisper, pulling little, nervous smiles from the girls.
The Range Rover pulls up to the front door, painted a brilliant cherry red.
It's opened immediately by a blonde in khaki pants and a tidy polo shirt, looking like the director who sets up backgammon and card games on a cruise ship.
She has mean little eyes and I suspect she gave up her personality and any sense of humanity for Lent decades ago.
Her gaze travels over the bedraggled three of us and she is Not Impressed.
"We've been expecting you," she says. For a moment, I think she's talking to us, then I realize she's addressing Roy. It's clear she knows what's happening here and her dismissiveness is because we're about to become another part of the decor in this monstrous place.
"Come with me," she says, heading up a huge staircase curving around the circular entry of the house as Roy lurks behind us, moving us along. The hallways stretch in both directions, she turns left.
I'm looking for other exits as we go, and thus far the prospects aren't great. The house is backed up to the jagged granite cliffs with a sheer drop to the ocean. So that's out.
Our disagreeable guide finally opens a door, stepping back and impatiently jerking her head.
"There are dresses for you hanging in the closet," she says sharply.
"Along with the accessories and shoes, we've had them tailored to your exact measurements.
" She pauses, as if she's expecting us to applaud her for her attention to detail.
"You've taken their phones, Apple watches, anything else that could be used for communication? " she asks Roy and he snorts.
"Don't insult me, Evelyn."
"We're not playing dress up for you." I fold my arms. "Who's the big man in charge? I'm guessing Colin?"
Her nostrils flare with disgust. "Mr. Ashford and the Misses. Monroes' fiancés will be meeting you tonight. It is imperative that you are suitably dressed, as this reflects upon your husband's-to-be."
Well, she's a big blonde bag of crazy, isn't she?
"If you are not ready, hair, and makeup done within two hours," she says, "Roy will help you get dressed."
"By all means, please," he says eagerly. "I'm looking forward to it."
The door shuts with the conspicuous click of the lock, but I try it anyway, after I hear their footsteps fade away. "Unfortunately, I can't pick this lock," I say, stooping to look at the old-fashioned brass lock.
That is a skill Roman didn't teach me, I was always getting locked out at the shelter, so I taught myself how to use a lockpick from a YouTube video.
The locks on the front door were terrible.
"This is a good heavy door. There's a bunch of these mansions scattered along the coastline here in Maine. "
"Why here?" Rose is rubbing her arms, prowling from one end of the room to the other like a caged cat.
"All the millionaires in the early 1900s built them for their families. The wives and kids would summer here while the men stayed behind in New York and worked. This fucker is solidly built." I kick at the corner of the door and my foot bounces off it.
"What do we do?" Iris says, her chin beginning to tremble again.
Pointing a finger at her, I say, "You go right, check the closet and bathroom for anything we can use as a weapon. See if you can find a window that looks like we can get it open. Rose, you go left."
There's the roar of an approaching helicopter, landing on the other side of the house, making the glass shake a bit in the window panes. A helicopter would be an excellent means of escape.
If I knew how to fly one.
The suite is enormous; this sitting room branches off to two doors on either side that I assume lead to bedrooms or bathrooms. I'm grateful they kept us together, at least. I fight the surge of tears in my eyes as Rose and Iris take off, grateful to have something to do.
Going through the beautiful maple cabinet and the little side tables in the main room, I find nothing useful.
No letter holder I can sharpen or a lighter to see a fire to distract our captors.
Nothing but a giant TV. Maybe I could drop it on Roy's head.
Each bedroom is done up in gentle shades of green and blue, which does nothing to soothe our agitation.
The late afternoon sun is sending its first rays of red and purple through the windows when I slump down on the couch.
"We're going to have to play their game," I say.
"So, we'll get dressed up like little dolls and we watch and listen.
Don't discount any scrap of information that might help us.
Look for house staff that might look sympathetic or scared.
I'm going to find a way to contact Roman. "
Again, my heart thuds painfully. Will Roman care?
Our cruise director from hell is back, rapping sharply on the door as she unlocks it.
Roy is lurking behind her, his eager smile drops when he sees that we're in our evening gowns.
They'd picked identical pink gowns for Rose and Iris - how adorable and extra creepy - they're tight in the bust, showing too much cleavage and mine is…
surprise, surprise, violet colored. It's floor length, tight enough that it's difficult to walk, much less run. But maybe that is their plan.
The mansion is buzzing with activity; cigar smoke drifting out of one lounge, carrying the sound of self-satisfied, masculine laughter and the clink of glasses.
Maids are everywhere, conspicuous in their white aprons and little black dresses - very little, these fucking perverts - they're setting a huge dining room table, others placing vases of fresh flowers.
They all cringe under Blondie's sharp glare.
One of the doors opens and my heart leaps when two women walk by us, until I realize they're perfectly crafted and groomed. just like my mother.
"Two of the Stepford wives," I murmur to Rose and Iris. "Don't bother to ask them for help." The women slow down as they pass by us, their curious gaze scanning us from head to toe. That makes me wonder. If the wives are here, maybe I can find Poppy. Surely she wouldn't agree to this.
At the end of the hall, Roy opens a set of double doors and we're in a study, three men - one of them Colin - turn to look at us. The sunset's shining through enormous floor to ceiling windows, facing out over the ocean on one side and the front entry and the forest on the other.
These assholes have a full fire raging in the fireplace and I rub my bare arms. The air conditioner's been turned down to polar levels so that they're comfortable.
The Chads are all in golf attire, there's a dark haired one in his late 30s, I think I've seen him at Jack's parties.
Another one of The Chads is older, balding with a tight pinched mouth.
"Welcome, ladies!" Colin lifts his glass of, no doubt, expensive whiskey to us. "Jack, don't your daughters look lovely?"
Son of a bitch.
Our dear stepfather turns, shoulders slightly hunched in his expensive shirt. He's wearing a patch over his left eye.
"I think the patch adds something, a bit of a rakish air," Colin says cheerfully. "We keep telling him that it only makes him look more distinguished."
"Slap a patch on an asshole and he's still an asshole." My smarter self is desperately signaling me to shut up and smooth things over. Put them at ease. Lull them into thinking we're not a threat.
Fuck it. Insanely furious Violet is behind the wheel.
"It does distinguish you as a treacherous piece of shit willing to sell out his own family for a promotion," I say viciously, taking a step towards him.
The cowardly little bastard actually takes a step back, bumping into the heavy gold drapes.
The other two men snicker and his face flushes angrily.
"Be seated ladies," Colin says. Jack stays huddled in the corner on the window seat, but the other men settle in wingback chairs. We cautiously lower ourselves to the couch, holding hands.
"Let me introduce you," Colin says. "Rose, this is your new husband, Malcolm Cavendish. Rose Cavendish, it has a nice ring to it, don't you think?" The dark haired one smiles at her with a benign nod. "Iris, you've been fortunate enough to be chosen by Summit Ventures' CFO, Jonas Kennedy."
If possible, the balding CFO's mouth pinches even tighter. "I've had to wait for you to turn eighteen," he rasps. "Very inconvenient."
Iris makes a choked little noise. He must be fifty.
"And you, my darling Violet." Colin smiles at me fondly, as if he's been courting me for months, taking me out on Sunday afternoons for brunch, and evenings at the theater. "I'm delighted to be taking you as my wife tomorrow."
"You must be joking," I say flatly.
"Not at all," Colin says. Malcolm and creepy Jonas seem happy to have him handle the 'unpleasantness' of explaining that we've been, essentially, bought and paid for.
Colin walks over, pulling me up and placing a kiss on the inside of my wrist before I can jerk my hand away, wiping it on the skirt of my dress.
"You will learn to behave, darling." He says it almost gently, but that gleam is back in his eye, the kind of cruel indifference that makes me believe he has no problem killing me if he can't control me.
"The men in Pinnacle Ventures hold strong values.
We marry for life, we raise families. We're building a lasting dynasty, and you young ladies are fortunate to be part of this grand experiment. "
"Do you really think we'll go along with this?
" I'm genuinely curious to hear how he thinks he's going to pull this off.
Colin circles me, taking a long drink, ice cubes clinking in his glass and letting me wait as he savors what I'm sure is a 'forward peat with the lingering salt indicative of a fine, Islay scotch,' before he swallows, because that is what a pretentious asshole would do.
"Let me be clear. I own you. Malcolm and Jonas own your sisters. This is your life now."
I punch him in the face.