Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
BAILEY - BEFORE
The next morning, I wake in a strange bed, in a strange room, with crisp clean air and the patter of rain hitting the window.
It was so late by the time Ms. Harrington showed me to my “quarters” as she called them, that I took one look at the comfortable bed and passed out.
It was a dreamless sleep, like I’d sunk into a dark pit and crawled out someone new.
Someone refreshed. But now, as my eyes adjust to my surroundings, I remember that I’m not on vacation, that I have no clue where in the world I am, or what these people want from me.
The space reminds me of a summer cottage we rented when I was a kid.
One main room and a bathroom with a large tub, with more bath products than I can count.
To the side sits a small kitchenette with a sink, a mini refrigerator, and counter.
That’s the only thing in the space that looks updated.
The decor, the furniture, is antique-looking.
As soon as I step to the window, I pull back the drapes and notice thick lattice covering the glass like decorative bars. Then I hear a click from outside. What do I do? There’s nowhere to hide, other than the bathroom, but even that doesn’t have a door.
Standing there frozen, I watch the door slowly swing open and Ms. Harrington enter.
She looks exactly the same as she did last night.
Immaculate uniform, hair in a tight bun, no jewelry or accents that give me any inclination of her personality.
It’s just her and the severe scowl that seems to be a permanent fixture on her face.
She looks me over with a raised brow. “I take it you slept well.”
“I—”
She waves a hand to cut me off. “You will bathe and dress. Sir wants you at breakfast in twenty minutes.”
“But—”
“There will be no arguing, no questions, and no exceptions,” she snaps. “Now get.”
There’s a hundred things I’d like to ask, but I know she’d bite my head off. I settle on the one that’s most important at the moment. “What will I wear?”
She walks to the closet, a door I didn’t notice until just now, and pulls it open. It’s filled with clothing of all colors. “And over here,” she gestures to a small chest of drawers, “you’ll find the undergarments that Sir finds most suitable.”
He’s chosen my underwear. The thought fills me with dread.
I meander toward the bathroom until Ms. Harrington makes another sharp remark that has me hustling inside.
In any other situation, I’d love to soak in this tub. I haven’t taken a long bath since before school started. All I had were communal dorm showers with spotty hot water, and then of course everything after. Maybe I’ll get the chance while I’m here. I wonder if I can smuggle in a toaster?
The morbid thought has me cracking a smile and then shaking my head that I’m smiling right now. I’m fucking losing my mind. Whatever bits and pieces I have left.
I figure out the knobs and fill the tub, scrubbing my skin with the loofah until it’s pink. A shower would be quicker and easier, but that isn’t an option.
“I’ll lay out some clothing options,” Ms. Harrington calls over the running water.
Not like it matters. I haven’t had a choice in any aspect of my life for months. I don’t give a shit what I wear. But then as I rinse shampoo out of my hair, I remember the lingerie Yuri used to force us to put on. Maybe I do care.
I step out onto the heated floor and wrap myself in a fluffy towel. Ms. Harrington is standing with her back to me, rifling through the hanging garments. When she hears me approach, she turns, holding out two dresses. “Which would you prefer? Blush or heather gray?”
Her tone is no less sharp than it was earlier, but I’m still taken aback that she’s giving me choices. I’d never wear either dress normally, they’re too formal, too frilly. I prefer jeans and T-shirts. I answer, “The gray one.” At least it’s a color I’d wear on my own.
She bustles around gathering bras and underwear, tights, and formal heeled pumps. I feel like I’m dressing up for a theater performance. Within five minutes, I’m dressed in an outfit I swear my mom has worn to PTA meetings.
Ms. Harrington points at the small vanity in the bathroom and retrieves a hairbrush from a drawer. “Oh, I can—”
Apparently not.
She yanks the brush through my wet tangles until I mutter multiple obscenities through gritted teeth.
She stops suddenly and within seconds the brush handle cracks against the back of my head. “You will refrain from using such language here,” she says sharply. “No arguing, no questions, and no foul language. No exceptions.”
My head throbs as I bite back some other choice words I’d like to give her. Instead, I incline my head in understanding. How many more rules will be added to her mantra before we leave this cottage?
She weaves my hair into a tight French braid and nudges me in the shoulder. “Time to go. Punctuality is most important.”
Right, yet another rule.
She looks directly into an ornate painting that hangs near the entrance and nods once. A low beep sounds and then she twists the knob to open the door. In case there was any doubt in my mind that I’m a prisoner here, she just confirmed it.
Sometime in the last twenty minutes, the rain has lightened to a gentle drizzle that tickles my skin with each droplet.
Tall oak and beech trees surround the cottage, their canopy shrouding it from the rest of the world.
I note every step we take, quietly searching my surroundings for something I can use later.
She leads me along a winding stone pathway bordered by neatly trimmed hedges. The soft babble of a nearby brook muffles our footsteps. Despite everything, I feel like I’ve stepped into a completely different world—one that might be beautiful if I weren’t being held here against my will.
When we turn a corner, I see the main house.
It’s a massive Tudor-style mansion built from warm red brick with black wood framing that creates patterns across the facade.
At least five chimneys rise from the slate roof, giving off hazy smoke that climbs into the gray sky.
My favorite part of the whole place is the climbing purple wisteria that clings to the stone archway and surrounds every bay window.
Beyond the perfectly manicured gardens, all I see for miles and miles is nothing but sprawling green grass dotted by trees. The isolation hits me like a punch to the gut. I’m truly in the middle of nowhere. I’ve never felt so utterly alone.
Questions sit on the tip of my tongue, but clearly Ms. Harrington isn’t much of a talker. Maybe whoever this Sir asshole is will give me some answers.
We enter a foyer, decorated exactly how I imagined it would be. Old world meets certain modern upgrades.
It’s so quiet. I’d think in a house this large there would be people moving from room to room, appliances whirring…
just the sounds of normal living. There’s only the click of our heels against the polished marble.
My already tight chest squeezes, and I have to focus on taking in slow deliberate breaths.
She leads me through a sitting room into a large formal dining room. A spread of pastries and fruit sit in the center of the table, so bright and delicious looking that my mouth waters.
“Sit,” Ms. Harrington taps on the closest chair. “I’ll inform him of your arrival.”
And just like that, my stomach sinks.
She leaves the room without another word. I take in the empty space, listening for any other signs of movement. There’s nothing… not even the tick of a clock, or the whir of air coming from ceiling vents.
Should I run? Could I make it anywhere? That’s a simple answer—no. At least not yet. I need to be smart, figure out where I am and what they want from me.
I eye the butter knife on the table. Its curved silver handle polished to a shine. It wouldn’t do much in the way of protection, but it’s better than nothing. I slide it in the only place I can think of, the elastic of my bra.
Muffled voices make their way across the room, followed by footsteps. I sit frozen, too afraid to turn my head toward the sound. My hands curl around the fabric of my dress, wringing it into a ball, something to calm myself.
“There she is,” a deep voice croons. It’s somewhat familiar, but I can’t place it. The accent though—English. Just like Ms. Harrington. Similar to Leon’s but not the same.
I force myself to turn toward the voice, ignoring the pain of my chest constricting.
The man who meets my gaze is tall and distinguished, probably in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair perfectly styled and wearing an expensive-looking navy suit.
It’s his smile that I recognize first, and then his eyes.
The same eyes that peered into mine a few nights ago.
“You,” I whisper. His last words come back to me. “Do be a good girl until I see you again, yeah?”
“Lovely to see you again, Bailey.” He moves to the head of the table with fluid grace, pulling out his chair. “I do hope you slept well. Ms. Harrington tells me you were quite tired when you arrived.”
Arrived. Like I came here willingly.
I don’t know what to say. I guess it didn’t matter whether my new captor was a complete stranger, or someone I’ve encountered before. Nothing changes. It’s still a shock though.
“Sir has spoken to you,” Ms. Harrington seethes. “You will respond.”
He laughs, it’s warm and friendly, but I already know better. “It’s fine, Greta. Please, go enjoy breakfast in the garden. I see the sun peeking through the clouds.”
Her face softens, and she nods, immediately obeying.
“I’m sorry for Ms. Harrington. She’s a bit of a stickler for the rules, but my most trusted employee,” he says, reaching for the kettle. “Did you sleep well?”
“I—uh—yes, I did.” The words feel strange on my tongue. After months of King’s unpredictable violence, this man’s calm politeness is somehow more terrifying.