Chapter Fifteen
Romy
C alista.
The secret, we-can’t-say-her-name Calista, just texted Caius. Based on his stiff, shocked response, I’d say he isn’t used to receiving texts from her. He taps out a text reply to her immediately.
Caius: Prove it’s you.
This piques my interest. Is he separated from Calista? Is he secretly looking for her? It might be why he doesn’t want her name spoken. Maybe he wants to keep her safe.
She responds back nearly as quickly as he did.
Unknown Number: You were fifteen when they took you from me. I was made to stay behind. You wore a green shirt that day when those two suited men came for you.
“Fuck,” he swears under his breath. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
He bursts from the love seat and storms toward our room. I scurry after him, desperate to know more about what’s happening. Caius is usually so tightly coiled. Seeing him visibly losing his shit is worrisome.
I close the door to our room, watching him as he paces the floor in front of the bed, his eyes glued to his phone. Pain is etched in his twisted expression, which, in turn, makes my chest ache for him.
She’s definitely someone important to him.
The thought she may be a past romantic interest, possibly a high school or college girlfriend, surprisingly hurts.
Slowly, I approach Caius. He’s tense and scowling at his phone. When I touch his arm gently, he flinches as though I’ve jerked him from another world.
“I can’t trace the number,” he blurts out, eyes bouncing to mine before jerking back to his screen. “I feel so fucking useless.”
Caius is a monster. He’s done despicable things. But there’s a vulnerable man hiding deep inside. I’ve seen glimpses of him from time to time. The cold, villainous asshole is a thick facade hiding someone actually likable underneath. I’ve seen his gentle, caring nature toward Kaitlyn, and even me at times. It’s that man I wish I could help.
“Could Solomon know where Calista is?” I ask. “Or Ava?”
He recoils at my words, flashing me a disgusted look. “No.”
Okay.
“What about your father?”
This time, his features turn to solid ice and his eyes darken. “Stop.”
“Stop trying to help you find your wife?”
He sneers at me. “She’s not my wife, jealous little girl, she’s my sister.”
Then the anger fades as he realizes what he’s done. Out of a fiery burst of anger, he gave me a piece of his puzzle. I yelp when his fingers seize my jaw. The darting of his eyes back and forth is terrifying, like he’s losing his mind right here and now.
“Sister,” I murmur, my heart breaking for him despite his anger. “How can you, with all your resources and connections, not find her?”
Wrong question.
He staggers away from me, shakily raking his fingers through his hair with one hand. The other grips his phone so tightly his knuckles turn grotesquely white. I’ve never seen him so frantic or shaken. Not ever.
“I wasn’t insulting you,” I say softly. “It was a legitimate question. Maybe I can help. I want to help, Caius.”
His head shakes back and forth as though my idea is preposterous. I walk toward him as one might do with an injured animal they want to help. Please don’t bite. I just don’t want you to hurt anymore.
My palms find his chest and he shudders at my touch. As I slide them up over his solid pectoral muscles, he relaxes slightly. I tease my palms up his neck and then cradle his face with them, my fingertips running soothing motions through his scalp. His eyes flutter and his handsome face turns slack.
That’s it. Calm down. I’ve got you.
His free hand grabs onto my hip, fingers biting roughly into me as though he’s anchoring himself to me. I bite back a whimper of pain at the bruising touch. He loosens his hold, sliding his palm to my ass and hauling me closer to him. Our heartbeats are hammering between us. My mind races with a thousand thoughts. I’m sure his does the same.
I stand on my toes and kiss his slightly parted lips. The kiss is gentle and sweet. He allows me to kiss him, offering his tongue here and there, and even a needy grunt.
And then, as if remembering where he is, he turns to stone. I’m no longer kissing a heartbroken, hot-blooded man. Now I’m making out with a statue—cold, unmoving, unbreakable.
He grabs onto my shoulder and forces me a couple of steps away from him. My mouth is still parted and face raw from his scruff. His eyes steal a glance at my mouth, flashing hotly for a second, before the final sheet of ice hides him from me.
“Do not speak a word of this to anyone,” he growls, gaze back on his phone as he texts. “Not a fucking word.”
Rejection burns hot through me. “Who would I tell? I don’t exactly have anyone who cares about me around here.”
He tears his stare from his phone, pinning it on me. “You told Gareth.”
The reminder of that man sends a shiver down my spine. My stomach churns violently, making the orange scones sour in my belly. “He made me,” I whisper, voice shaking. “I had no choice.”
“You could have said no.”
“Tell me his big secret,” Gareth demands. “Tell me and this will all be over. I won’t hurt you.”
“No. There is no secret. I swear.”
“Tell me now.”
I did say no. I said no. I. Said. No.
“Caius,” I rasp out, tears prickling my eyes. “You’re being cruel.”
“Cruel?” Caius barks out a cold laugh. “I’m reminding you that you chose to reveal something to Gareth of all people. It could have jeopardized everything I’ve done had I not intervened.”
“I have the power to make this stop.”
“Go to hell.”
“Suit yourself.”
And then pain, pain, pain.
I want it to stop.
“Calista.”
Hateful eyes bore into me with each horrifying thrust. “What’s that?”
“Calista is his secret. Stop. You promised.”
But he doesn’t stop.
I told the truth and he’s a liar.
“That’s not fair,” I say, shakily swiping a tear that races down my cheek. “I was… I was forced to.”
His face is emotionless. No anger or betrayal. Bland and impassive.
“I have to go,” he says without another look my way.
As soon as the door shuts behind him, I sit down on the floor and cry as memories of my rape assault me, nearly as brutal as the physical act itself.
This time, Caius doesn’t save me.
No one does.
I sit inside the empty tub, the contents of the bag Eva gave me strewn around me. A lot of these pictures Dad ordered her to throw out have Vivienne in them, but many are just of me. I am grateful not to have found any disturbing photos. It had been what started my frantic search after Caius left. I was just sure the pervert had pictures of what she did to me. To my utter relief, there were none.
Just happy pictures.
The photos must’ve all belonged to Vivienne because some had been written on the back of. Me and Ro-la, Halloween. A picture of Vivienne holding my four-year-old hand, both of us dressed as matching Dalmatians. Me and Ro-la and Santa, Christmas. The two of us with Santa at the mall, her grinning and me red-faced and screaming in terror. I was no more than two or three in the picture.
Mom had clearly left by that point. I remember vividly the betrayal of her affair on my father and then her leaving us. I still can’t make sense of when Vivienne came into the picture. Was she my nanny while Mom still lived with us or did it come after?
I hate how murky those memories are.
Seeing these pictures, though, shed new light on my past.
Like one would gape at a gruesome car accident, I can’t take my eyes off the monster who haunted my dreams. The one everyone told me wasn’t real. Not only was she absolutely real, but there is photo evidence of her.
And the journal.
I’m still trying to hype myself up to open it.
Getting inside that woman’s head terrifies me, but I’m also desperate to understand what could make someone want to do that to a child. I’m smart enough to know I didn’t ask for it. Nothing I could’ve done would have provoked it.
So why?
Are some people like her and Gareth and Solomon just born evil?
The journal is a plain, leather one with faded pink stitching. It’s so unassuming at first. When I crack it open, I smell the familiar scent of old paper. It makes me wonder about the last time it had been open. Did Eva open it, read it, and then never look at it again?
I like it here.
No one forces me to do anything.
Her cursive handwriting is legible but barely. There are also no dates listed. It’s just a random blurt of thought. Below it are some hearts in another color of ink. Beneath that in red, the writing is more chaotic.
Gideon is cold most days. Nearly as cold as his home. Sometimes I miss my old bed. It was warm. Did I really think he would love me?
She’s not wrong about Dad. Why she would care, as his daughter’s nanny, though, is troubling. It’s clear she was looking for love in all the wrong places.
I love her. She’s the only bit of warmth in this house. The way she looks at me as though I’m her savior melts my heart. Her name is Romy. I call her Ro-la because it makes her smile.
My stomach revolts at reading that. I’m imagining the young, innocent, trusting me. So vulnerable. It’s heartbreaking.
Gideon had sex with me. It was nice. There’s warmth inside him.
I cringe at the thought of Dad sleeping with my nanny. The same nanny who was abusing his little girl.
Could we be a family? I’m safe here. Gideon is an excellent provider. Bastian is his pride and joy. When he holds Romy, there’s a softness in his eyes I don’t usually see. And when in bed with me, he’s a doting lover. I want to be his wife.
My father has always been a hard, serious man. I can’t imagine him the way she describes him.
He locked his bedroom door. Why would he do that? Does he not want me anymore?
Without any dates, and Vivienne’s use of multiple pens, markers, and pencils, it’s difficult to tell how much time has passed between each entry.
I put Romy in the stroller and followed him. He was on a date with a woman. It could have been someone from his work, but they seemed so intimate. My heart is shattered.
The thought of being pushed all through the city by this unhinged woman as she stalks my father is alarming. What if she did what she did to punish him?
He was supposed to keep me safe and protect me, but it’s he who’s breaking me apart from the inside. We haven’t had sex in so long. It’s probably because he’s sleeping with women his own age behind my back. Why does he hate me now?
It’s hard to tell if she’s being delusional about Dad or if this is truly what happened. What I know of her, she’s mentally unwell. But Dad can also be the cold bastard she describes in her journal.
I couldn’t get out of bed today. Gideon’s out of town. Took Bastian with him. He never takes us. I’m so depressed. Romy’s crying, begging to be fed, is the only reason I dragged myself out of bed. If she wouldn’t be left alone, I’d end my life. He’d feel so horrible for how he’s treated me.
I slam the journal closed, my heart beating erratically. The thought of being left alone with that woman stresses me out. In my mind, I don’t see myself but Kaitlyn, and that makes it all the worse. Knowing she dealt with this woman as I did is devastating.
With tears in my eyes, I frantically start shoving all the pictures and journal back into the bag. Then I cram it into my purse. A pained howl bursts from me. Between the fight with Caius that brought back the horror of the rape and now all this stuff with Vivienne, I feel hollowed out and brittle.
And there’s no one to hold me—to promise everything will be okay.
The bathroom door opens swiftly. I tense, ready for another battle with Caius. It’s not him, though. Theo bends over the tub, places his arms beneath me, and scoops me out. I cling to him as a flood of tears comes pouring out.
It’s a reminder I still do have someone who cares about me.
Not the one I want, but I’m not in the position to be choosy right now.