Chapter 5 #2
I reached into my clutch and removed the small pill case containing my evening dose. One white tablet sat in the centre of my palm, promising chemical oblivion. The cloud that would settle over me, making everything go mute—pain, pleasure, rage, clarity.
Without hesitation, I dropped it into the toilet and flushed.
For the second time that day, I felt the fog beginning to lift.
My senses slowly sharpened. I started to smell the overpowering scent of roses in the crystal vase, hear the distant murmur of masculine voices and the faint strains of Chopin our house manager believed created an appropriate atmosphere for entertaining.
Mother would have approved of the way I behaved tonight.
She'd taught me well how to be the perfect ornament—seen, admired, but never in the way.
"Men like Patrick require careful handling, darling," she'd advised at my wedding.
"Give him what he wants to see, and you'll find your freedom in the spaces between his expectations. "
She'd failed to mention those spaces would be filled with bruises and pills. Or perhaps, she was clueless, although I doubted it.
I returned to find Patrick and Alexander in the study, tumblers of expensive brandy in hand, voices lowered in conversation that ceased when I entered.
"Darling, would you play something for us?" Patrick gestured toward the grand piano. "Alexander mentioned appreciating Chopin."
It wasn't a request.
"Of course." I moved to the piano, settling onto the bench with practiced grace.
My fingers found the keys, beginning the opening notes of Nocturne in C-sharp minor. As I played, I felt the fog receding further, replaced by the first tingling waves of mania. Colours intensified, sounds sharpened. My senses heightened to painful acuity. I was completely focused.
Still, I could feel Alexander watching me, his attention unwavering even as Patrick continued their conversation.
I allowed myself to become lost in the music, fingers flying across the keys with increasing intensity.
The piece grew beneath my hands, transformed from melancholy to something wilder, more desperate.
"Beatrice." Patrick's voice cut through my concentration. "That's enough."
I stopped mid-phrase, a discordant echo hanging in the air.
"Apologies." I folded my hands in my lap, the perfect picture of contrition. "I got carried away."
"My wife becomes rather emotional with music." Patrick's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Another sensibility we manage."
"You play beautifully," Alexander said, his voice neutral yet somehow conveying more.
"Thank you." I rose from the bench, moving to stand by Patrick's side as expected. "It's one of the few pleasures I still indulge in."
Patrick's hand settled on my waist, fingers digging painfully into my ribs. "Beatrice has many talents," he said, voice hardening. "Though she sometimes needs reminding of appropriate boundaries."
"Actually," Alexander said, setting down his glass, "I find boundaries are often more effective when they're not arbitrary."
The statement hung in the air, layered with meaning that made Patrick's fingers tighten against my side.
"Perhaps that's where we differ," he replied, his businessman's smile firmly in place. "I believe clear expectations leave little room for misunderstanding. Consequences must be... memorable."
The word choice wasn't accidental. Patrick had always been creative in ensuring I remembered my lessons. The cigarette burns hidden on my scalp, just above my hairline. The night locked in the dark storage room beneath the stairs. The ice baths when my "hysteria" needed cooling.
"If you'll excuse me," I murmured, "I should check on dessert."
"Our housekeeper can manage that," Patrick countered, not releasing me.
"I prepared something special," I insisted gently. "I'll only be a moment."
Patrick's fingers loosened with obvious reluctance. "Don't make our guest wait."
In the kitchen, I pressed my palms against the cool marble countertop, anchoring myself against the rising tide of manic energy. Alexander was here. In my house. The man from the maze. I needed to think clearly, to figure what to do. First, I needed to get a grip on myself.
When I returned to the study, they had moved to examining Patrick's collection of rare whiskeys, Alexander feigning interest in the bastard's explanations of peat content and aging processes.
"Dessert will be served in the dining room," I announced, maintaining my hostess smile.
"Wonderful." Patrick gestured for Alexander to precede us, then caught my arm as I moved to follow. His lips brushed my ear, voice pitched for me alone. "You're not taking your medication."
I kept my expression placid. "Of course I am."
With a brutal grip, he pinched the nerve in my inner arm. "Don't lie to me, Beatrice. I can see your pupils dilating."
I didn't flinch. "Lighting changes, darling. Nothing more."
"We'll discuss this later." His voice promised consequences I knew all too well.
Throughout dessert—poached pears with cinnamon cream, I felt … different. Lights seemed brighter, conversations layered with deeper meaning, sensations more intense. I caught Alexander watching me with increasing attention, his dark eyes missing nothing.
When he finally departed, he shook Patrick's hand with practiced cordiality, then turned to me.
"Thank you for a lovely evening, Beatrice." He took my offered hand, his grip firm but not overpowering. As our skin connected, his thumb brushed deliberately across my inner wrist, pressing momentarily against my pulse point.
My breath caught as our eyes met. There it was—a flash of something, quickly concealed behind professional detachment.
He remembered … what we had shared in the maze.
"The pleasure was mine, Alexander," I replied, my voice steady despite the electricity coursing through me. "I hope we'll see you again soon."
After the door closed behind him, Patrick's false smile vanished.
"My office. Now."
I followed him silently, my mind racing ahead, calculating options, escape routes, strategies. The mania was in full bloom now, my thoughts crystal clear, connections forming with exhilarating speed.
Patrick closed the door behind us, engaging the lock with a decisive click.
"Remove your dress," he ordered, moving to pour himself another whiskey.
"Patrick—"
"Now, Beatrice." His voice dropped to that silken tone that always preceded his worst moments. "Or shall I remove it for you?"
I unfastened the Dior with unsteady hands, letting it pool at my feet. Beneath, I wore the lingerie he'd selected—black lace that revealed more than it concealed.
"The rest as well."
I complied, standing naked before him as he circled me, assessing me like cheap merchandise.
"You're not taking your medication," he stated again. "Dr. Reynolds confirmed your last refill should have run out days ago. Yet, you haven't requested more."
I remained silent. No defence would satisfy him.
"I saw how you looked at him." Patrick's voice held that dangerous calm. "Alexander Moore. The man who wields more power than he should be entitled to and believes himself worthy of sitting at our table."
"I looked at him exactly as you instructed," I countered. "Polite interest, nothing more."
The blow came without warning, the back of his hand connecting with my cheek with practiced precision—hard enough to hurt, not enough to leave marks that couldn't be concealed.
"Don't lie to me." He grabbed my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. "You think I don't know what you want? What you're planning?"
I kept my expression neutral despite the ringing in my ear. "And what am I planning, Patrick?"
"To embarrass me. To undermine me." His fingers dug painfully into my jaw. "To forget your place."
"My place." I allowed a smile to form despite his grip. "As what? Your trophy? Your punching bag? Your medicated doll?"
His eyes narrowed at my defiance. "You're becoming unmanageable again, Beatrice. Perhaps we need to revisit our arrangement."
He released me, moving to his desk drawer. From it, he withdrew a leather case I knew all too well. He unzipped it slowly, revealing the syringes and vials inside.
"Dr. Reynolds is concerned about your manic episodes," he said conversationally, filling a syringe with practiced ease. "He believes a more direct approach might be necessary."
Fear fluttered against my ribs, but I powered through—bold and brazen. "You can't keep me sedated forever, Patrick."
"Not forever. Just until you remember your obligations." He approached with the syringe. "Turn around. Hands on the desk."
I complied, mind racing through options. Fighting would only make it worse. He was stronger, and the office was soundproofed. No one would intervene.
"Perhaps I should invite Alexander to our next gathering," Patrick mused, running his free hand down my spine in a parody of tenderness. "Show him what happens to disobedient wives. The techniques I've developed for proper... discipline."
The implications hung in the air—Patrick's "techniques" went far beyond simple beatings. The humiliation he brought was designed to break something essential inside me. His private collection of ropes, clamps and other implements was to be envied.
The needle slid into my hip. The sedative burned as it entered my bloodstream.
"You're mine, Beatrice," Patrick whispered against my ear as he pressed the plunger. "Every breath. Every thought. Every moment of pleasure or pain. Mine to give or take away."
As the drug began to take effect, fog creeping back into the edges of my consciousness, I held onto one crystal-clear thought: Alexander had been here, and now I knew who he was.
The hunt could finally begin. My hunt.