Chapter 19 #2
Ascending the stairs, I let the warm sunlight from the windows hit my face and I stop to bask momentarily.
It’s beautiful here. The large widows that make up much of the home allow the beauty of nature to flow into the house.
It’s magical. Continuing upstairs, I decide to snoop around the bedroom I’ve been staying in.
The bathroom cabinets are full of very normal items—combs, toothpaste, cologne.
He’s given me one side of the vanity with my own sink and drawers—as if I’m moving in, like I was meant to be here.
But his side is full of dark masculine products and tools. Nothing interesting or alarming.
I move to the closet. It’s still a bit of a mess from when we broke one of the racks a few days ago.
I blush at the memory of him fucking me into the floor while clothers cascaded around us.
I’ve never felt as desired as I do with him.
It’s a heady rush to be so wanted. Gabriel ordered some parts to fix it, because of course he’s good with technology AND he’s handy.
But in the meantime, he’s moved some of the clothes to the other side.
A few of my outfits have made their way into this space as well.
Behind the racks of dark clothing there’s nothing hidden.
No dark and dirty secrets in the bedroom, apparently.
Padding down the hallway, I step on light feet.
I’m not sure why, there’s no one here. I’m all alone.
Yet, I have a feeling that I’m being watched.
I glance around. Nothing. No one. Still, I can’t shake the feeling of having eyes on me.
The first door I open is a linen closet.
Neatly folded sheets and towels line the shelves.
Boring.
Moving on, I try the next door and my mouth falls open when I do.
Inside is an art studio. A large easel sits in the middle of the room with a blank canvas balanced on it.
In front of the easel are huge windows which allow light to filter into the space, filling it with a warm glow.
I stare at the space for a moment as tears prick my eyes.
I don’t even know why I’m emotional. I think it’s because I’d kill for a space like this in my home.
I used to paint when I was younger. I used acrylics because they were easiest to work with.
Oils and watercolors require far more precision, but acrylics allow you to layer, to play, to create without worry.
My hands itch to pick up one of the brushes on the counter along the right wall.
But this isn’t my space. It’s someone else’s creative area and I couldn’t violate it.
Is it Gabriel’s space? Does he paint?
For some reason, I can’t see him painting. He seems too analytical. A pang of jealousy creeps into my core. The thought of him making a studio for someone else has anger coursing through my veins. I could snap each and every one of her stupid fucking paint brushes to teach her a lesson and then—
No. I am not weak. I’m not that girl anymore. I am in control.
I take several deep breaths as I step back and close the door.
I’ll have to think of a way to tactfully bring up the room to Gabriel later.
I can’t come across as needy or jealous, but I know that I need to know who that room is for.
What if I’m just a rebound? Somehow, I doubt that.
Unless he’s a very good liar, Gabriel is as invested in this as I am.
The next door that I try to open is locked. I frown. No other doors are locked. I push my ear up against the wood. There’s a low humming noise coming from within that tells me that there’s something in here. I should leave. I should respect his privacy.
Instead, I get up on my very tippy toes.
Stretching my spine as far as it’ll go and reach up along the top of the doorframe.
The wood is cool and rough against the pads of my fingers as I run them along the edge until I hit something metal.
A key. Yes. I grab it and bring it down to the doorknob.
The key easily slides inside the lock and turns.
Guilt racks through me as the door swings open. But my curiosity outweighs my guilt.
Stepping inside, I’m taken aback by this room as well, but in a completely different way.
Unlike the studio next door, this room is dark and claustrophobic.
In front of me is a wall of screens, so many screens.
Some seem to be showing rooms of the house…
as if there’s cameras inside of it, in every room, including the bedroom and the closet.
Has he been filming me? My chest tightens and my body feels hot.
Sweat pricks along the back of my neck and I swallow down the lump forming in my throat.
I step further into the room, my eyes glued to the screens in front of me.
I can’t seem to look away even as my horror grows and grows.
My classroom, my home with Brody, even my yoga studio—everywhere I go frequently is broadcast back at me from the wall of monitors ahead.
Cold dread fills my veins as realization creeps in—he’s been watching me.
I moved in with my stalker.
Panic drives my movements. Without conscious thought, I throw open drawer after drawer of the desk in front of me. Guns, knives, dozens of cheap cell phones, disks labeled with girls’ names fill every drawer I open. None of these items are the types of things an innocent man keeps in his office.
Grabbing one of the disks out of the drawer at random, I search for something to play it on.
There’s so many wires, so many computers and monitors, I don’t know what’s what, but my body is in full flight-or-fight mode, and I can’t seem to process what is happening.
I push a button and a drive opens. I slide in the disk and search the screens until I notice one change as the video cues up.
It’s a bedroom, not one I recognize, though.
It’s dark, only a sliver of light is shining into the room illuminating a bed.
It looks like a cheap motel or something.
On the bed is a woman, a young woman. She appears to be passed out… and nude. Nausea churns my insides.
Why would Gabriel have this? Who is she?
A man enters the frame, sneering at the camera and rubbing his hand along the clear outline of his hardening cock through his slacks.
To my utter horror, it’s not Gabriel on the screen, as I expected.
No, it’s my husband’s face leering back at me.
Although, Brody barely looks like himself in this video.
He looks like a beast. He snickers before unbuckling his belt.
Other men enter the frame. I recognize some as his friends, men I’ve known for years in passing but never really talked to.
They surround the poor girl. She moans and thrashes her head back and forth.
Some of the men grab her arms. Others her legs.
She whimpers. My husband laughs and moves to stand between her pulled open legs.
I can’t watch this. I’m going to be sick.
I quickly eject the disk and throw it back in the drawer with the others. There’s so many disks. So many names. So many women.
Did my husband hurt all these women? How did I not know? Fuck! Why does Gabriel have these?
Searching for something, anything, to help me understand, I fling open the final drawer of the desk. Staring back at me is the same red glowing mask that’s been haunting me for weeks.
My husband is a rapist and the man I’ve been sleeping with is a stalker.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
With my head reeling and my body humming, I make up my mind. There’s only one thing to do, only one choice I have right now.