9. Melody
Melody
M y throat burns from my hair-raising scream, and I throw everything at the man—that asshole, Dante—sitting on my bed.
My phone, the pen from work, everything in my pockets.
I launch whatever I can grab at him, but he bats them away and keeps smiling at me.
Like some kind of demonic freak, he just… takes it. Sitting. Waiting.
I'm trying to force my legs to move, but I can't. Fuck, I wish I still had my shoes on, I want to knock his lights out—I want my goddamn knife, but he's sitting on it, on my fucking mattress!
"Get the fuck out!" I shriek at him, pawing at my pockets for anything to throw.
"Come sit, won't you?" He pats my fuzzy red blanket beside him. He's on my bed! He's touching my things! Fuck!
"No! Get the fuck out!" I claw at the doorframe, holding myself up. My heart is pounding in my chest so fast, it feels like a hummingbird trying to break out of a cage. My breaths are shallow and quick; I can't get enough air. Oh fuck. Oh, god and fuck.
I watch in horror as he stands and approaches me. Holding my hands out, I back away—thank you, legs, for finally moving—but he's backed me into the corner of my doorway.
"Hush, now. You don't need to scream. I can hear you just fine at a normal, reasonable volume." He slides one hand into his pocket. "You read my letter?"
His fucking letter? Oh, fuck and god and shit and damn!
My vision tunnels, and all I can see is his smarmy face. The black tattoos on his neck seem to wriggle and writhe, hypnotizing me. The room swirls, and I fall to my knees. My stomach lurches, and it takes all of my willpower not to vomit up the dinner I just ate. He's here.
He's here. And he's going to kill me.
"Oh, baby. No. No, I'm not here to kill you." Shit, I said that out loud? "You did. And that, too."
"Fuck," I huff out and drop my head into my hands. "You're not?"
The man—Dante—kneels down in front of me and lays a gentle hand on my wrist. "No. No, I've got something much, much better for you."
I tilt my head back and peek at him. "What could you possibly want with me?"
"You're going to be my wife."
A braying laugh explodes from my lips, and my entire body quakes. I can't stop laughing. My lungs burn, and tears roll down my cheeks as he looks at me in shock. I gasp in breath after breath before I'm finally able to speak. "You're fucking insane."
"One might say the same about you, Melody. How's Charlie these days, hmm?" He smirks at me and cocks an eyebrow.
That fucking sobers me right up. If I wasn't sure before, I am now. This asshole knows who I am. He knows what I've done. Phil might not have sent him, but he sure fucking knows.
"Wh-who?" I stutter out, but he waves my words away.
"Don't play dumb. We both know you're smarter than that. I was just making a point," he says and pokes my chest. "But that's irrelevant. You will be my wife."
"No the fuck I won't," I scoff out, trying to inch myself away from him. He leans in closer.
"Yes, you will." He kisses me gently on the cheek, and my skin is electrified, like he's a live wire personified. "You'll marry me. You'll give me an heir. And in return for just a measly three years of your life, you'll get thirty million dollars and a clean passport."
What.
Three years. A baby. And then I get enough money to fuck off forever?
I won't say I'm not tempted—everyone has a price, but this man has stalked me.
He's haunted me like a goddamn ghost for the better part of a month.
He stalked me, he broke into my house—I don't even know how many times—and he waited here for me, on my bed, like some kind of sicko freak.
"No. Absolutely not. No way, no thank you, nope." I gather my strength and try to shove him away, but he holds fast.
"That's an unfortunate stance you've taken, dearest. And there's nothing I can do to change your mind?" He lays both hands on my wrists.
"Nothing in the slightest," I snarl back at him. His hands clamp down like vices.
"Forty million."
"No."
"Fifty."
"No!"
"A hundred."
"What's wrong with you? A hundred million? Fuck off, dickhead!" I spit back at him, and he just smirks.
"Back to that, are we? I can't say I've missed it very much." He shifts himself, and quicker than I can comprehend, something sharp and cold stings my arm.
My body feels warm and floaty, like I'm swimming in a vast hot tub. The room swirls behind his piercing green eyes. I try to lick my lips, but my mouth feels so dry. Time slows to a crawl, and everything goes black.
A whooshing roar fills my ears, and bright lights shine behind my closed lids. I scrunch my eyes shut tight and roll my head back and forth. The roar melds into the background and I hear… applause. Applause?
I peek one eye open and see a group of very well-dressed people seated in a small chapel.
There's enough money in this room to pay my rent for the next ten years, let alone get me out of the country.
I shuffle my feet and nearly fall, but someone catches me with ease.
Someone in the crowd whoops happily, and they all laugh.
Where the fuck am I?
"Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Lyons!"
What? No. No, no, no, no. That motherfucker. I move to step away from him, to run, but the ruffles of my dress—a monstrosity of a dress, really—weigh me down. I can't run. Fuck. Tears fill my eyes, and I feel something cold, something solid on my left ring finger.
It's the biggest diamond I've ever seen in person, set atop a brilliantly gold ring—and it matches the thin, elegant wedding band it's stacked upon.
"Holy shit," I breathe, unable to form more coherent words.
"Beautiful, isn't it? Just like you. Now smile for the people, dearest." Dante flings his arm around my shoulders and pulls me in close. I think I'm going to be sick.
I yelp as a camera flashes in our faces, trying to shield my eyes, but Dante keeps a firm grasp on my arm.
Everything is too much. There's too much light, too much sound, too many people— that uncomfortable itch at the base of my skull rips through it all.
My fists clench around air, but I need to strangle this man.
Seemingly sensing something is seriously wrong with me, he looks down and plants a gentle kiss on my temple. "Just a few more moments, Melody. We're nearly done. Give me one good smile, and I'll reward you."
Reward me? What the fuck is he on about? I bare my teeth at the thin man flitting around us with a camera. The photographer frowns and points at his own smiling face, then back at me. I try my best to force a real smile, but I'm sure it looks unhinged. He shrugs and flashes another photo anyway.
"Thank you all for attending on such short notice," Dante calls out to the small crowd. "I hate to leave you so soon, but the wedding night festivities call."
The same person from before—I assume—yells out another "Woo!
" and Dante whisks me away. I can barely keep up with him in this abomination of a dress.
For every one of his strides, I have to shuffle along for three steps.
By the time we make it to his ridiculous sports car, I'm out of breath and nauseous again.
He waves jovially to the people who followed us and urges me into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut. He quickly slides into the driver's seat, and the engine purrs. The smile drops from his face as he looks over to me.
"Strap in, Melody. You didn't give me a good smile."
Fuck, I hate him so bad. This can't be legal. He drugged me. He kidnapped me.
He married me.
And, unless I can worm my way out of this, he expects me to give him an heir . Fucking hell, how did this even happen?
My head pounds as Dante weaves us through traffic.
Based on the highway signage, he took me all the way to DC—that's over state lines, that has to be more illegal—and we're about thirty miles out from Philly.
He hasn't said another word to me, and I've kept my own mouth shut, too.
I keep sneaking peeks at him when my nauseated stomach allows.
He's wearing an even fancier suit than before.
I don't know exactly what constitutes a tuxedo , but I have a feeling this might be it.
The jacket is a luxurious-looking black, with slightly shiny lapels.
Silk? Satin? I don't know. The dress shirt underneath is a greenish off-white.
I'd almost call it a mint green. A black tie accompanies it all in the same shiny fabric as the lapels.
A deep crimson rose is tucked into the chest pocket.
It's a perfect match to the ones he's left for me in my apartment.
I can't believe this is the same man, honestly.
He's the same person who cleaned my apartment, who filled my kitchen with fresh groceries, bought me toiletries, wrote messages on the condensation of my shower door…
but he also stole my panties. He broke into my home and lay in my bed.
He put cameras in my bedroom—and wherever else.
Even if I didn't find more, I'm positive they're there.
At the very least, I'm fairly positive that he has no association with Phil. Or Charlie, for that matter. Unless this is all some insane ruse to get me exactly where they want me. But why would Phil want me married to this man, just to kill me? It doesn't make sense.
None of this shit makes sense. I chew my lower lip as I fiddle with the tulle ruffles of this god-awful dress.
A shivering chill runs down my spine—Dante had to dress me in this thing.
I doubt he'd care about preserving my dignity.
I'm confident in saying that his taste in women's clothing is god-awful.
Realizing I've been completely consumed by my own thoughts, I look out the window and see the familiar skyline in the distance. Surely he won't just drop me off at home, though? Where are we going?
It takes a few tries, but I manage to croak out the question. He flicks his gaze to me, then back to the road. "We're going home, of course."
"But… where is home?"
"My home. Your new home. You think I'd let my wife stay in that trash heap of a building?" He scoffs. "Not a chance in hell."
My heart sinks into my gut. I don't know anything about him, let alone where he lives. "But what about my things?"
"Dealt with."
"Oh, great, that's not vague at all. What the fuck is your deal, dickhead?" I frown and huff out a breath. He smirks.
"Timely. You called me that the first time we met, don't you remember?" He cocks his head to the side, keeping one eye on the road. "You've been to my home before. Though, I suppose you weren't conscious."
"Conscious? Conscious? Do you make it a habit to abduct women and bring them back to your—your what, your lair?" I shriek and scoot closer to the window.
"So dramatic. No, dearest, you tried to kill me in the Pine Barrens. You stabbed the headrest in your car, then passed out. I, being the perfect gentleman, drove you back to the city and deposited you at your home. My house was just a pit stop."
I fall silent, mind racing. The Pine Barrens? I tried to kill him—me? I did that? Wracking my brain, I try my absolute hardest to remember anything of the sort. "You have to be mistaken. That never happened."
"I assure you, it did. About a month ago, if memory serves. But, well, as they say—when you know, you know." He flashes a devilish grin at me and accelerates the car.
We pull into a side street in Old City, surrounded by old-money houses.
This neighborhood absolutely exudes wealth, and I feel antsy.
A mountain of a man waits in front of a dark brick house, hands behind his back in a military-style position of ease.
Dante parks in front of the man, who opens my door and holds out a hand to help me up.
I shrink back and shake my head. "No, no, no."
"She's dramatic, Ro. I'll get her inside if you wouldn't mind parking for me?" Dante slips out of the driver's seat and rounds the car.
"Of course, sir," the giant man rumbles in a gravelly voice. Dante replaces him at my door and lays a firm hand on my arm.
"You're coming inside one way or another. I highly suggest you cooperate."
I yank my arm back and stand on my own volition, if a little wobbly. He leads me to the door—flanked by concrete gargoyles—and ushers me inside. A gasp unwillingly falls from my lips as I take in the luxury of his home.
Parquet flooring shines in the dim light from the Edison bulb sconces.
Black wainscoting lines the walls, with a light grey damask pattern reaching to the ceiling.
I can't tell if it's wallpaper—probably not, rich people don't use wallpaper, do they?
—or hand-painted. Overstuffed velvet chairs and matching sofas are artfully angled towards the fireplace, with an ornate crystal chandelier hanging in the very center of the room.
It's like an interior design magazine came to life in the city, but with a gothic flair.
In my stunned silence, Dante clicks the door shut and locks it with a heavy clunk. The sound sets my nerves on fire, and I can't stop shaking. I didn't even know I was shivering until he gave me a pointed look.
"So dramatic. Sit with me, will you?" He gestures to the wine red velvet sofa.
I shake my head and inch backwards. He sighs.
"I have something to show you." He pulls out his phone and angles the screen towards me. There's a video of me, in this same god-awful dress, sitting at an unfamiliar table. He clicks play on the video and turns up the volume.
"My name is Melody Gutierrez, and I am of sound mind. I consent to marrying Dante Lyons. I consent to bearing him an heir. I agree to the terms laid out before me." It's me, it's my voice, but I don't remember it in the slightest.
"Can you please explain the terms as you understand them?" a voice from off-camera says, and I recognize it as the giant man he called Ro.
"I am consenting to marriage for a minimum of three years' time with Dante Lyons.
If no child is produced in that time, the contract may be extended.
Upon pregnancy resulting in live birth, I can relinquish the child to the…
Go-ett-ick Consortium. I will be compensated with…
" I watch myself take a shuddering breath. "…one hundred million US dollars."
"Perfect, thank yo—" The video ends, and Dante smiles at me.
"Welcome home, wife."