28 Everleigh Stay—Telander
Everleigh
Stay—Telander
It takes all my self-control to sit still in the passenger seat of Christopher’s spotless Rolls-Royce. Under the hosiery and long-sleeved shift dress, my entire body is slick with anxious sweat as I watch Central London pass through tinted glass.
My home.
On paper, at least.
I surveyed the rented, one-bedroom flat used for his alter ego in East London when I was permitted to leave, albeit with Christopher’s hand pressed into my lower back and a handful of his favourite pills obediently swallowed. To correct my recent breakdown, he assured me.
I must’ve been unstable to leave him.
He is my whole world.
That’s the line I must stick to. I can’t endure another day sealed in that windowless room with fluid-stained sheets and the stench of death. Sterling’s phone battery is flat, but it’s safely stowed in my knee-high leather boot.
“I’ve done some redecorating for your homecoming,” Christopher chats animatedly. “This is a fresh start for us.”
Lips pursed, I stare ahead at passing wine bars and fine-suit stores.
“You have a new bedroom,” he adds. “We will keep the door locked at night for the time being, but you’ll earn back my trust soon enough.”
“Where is Pierre?” I croak.
“We have all new staff, Everleigh. I cleaned house to ensure no one could raise questions about your absence. We’re starting over.”
Right. Like that’s going to stop me from getting as far away from him as possible when I spot an opening.
“Aren’t you excited to be home?”
“Yes,” I lie hollowly.
“Back where you belong at last.”
The weight of my returned wedding ring seems to strangle my finger. It feels foreign. Unnatural. I had to force it into place. I’ve put on weight since I slipped it off and left. Something Christopher intends to remedy, apparently.
“Now, are any of your new friends going to cause me trouble?” He leans out of the window to input the code on our security system. “Because that simply won’t do.”
“No,” I blurt out. “I told them I wanted to leave.”
“Are you telling me the truth?”
“Yes. I swear it.”
“Hm. Well, there will be none of that nonsense from now on. You’ll speak only when given my permission, Everleigh. I don’t care who that’s to. No one is allowed to hear your voice unless I’m there.”
“You want me to be silent?”
“I want you to earn the right to speak,” he corrects succinctly. “We’re fixing these bad habits you’ve got into.”
Foreboding dread proliferates inside me in a slow-acting poison. This imprisonment will be far more brutal. No voice. No privacy. No freedom. It makes my five-year marriage look like a fucking honeymoon.
“Here we are. Welcome home.”
“Thank you,” I choke out.
“Let’s get you inside. You must be exhausted.”
“Yes . . . I am.”
“Of course, it’s been a trying few days. Your new medication will settle soon enough.” He leans over the centre console to capture my hand and kiss it. “We’ll get you through this, darling.”
One, two, three, four.
Don’t forget who you are.
“Thank you for helping me.” My voice is stripped, raw, unlike my own.
His smile radiates disgusting satisfaction. “That’s more like it. You are most welcome.”
My door is sealed with a child lock, so I have to wait for Christopher to come and let me out. Our three-story townhouse deep in Marylebone’s vast wealthiness looms ahead. I don’t feel even a speck of nostalgia at the place I’ve called home for so long.
The fine marble tiles, glittering chandeliers, and vases of fresh flowers fail to pierce my numbness. Now that’s familiar. The dissociative haze that tucked real Everleigh into a safe place for so many years is my home. I can hide there and pretend this place is a mere nightmare.
“Hungry?” Christopher croons, sickly sweet.
I shake my head, not daring to speak.
“Then let’s commence our remedial work.”
“R-Remedial work?”
Closing and locking the front door with a new, intricate security system that wasn’t there before, he casts a critical eye over me. The uncomfortable dress barely fits. It was bought for a half-starved ghost, I suppose.
“That hair for starters.” His lip curls in revulsion. “It has to go.”
“Christopher—”
“It’s okay, dear. Don’t worry, we’ll make it right.”
“But . . . my hair . . .”
“Are you getting worked up again?” He lays on the faux concern thick. “Do you need another pill?”
Gritting my teeth, I shake my head.
“Excellent. Let’s head to the bathroom.”
His arm wraps around me, a steely band that ensures I can’t run free. Even his touch makes me feel physically ill. I bite down hard enough on my tongue to draw blood, keeping the barrage of abuse inside that’ll surely undo the progress I’ve made.
He’ll leave me alone soon enough.
Then I’ll find a way to leave.
On the second floor, the smell of paint is overwhelming. The entire house has been freshened up, though it was impeccable anyway. Christopher never allowed anything less.
I don’t know what he’s hoping to achieve with this clean-slate initiative, but it feels even more dangerous than the way he’s half paid attention to me since our wedding day. Like he has no intention of ever letting me out of his sights again now he knows I have a mind of my own.
“I’ll have something appropriate designed for your wig.” He guides me into the guest bathroom. “Hopefully it will be ready before the summer fundraiser in a few weeks. Until then, you’re to remain in your room and out of sight.”
“Don’t cut my hair off,” I plead.
“Don’t start with this again, Everleigh. It’s for your own good.”
“But—”
“Enough,” he snaps. “I’m fixing your mess.”
Hopeless tears track down my cheeks as I’m made to sit on the edge of the sparkling claw-foot bathtub while he retrieves electric clippers and hand towels from the cupboard. The numb shield I’ve crafted isn’t working. Not like it used to.
Now I can feel the full onslaught this man has made it his mission to put me through. But rather than being beaten down by it, I’m internally seething, crying out for the chance to hurt him back and leave this godforsaken place behind.
“This will be easier if you strip off for me. I don’t want you ruining a perfectly good dress, though we will have to work on fitting you into it again.”
“Please no,” I whisper timidly.
“Now, Everleigh. Don’t make me ask twice.”
My knees knock together as I let him pull the back zipper, stiff folds of fabric slumping to fall from my chest. Christopher plugs in the clippers and removes the attachment to expose blades that will allow a close cut to the scalp.
Letting the dress fall reveals my underwear and hosiery. It’s humiliating to strip off in front of him. Rageful curtains lash my cheeks, more anger than fear. The timid version of me lost her terror somewhere in the mountains and came back fucking furious.
He has no right to do this to me.
I am not his doll.
Scanning the bathroom for anything I can use as a weapon, I frantically search for an out. This one is kept stocked with bare essentials. Nothing personal. Short of snatching the clippers and slitting his throat with blunt safety blades, I’m fresh out of options.
“I need you to remain still,” he orders, examining the machine. “No funny business or this won’t be pleasant for either of us.”
Nodding obediently, I unzip and remove the leather boots, ensuring the phone is safely stowed out of sight. They join the folded dress on a bureau beside unused toiletries. Focusing on that phone offers me a sliver of calm.
I have him.
I can survive this.
He will pay.
But when Christopher turns to face me, a towel slung over his shoulder, he stops dead. I’m perched on the bath’s edge, ordering my lungs to inflate instead of falling into panic. His expression shifts from surprise to dark, thunderous anger so fast it’s dizzying.
“What the hell is that?”
I stare at him through rounded eyes. “What?”
“Your fucking arm, Everleigh!”
Smashing the clippers onto the floor, he painfully seizes my arm. I cry out at his roughness, but it’s too late to hide the new tattoo from him. It’s healed well above my inner elbow.
“Is this real?” His tone beckons the apocalypse.
“I . . . I . . .”
“You stained this skin with permanent ink?”
My tongue seizes up, unable to form words.
“I can’t believe you would do this to yourself.”
“Christopher . . .”
“You disobedient whore!”
Dropping my arm like it’s an infected limb that could pass a disease on to him, he tips his head up, searching for something. I doubt it’s patience. When those near-black eyes land back on me, there’s little warning ahead of the strike that wrenches my head to the side.
“Who are you?” he erupts in volcanic outrage.
Another slap and I slump onto the bathroom tiles, the barely eased ache in my skull reigniting. More pain blossoms in my midsection where Christopher boots me in the ribs, prompting me to curl inwards.
“Eden,” I cough out, breathless.
“No! You are Mrs. Everleigh Banks!”
His booted foot connects with my chest, wrenching the air from my lungs as bones creak under the pressure. I splutter through sobs, trying to shield myself as best as possible from his attack.
“How dare you? You’re mine! And you’ve ruined everything!”
“I d-don’t need you!” I scream through pants.
“You’re nothing without me! Nothing!”
A strike to the head causes ink-blots to spread across my vision, emanating from the tender swell gained in the accident. Spreadeagled across the tiles, I float for a moment, dipping in and out.
Don’t give up on me now, Eden.
One, two, three, four.
Startling back into the room offers me a hazy view of Christopher returning. I didn’t see him leave before I blacked out. He lays a medical kit from his private stash out on the bathroom counter, flipping it open to peruse his supplies.
“Look at you.” I laugh around choking blood, spilling from where I’ve bitten my tongue. “Pathetic.”
His fingers twitch, trembling with anger or anticipation. “You did this.”
“Lived? You’re right. I did.”
“You’ve defiled yourself! After all I’ve done to perfect you!”
“You tortured me.” My neck twists so I can hawk crimson onto the tiles. “I fucking hate you.”