36. Juliet
JULIET
I lose track of the days that pass trapped in the walls of Morpheus’ house. I wake, I eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner under the careful watch of Morpheus and his unfamiliar staff. I stare at the walls of my room, contemplating killing the man holding me here, then I go back to sleep.
School isn’t a freedom, especially not when I’m constantly monitored within the prison-like walls of the Calloway estate.
Any possibility of seeing the guys even in passing disappears like smoke and hope since Morpheus follows through on his previous threat and has me switched to online classes.
When I’m not in Morpheus’ presence—forced there by the insistent knocking of one of the maids on my bedroom door—it’s Stuart who follows me about.
Even before I was blackmailed back into this house, he never liked me, and the feeling is mutual.
His lips are so far up Morpheus’ ass as he tries to kiss it that I’m sure his breath smells like shit.
The pompous ass somehow manages to maintain his professionalism when Morpheus is in the room, but the second he’s gone, all bets are off.
“You should count yourself lucky that Mr. Calloway is so generous,” Stuart snipes at me as I sit, back rigid, on one of the couches of Morpheus’ home office—here by his ‘request’.
“So fucking lucky,” I say with a roll of my eyes, the sarcasm rolling off my tongue as easily as breathing.
Stuart’s eyes narrow on me and then scan down my attire.
The first day when I’d refused to wear the clothes that had been purchased for me, he’d been oh-so happy to tattle to Morpheus.
My own personal jailer had pleasantly informed me of all of the things that could go wrong for Nolan’s mother or Gio’s or Lex’s aunt in the event that I be less than well-behaved with him.
Clothes hadn’t seemed like a worthy rebellion anymore and my old ones had been taken, never to be seen again.
Today, I’m dressed in a soft white silk shirt that buttons down the front, tucked into a pair of black Ralph Lauren pants with a flared base. At least Stuart can’t complain because he knows it’s an outfit Morpheus would like. Other than my hair, I don’t look or feel like myself anymore.
Ignoring Stuart’s nasty eye, I turn my attention to the rows of bookshelves across from me. I scan the titles, moving over the books on law and literature and into psychology and accounting. Like my father, Morpheus is well studied—curious about almost everything.
When I was a child, his fount of knowledge had seemed endless. I’d loved asking the most random of questions to see what answer he’d have for me next. Now, the sound of his voice is worse than nails on a chalkboard.
Stuart’s quiet huff as he marches across the room to the desk that Morpheus had left less than a half hour before due to a call in another room pulls me from my thoughts. I turn my head, watching him shift papers around and stack them together in neat little piles.
“Utterly ungrateful… Don’t know why he bothers… Ridiculously spoiled…” he mutters to himself, each insult flowing over me like water.
I don’t really give a shit what he thinks.
One thing has become clear to me in the days since I was forced back into this house—every single one of Morpheus’ employees is entirely devoted to him.
To them, he’s a savior—offering his home and good salaries to those who might otherwise have been taken advantage of by worse employers.
No doubt attempting to turn them against him will result in more chains. Invisible though they are, I can feel them on my skin—wrapping around my wrists and ankles, anchoring me to this place. Unable to stand sulking in this place anymore, I stand abruptly and turn towards the exit.
“Where are you going?” Stuart sounds outraged.
I grit my teeth and shoot him a dark look over my shoulder. “None of your fucking business,” I snap.
He gasps, his face a mockery of surprise by my tone. I roll my eyes and keep marching towards the door. The sound of his shoes moving across the hardwood echoes after me.
“Mr. Calloway requested that you remain here until he’s done with his call!” Stuart yells out after me.
My hand closes around the door handle and I twist, shoving it open, and collide face first with the man I most want to avoid. Morpheus releases a grunt of surprise and then stops me with a hand on either of my shoulders.
“What’s the rush, darling?” he asks, tipping his head to the side as he gazes down at me.
“Don’t.” I slap his hands away and sidestep him. “Don’t fucking act like you give a shit.”
Morpheus’ face tightens, but he doesn’t yell or curse at my disrespect. No, he’s far too composed for a bout of anger or a loss of control. Instead, he lowers his hands from my shoulders to my biceps and squeezes until I wince. Then, he lifts his head to address his assistant.
“Will you please have the car brought around?” he says. “I have a rather urgent matter to attend to in the office and would like a quiet word alone with my niece before I leave.”
“O-of course, sir.” Stuart practically trips over his own two feet as he rushes from the room, scooting around us to disappear into the hallway.
My throat closes as Morpheus nudges me farther into the room and then the door is shutting behind him and I’m alone with him. Heartbeat a rabid beast, snarling and possessed by something rage-induced and terrified, I rip myself free from his hold and back up several steps.
“I thought you understood what behaving meant, Juliet.” Morpheus’ words are calm, rational, but no less threatening. “A lady does not curse nor does she slap her benefactor’s hands away.”
“Benefactor?” I choke on a laugh. He can’t be serious. “You’re my blackmailer, Morpheus. Nothing more. I don’t like you and I don’t trust you. I know what you fucking did to me?—”
“I did nothing you didn’t want me to.”
“I was drunk!” I snap. “I didn’t even know what was happening!”
Standing between me and the door—the exit I crave to take—Morpheus lifts his wrists and adjusts his cuff links while staring me down with his cool gaze. He takes a step towards me and before I even realize what I’m doing, I take a step back—retreating. My insides churn.
“I will not warn you again, Juliet.” Morpheus’ tone is careful, not eliciting a single sign of upset.
Quiet, calculated fury is worse than obvious rage.
It’s sinister, evil, and easy to overlook until it’s too late.
“You will maintain the act so long as you’re living under my roof.
You will be polite and respectful. You will be the perfect lady under my care. ”
“How long?”
Morpheus tilts his head. “Excuse me?”
“How long will that be?” I ask. “How long do you expect me to be under your roof?”
His lips turn down at the corners, but he answers me anyway. “Until you understand that this is where you belong.”
“I don’t belong to you. I will never belong to you.” Nails sink into my palms, stabbing sharply as I curl my fingers into fists.
Morpheus leaves the closed doorway behind and marches towards me. My muscles contract, but this time I manage to keep myself still as he approaches. I become a statue as he stops in front of me and lifts a hand to trail a single finger over my cheek.
“You have always belonged to me, Pretty Girl.”
Inside, there’s an old scream—one that’s been going for so long that the inner voice is hoarse and quiet with the strength of it.
Years, I’ve been screaming. Years, I’ve been bleeding and no one ever sees it.
The damage of a man in power who thinks he can have, that he can take, anything he wants is a cruel thing.
Sometimes, it’s invisible. Sometimes, it never stops.
Still, I scream and I scream and no one ever hears.
LEX
Good men do not kill.
Good men do not harm.
Good men do not obsess over a woman to the extent that the idea of being abandoned by her leaves them an aching mass of flesh and rage.
I have never been a good man.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Another message from Nolan to meet. He’s got information, but what information can fix the hollow void left in my chest now? I ignore the message in favor of fixing my attention on my target.
The front door to the house opens and Morpheus Calloway steps out, adjusting the front lapels of his suit as he moves towards the waiting sedan that pulled around just five minutes earlier.
He doesn’t look up, he doesn’t look back.
He simply gets into the back seat of the car when the skinny little nerd that dashes out with him hurriedly jerks forward to open and close the door behind him.
Juliet is in that house now. She left us for this place with its white walls and pristine windows and the landscape that hides it from the road’s view. The cavity where my heart thumps, slow and deadened, aches.
I was getting better with her. Now, I’m right back in the pit that formed thirteen years ago.
“Alexio! Where the fuck is that little shit?”
“S-Sancho?” Mom’s voice is much quieter than Dad’s, shaky and scared, but I hear her over his roaring.
“Where the fuck is he?” Dad demands. “Some little bitch in his class has been saying things about him.”
Jules. He has to mean Jules. Despite how much my limbs tremble as I scoot farther back into the small cupboard beneath the kitchen sink to hide from his rage, another part of me that feels more like him than anything else is viciously angry.
How dare he call Jules a bitch? I don’t know exactly what that word means, but I do know that when he calls Mom a bitch, she doesn’t like it. So that must mean it’s an insult.
My hands curl into fists and I press them into my legs to stop myself from jumping out of my hiding spot and attacking him as I hear both him and Mom get closer.