Chapter 14
Wild Rose
Echoes in the Hollow Night
“Blasphemy.” Naseria scowls.
“Right, because this must be an act regarding God,” Miro gives her a blank stare.
“Shut up,” she huffs and tucks her hands in her sweater.
I do not quite believe Sebastian has a bone in him that’s saintly. His eyes are the gates to his silent words. They say speak less and your enemies will know little, but it’s not in his unsaid truths we should search for who he is, but in his eyes.
But perhaps it’s not so innocent on my part to cast judgment on a person when I’m no better.
Oceans with depths of the unknown, a true enigma. I do not believe you know a person after a few shared words, though some might say otherwise. But with Sebastian, it was different. It was as if I saw so much of him yet nothing at once. Like I knew him from a past life, yet I do not believe in that .
I spent the night rethinking our exchange, with our conversation engraved on my mind. His scent, his eyes, his voice — all of it — never allowed me to find rest until the sun rose.
“I probably shouldn’t.”
I’m perched up on one of Naseria’s bean bags, staring at the hung emerald dress. I did not expect to find a well-dressed man at my door holding a package intended for me from Sebastian.
But I was not shocked, although the revelation of it did scare me some.
“I could not disagree more, Odessa!”
“Billow your chest a little more and your resemblance to an ape will be striking,” I poke at her.
“I’m offended,” she playfully gasps.
The dress is a gorgeous velvety material with a beaded corset and sleeves. A true match to the heels it came with. I suppose I stare at the dress a little too long because Miro then throws a pillow at me to garner my attention.
“This was not part of — just do not Essa.” I can see the glint of concern in his eyes.
“Should I list all the reasons she should go?”
“You’re a headache . Should I list the reasons she should not go?” he challenges.
“Miro I am this close to giving you a black eye,” she grits.
I know they both mean well. Miro prefers to keep to plan– it’s safer and we need safe after everything that has happened, but Naseria is — she’s grasping at straws. I see her tethering the line of composure and snapping. That night hasn’t quite left my thoughts, and with each turn I make, I see naked bodies and slit throats.
And as everyday passes, I feel her slipping away. I feel all of us slipping.
“His demands are nothing less than what others would demand —”
“He demands you stay under the same roof with him,” Miro cuts me off.
We read through the file the moment I walked in, my words still heavy from what had just transpired. I told them everything—every detail of the encounter, the strange pull I felt, the undeniable unease that lingers in the air. And once the shock of it had faded, we all shared our thoughts on the matter, each opinion settling into place like pieces of a dark puzzle.
It felt almost like a twisted version of sponsorship, but not the kind you’d find in an AA meeting—no, this was far different. This was ballet sponsorship, where the stakes were as high as the demands.
Sebastian would be the one to foot the bill, to support me financially, as long as I danced for him. In the unspoken terms of it all, I would become his creation, something to be molded, while my very existence would feed his ego, his desires.
The contract itself was simple—on paper. But nothing about this arrangement, this strange dance of power and control, felt simple. Far from it.
“It’s not unheard of, Miro. Many ballerinas stay in the same —” she pauses “—that’s, however, not the point, is it?” She sucks in a breath “I want you safe and if this is all too much you do not have to”
But I do, for reasons past this whole facade. At another time I would have welcomed such an opportunity, but surely the tables have turned.
“I’ll be fine, and I want to do this,” I lie, my words slipping from my mouth with ease, but not without the bitter taste of deception hanging at the back of my throat.
Miro needed more convincing, but after some time, he merely shrugged, as if the weight of his doubts had been pushed aside for now, though tension was still in the room.
A rope perhaps to pull at if I ever strayed too far, but Sebastian was offering me money too. And while the money would help tremendously in getting mama and us away from Callum, something about this agreement felt dirty and dusted.
Dirty because his way of persuading me was working, sadly. And dusted because oddly it felt old. Like a thought he had been replenishing in his mind until it became fruitful.
I question whether staying with Callum might just be better than staying with Sebastian. It is mind tearing, being stuck between making a decision that feels either like a ticket to my freedom or a road to a gilded cage. Pretty on the outside and damning on the inside.
A storm of emotions crashes through me, a swirl of indecision pulling at my thoughts like a tidal wave. I’m adrift, uncertain, as if the ground beneath me has shifted into something unfamiliar. My heart aches, an emptiness settling in my chest, because Mama, she always knew. She was the one who had the answers, who could guide me through the mess with a calm certainty. Now, without her, I’m left fumbling in the dark, searching for direction in a world that feels suddenly too big, too overwhelming.
The feeling is almost strangling, a relentless chokehold that tightens around my chest, each breath harder to draw than the last. It clings to me, suffocating and pressing against my ribs like a weight I can’t shake off. The air feels thick, as if the very atmosphere is closing in, and every movement seems heavier, every thought slower. It’s a weight of loss, of confusion, a constant reminder of something I can’t undo, something I can’t escape.. Maybe he was right, I am seeking attention and the wrong kind at that.
A few weeks back, I found myself at a graveyard. It started off with jumping over a fence and into grounds I had no business being. My thoughts had been in a haze after the cruelty my body had succumbed to from Callum. He was drunk and I was helpless. At first he sought out reasons to hit me, but now he just does it when he feels like it.
The rain was gracious in covering the blemishes and allowing me to bask in its merciless torment. His presence should have spooked me, but it did not. That same feeling of being watched came back, but instead of running to the nearest police station, I opened up to the obscurity of my actions.
I knew he was there, cloaked in the light’s shadows, hidden in the darkness of my room, surrounding me. Yet when Callum put his hands on me, I never felt him, but somehow I hoped he had been there.
Like he had been behind that glass. I finally put a face to the voice that had been needling my days. And oh, how beautiful that face is, how taunting his eyes are. Now I’m to dine with him, this stranger, that is not so much a stranger. I’m to walk in the dress he sent me and agree to his demands, for the sake of us and for the sake of my mother.
But then again, there is not an ocean I wouldn’t cross for the woman that birthed me.
* * *
The car was a shiny black color, with tinted windows and driven by a man in a suit. I barely remember his voice, the same way I no longer recall our drive other than the trees and fog that obscured our journey. However, what hasn’t been lost on me is the way my eyes grew to saucers when we entered the iron-fashioned gates to his home.
To call it a mansion feels almost laughable, a mere whisper in the shadow of its true grandeur. It towers, almost defiant, with stone walls in deep burnt red, their edges softened by the passage of time, as if they’ve weathered centuries of secrets. Ceramic carvings, intricate and delicate, adorn every arch, every column, telling stories from eras long forgotten. The windows, draped in heavy curtains, stretch high and wide, framing sweeping views of balconies that seem to hover over the world below. At the center of it all, a grand water fountain spills its endless streams into a basin, the sound of cascading water echoing through the air, as if the house itself is breathing, alive with its own mystique.
The lights cast a soft glow over the sprawling estate, their warm embrace making the rose vines climb higher, their petals glowing like soft embers against the stone. The walls seemed alive with nature’s tendrils, twisting around them like whispered secrets. A grand staircase, carved from dark wood, spirals upward to two imposing doors, their intricate patterns reflecting an artistry that felt both ancient and new. As the doors creaked open, Oscar emerged, his presence as unwavering and composed as it had been when we first met. His calm exterior was unbroken, an unreadable mask that only made the tension in the air thicker.
My heels click against the rock-strewn staircase as I walk into the place Sebastian lays his head every night. My gaze drifts back to the car, now receding into the distance, and I let out a quiet breath.
“Miss Fontaine, l hope the ride was to your liking? ”
“It was, and Odessa is just fine,” I reply, my voice softer, a delicate edge of calmness beneath the undertones of something unspoken.
“Wonderful. Shall we?” Oscar’s voice is steady, almost detached, yet with an inviting quality that could only be there to guide me deeper into the heart of this opulent labyrinth.
As I step over the threshold, the foyer takes my breath away. Above me, a grand crystal chandelier hangs like a jewel from the heavens, its facets scattering the light into a thousand prismatic reflections. The tiles beneath my feet are masterfully crafted, each one telling its own silent story through intricate patterns. The walls, covered in glaucous olive wallpaper, seem to hold the weight of time itself. Paintings, lavish and indulgent, line the halls, capturing moments so rich and deep that they seem to pulse with a life of their own. Some were old, others more contemporary, but all of them felt undeniably expensive.
A sweeping staircase curls upwards, its steps like a path leading to another world. To the right, an opening reveals a sitting area, lush with plush fabrics and sumptuous cushions. Yet, I find my attention drawn to the objects scattered around, like pieces of a living history.
Oscar leads me into the living room, his back straight, his purpose unwavering. As he walks away, I remain still for a moment, allowing the room to consume me. The heavy, marble fireplace stands as the room’s centerpiece, its mantle bearing the weight of time and a selection of finely curated artworks. Oil canvases hang on the walls, each brushstroke exuding power and precision. The air smells of age and wealth, of things that have seen generations pass by.
This room, modern in shape yet tinged with a cultured past, mixes the sleek and the ancient. The orange and black furniture speaks of a bold yet nostalgic era, while the surrounding artifacts tell tales of their own, tales woven through history, mystery, and influence.
Then, my eyes catch a glimpse of something on the far wall, a towering bookcase, overflowing with stories bound in time. The worn spines, marked by the tender touch of someone who has devoured their contents, call to me. Drawn to it, I move closer, my fingers brushing over a particular book with a rich purple spine and gold lettering that seems almost to glow in the muted light. It feels like I’m tracing a forgotten chapter, a secret that’s just beyond my grasp.
“Apate.” His voice slices through the quiet, sharp enough to make me freeze. I turn, startled, to find him standing there in black slacks and a black shirt with a few buttons undone, adding to his effortless charm. His hair is swept back into a neat bun, the shape of his face made even more captivating by it. And those eyes, icy blue, so pale they might swallow the world whole. A dark pull catches at my chest, a temptation to drown in the abyss of his gaze, to lose myself in it and never surface again.
His eyes skim over my dress, hungry and appreciative, as though they could devour every inch of me. The fabric clings to my curves, every movement accentuated, every contour embraced. I suddenly feel seen, in a way I never have before, the dress and the light makeup making me feel beautiful. A sensation that has long evaded me, one I thought I’d forgotten.
“The goddess of deceit and fraud, whose companion was pseudology. She was one of the evil spirits released from Pandora’s box. A master of illusions and trickery. And she had a hand in the death of a mortal.”
The story is engrossing and familiar. Haven is filled with so many mythical tales written on the walls, I find myself reading through as my escape from reality at times.
“You look like a goddess, Odessa. Devastatingly beautiful.”
My heart falters, and the room seems to shrink around us. His eyes gleam with something unreadable as he closes the distance, until I can feel the warmth of his body radiating, his presence commanding. Sandalwood and something more masculine, more primal, wraps around me like a cocoon, ensnaring my senses and holding me captive. I breathe in, drawn to him despite myself.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice soft, almost too soft. But there’s nothing else I can say, nothing that seems fitting. So, I let the silence fall between us, a tension that only builds with every passing second.
He tilts his head ever so slightly, a subtle movement that always shows his scrutiny. It’s as if he’s trying to peel me open, to sink beneath my skin and claim whatever it is that he finds buried within. His presence, heavy and all-encompassing, presses me back against the bookshelf. His chest is mere inches from mine, yet the space between us is charged, a tension that crackles in the air. No part of him touches me, yet the heat of his body seeps through, suffocating and intoxicating.
He may have called me a goddess, but in his proximity, I realize he is a god, unquestionable untouchable. His chiseled jawline cuts through the air, and his lips, full and inviting, seem to mock the very restraint I’m trying to hold onto. And those eyes, devious and predatory, remind me that no matter how much I try to mask it, he sees everything.
“Do I flame fear in your veins, Wild Rose?” His warm breath fans my face and a shiver cascades down my spine.
“Would you like me to be afraid?”
“Perhaps.”
He tilts my chin with a single finger, lifting my gaze to his. “Should you lie to me once more, then perhaps you should,” his thumb softly traces over my lips, smudging my red lipstick. The act is sensual and I detest how my legs shiver and how my body hums with the need for him to caress me more, to slip his finger into my mouth and force me to suck on it. The touch ignites something inside me, a tremor that spreads through my chest and coils in my stomach.
“Maybe you just do not deserve all my truths.”
“I do not deserve anything of you, darling , but I won’t demand any less.”
His words stir a tempest within me, each syllable pushing against the walls of my composure. The certainty in his voice, the unwavering belief in his power, only deepens the chaos in my mind, unraveling me further.
Curse him and his gorgeousness.
“The agreement, sir.” I try to break away the thickening tension between us before things turn scandalous.
I see the flames burning in his eyes, wrapped in something so dark. He doesn’t ask—he takes. Not of greed but of a power kings fight to garner. With his hand in mine, he guides us down the hallway, and once again, the surroundings capture my attention as a pirate is entranced by land. He is the treasure I long to possess, to keep hidden in the depths of my gaze, forever out of reach yet ever consuming.
He opens a door to what I assume is his office, a room filled with towering bookshelves that seem to stretch endlessly. With an effortless gesture, he pulls a chair out for me to sit, before moving across the room to take his own seat. I release the envelope I had been clutching tightly, placing it gently on the table. He opens it with calm precision, setting the stapled document on top, its contents now laid bare between us.
“Mr. Moretti –”
“Call me Sebastian.”
A lump lodges itself in my throat and the heat crawling up my neck is almost pathetic.
“ Sebastian , while most of the clauses look benevolent, a few do not.” My mind might have been a jumbled mess mere seconds ago but I refuse to blur the lines. Not when the uncertainty of my future is hanging on the edge of a crumbling cliff.
“There is no reason I should share the same roof with you, not when my time at Haven is coming to an end soon.” He listens and the slight twitch of his lips makes me ponder if he cares for what I have to say or maybe it’s amusement I am mistaking it for indifference.
“Is that all, Odessa?” He folds his arms onto the table and leans forward.
“I want a say in where and who I dance for. I want the acknowledgment that despite you being my boss, I am well deserving of everything you are offering me, and that you will not take advantage of my —”
“Oh, but there is nothing I would have you do, that you wouldn’t have asked for. Keeping you under the same roof is with the intent to invest in a liable manner, because you’re nothing but an investment.”
Investment. That sends a sort of strange feeling swarming through my body. One that I have no desire to put a name to.
“Not all eggs will hatch, I suppose, but I’m willing.”
After what feels like an hour of boardroom debate, I grab a pen and sign. The moment I drop the ink, our agreement feels cemented, and similar to that of selling your soul to the devil. I do not miss the spark in his eyes either, one that promises hell, because after all, the devil is in the details.
“Shall we? My staff have prepared us a meal.” He offers me his hand, and as we leave his office, the realization that this might be my next home leaves me queasy.
“Essa honey, always remember how the devil will invite you to his house. You will enter willingly, but never leave willfully.”