Chapter 18
Wild Rose
Chasing the Darkness
Wilde once spoke of life with a clarity that pierces the soul. To live is the rarest thing in the world, for most merely exist. How those words resonate in my chest, a truth so potent it presses against me, like air I can scarcely inhale. The essence of joy, the unique radiance that once defined life, has long since vanished, like a star doused in the endless night. And in the wake of its absence, what remains is not light, but a flickering ember of desperation, a misguided hope clinging to the hollowed-out remnants of a once vibrant past. The purity, once so vivid, has withered, leaving only a cold emptiness and the gnawing hunger to uncover a treachery that stays in the shadows, stalking me through the darkened hours.
I made a promise to myself, a whispered vow set in stone, one that now weighs upon me like a burden too great to bear. I have walked a path that will surely lead me into the embrace of death’s cold, inevitable hand if I continue to dig the grave of my own making. Swallowed whole by misplaced pessimism, I tell myself in the quiet moments, that Mama will wake up, that somehow, against all odds, she will rise from the edge of this chasm. But how can I deny the relentless certainty of medicine, the quiet finality in the words of those who wield science like a sword? A mantra they chant, a refrain so steady, yet one that my mind struggles to accept, refusing to believe that miracles—truly, wondrous miracles—are mere fables, empty stories we tell ourselves to fend off despair. But surely, miracles are not myths… right?
Some days, it feels as though I am sinking beneath the weight of an invisible ocean, drowning not in water but in a suffocating stillness that presses in from all sides. The ache of dissociation seeps through me, like a poison growing from the deepest recesses of my mind. It slithers outward, coiling itself around my thoughts, its venom leaving a trail of darkness in its wake. It blurs the line between what is real and what is a mirage,what is truth and what is lie, until the boundaries turn into nothingness. My mind becomes a hollow shell, empty, silent, save for the relentless hum of a noise I can neither name nor escape, pulling me further into a void where nothing matters, nothing exists, but the pull of my own fading consciousness.
It is as though my very soul has been stained, a crimson tide that seeps through my veins, dripping from my fingers as if it were blood, not of life but of death. I can taste it, its metallic bitterness, burning, as though it’s etched itself into my very being. A scent so pungent, so overwhelming, that it clings to the air, choking me. It is a sickness, a storm that surges through me with a violence I cannot contain. Its winds are rough, shrieking through my thoughts and leaving my body frozen, rigid, as though the very marrow of my bones has turned to ice.
My mind, once a sanctuary, now stands as a citadel of sorrow, a hollow place where melancholy reigns unchecked. It is a beautiful citadel, in the fleeting moments when happiness finds its way in, when the shadows of despair momentarily lift, and the world is bathed in a soft, golden light. But those moments are few, and the burden of endless months spent in grief drapes over me like an iron cloak, crushing, hurting. How is it that joy and sorrow have become so intertwined, so inseparable, that to separate them would be like trying to part the sky from the sea? How is it that I cannot speak of the emotions that fill my chest, emotions so vast they cannot be named, yet they consume me entirely?
Still, I long for something, anything, that might heal this brokenness, though even the word ‘healing’ feels foreign and distant, like a stranger knocking at my door, offering solace that I can never quite reach. I long to stitch together the tattered remnants of my heart, to mend the jagged, raw edges that have been torn apart by grief’s insidious thievery. You might think it is the physical pain that pierces the deepest, but no, it’s the merciless sting of words, words that wound with a cruelty so profound, they could make angels weep. The lash of his tongue, so venomous, so vile, that even the devil might shudder. For months I have borne the brunt of his malice, each word a knife driven deeper, leaving invisible scars that will never fade.
Yet, still, I endure. Still, I breathe. Still, I live. Or at least, I wait, wondering if living is the same as existing. Wondering if, perhaps, both are one and the same.
“You are not deserving of anything. ”
“You’re worth nothing, just like that worthless sister of mine.”
“You’re as useless as you are worthless.”
He might have been inebriated, but you know what they say, drunken truths are the realest thoughts of a person. His words have burned themselves into my skin, like poison seeping through my pores and leaving a miasma. I might have survived that car accident, but I lost a part of myself that day.
Metal is strong, but under terrible endurance even it can deteriorate and rot.
I should have left, but I could not.
The car comes to a jarring stop, yanking me from my thoughts. I’ve arrived.
“Welcome Miss Fontaine” the door is pulled open and I step out of the car, dusting phantom lint off my pencil skirt. “Hello Oscar.”
The picture square estate is just, if not more, mesmeric during the day than at night. The sun is beaming, a deceit to the slight hint of chill that is beginning to whisk us into wintry nights.
“It’s a pleasure to have you here Miss —”
“Odessa, please.”
“Odessa, it is a pleasure to have you back at the estate. Mr Moretti shall join you shortly but until then Mariah shall see to it you are settled and well acquainted with the house staff,” his words sound kind yet his eyes are doused. He steps aside and behind him stands a poised, petite woman who offers me a warm smile.
“Shall we?” She pushes open the double doors, and the scent of old money and sterile cleanliness clings to the air like a thick veil. My pointy heels click sharply against the marble tiles, the sound echoing off the walls, making my presence known. But it’s a lie, a facade that falters, because his eyes—scolding and relentless—sear into me. They trail my flesh with a burning desperation, bruising me without a single word. My body bends, yielding to his unspoken demand, a submission not born of request, but of force. He hasn’t graced my eyes yet, but his oppressive presence wraps around me, a crushing force l feel around me.
I nod.
I’m introduced to the staff, and even when I painfully blur away his aggravating lurking manner of a taunting ghost, I find my sights wandering away from outstretched limbs and greeting eyes. It’s like a growing fire. The more wood you add, the less you can tame it, and so is this feeling flourishing in the pits of my gut.
It’s such a pity to be a puppet with no strings attached. To want to break your will to pleasure another, yet in doing so, I feel my own kind of ecstasy. A spark fueled by a reckless and vicious addiction. Sebastian wouldn’t have to lift a finger and I’m certain I would fall to my knees and crawl to him.
It’s such a pity to crave the rage of a thousand furious women. To watch my dignity sink down a drain all because of a man. Even with thorns coiled around my neck, thirsting for my blood, I strut with grace, yet when night falls, I spread my legs for him, and god does he relish in my vulnerability.
It’s such a pity to desire his madly sins when I’m not a saint myself. To beg for a mercy we both know he can not offer and to watch him worship me on his altar like the only god he’ll ever pray to.
From the grounds to the interior, Mariah doesn’t miss a beat. The estate is like a maze that could house an entire football team, if not two. And just the amount of gold and marble coating the walls tell just how filthy the Moretti’s wealth is. Towering columns, sweeping staircases and numerous balconies overlooking a vast forestry make up half of this grande intricate architecture. Its elegant chandeliers and ornate furnishings exude sophistication, a clear contrast to the pig stain I was living in.
I almost feel like royalty with the majesty and splendor caging me. From the gardens outside to the luxurious interior, this place puts to shame the House of Windsor.
“Your feet must be in dire need of warm water.” We reach another set of double doors that she pushes open “I had my staff run you a bath.”
The room feels light and spacious, centered around a grand canopy bed beneath towering epoch windows. A glass door leads to a private balcony, inviting the outside in. Cream and dark magenta wall patterns complement the white rug and small plush couches scattered about, while a few carefully chosen furnishings add warmth to the space. Oil paintings grace the walls, granting the room with a touch of Victorian elegance.
“If you need anything, please do let me know. Lunch will be ready in a few, would your perhaps like to eat in the garden or the –”
“The garden sounds delightful, thank you.”
“Might you have something of preference for your meal?”
“Surprise me.”
“Wonderful, if you may excuse me.”
The sound of closing doors is music to my ears. While the grand tour had offered a fleeting escape, I would have much preferred to explore in my own time. I slip out of my heels, my feet dragging toward the open archway that leads into a closet and bathroom. True to promise, the bathtub is filled with warm, bubbling water, delicate petals floating atop it. Yet, it’s the closet that catches my attention, an opulent display of clothes, shoes, and accessories, each piece more glamorous than the last.
Talk about wealth and etiquette.
With each step, I pop a button on my blouse until the silk falls to the floor, followed by my skirt. In nothing but my sheer lace, I stand before the display of diamonds, neatly arranged under a glass dome. Temptation is the devil’s vice and honey. Nothing comes between a woman and her gems. I slide open the crystal box and lift a ruby necklace from its resting place. This must have cost a soul. The diamonds catch the light, shimmering like a star. I carefully remove Papa’s chain from around my neck, the cold metal lingering on my skin for just a moment before I replace it with the ruby necklace. The warmth of the jewels stands in stark contrast to the emptiness left by my chain, the one I’ve always kept hidden from Callum’s insatiable greed. It’s the only piece of my father I have left, and I won’t let it fall into the hands of those who would take it without a second thought. With a sigh, I clasp the necklace, its deep rubies gleaming against my skin, their allure impossible to ignore.
Once upon a time, l knew what wealth tasted like. Before Callum stole it all.
As I turn toward the mirror, the absence of Papa’s chain settles in my chest like a heavy truth. The emptiness around my neck pulls at my heart, but I quickly push the feeling aside. Papa’s memory, though precious, always stings. The ruby necklace, however, is a symbol of something more, a quiet rebellion against the nightmares that seek to claim what’s mine. Against Sebastain.
For a moment, I stand there, admiring myself. The dark gleam of the jewelry flickers under the light, teasing and tempting. I trace my fingers along its smooth surface before stepping away from the mirror and sinking into the warmth of the tub. The water surrounds me, soothing the burn of my thoughts. It feels as though the heat could erase everything—the scars, the memories, the torment. I close my eyes, allowing the warmth to seep into my bones, wishing I could stay here forever, suspended in comfort.
But hunger gnaws at me, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since last night. Reluctantly, I slip out of the water, the heat already beginning to fade as I change into a soft satin dress that clings to my body. The fabric is a fleeting escape from the harsh reality waiting outside these walls. I slip into heels, my steps light but purposeful, as I make my way to the gardens, where the cool air brushes against my skin.
I make a few wrong turns, but with no one around to witness my lack of coordination, the liveliness in my stride only fades when I meet his eyes the moment I step outside. It’s as if the flame of my confidence is snuffed out all at once, its warmth slipping away under the heat of his gaze. I hesitate, caught in the intensity of his stare, and a smirk slowly tugs at the corners of his lips. It’s a quiet victory that cuts through me, both bitter and oddly satisfying. His pleasure in my discomfort bites, but there’s something in it that makes me feel alive in the most painful way.
I close the distance between us, each step weighed down by an unspoken tension that clings to the air. He may pretend to play the part of a gentleman, but the gesture is hollow. Without a word, he pulls my chair out for me, and I take my seat. The act feels so familiar, like a ritual we’ve performed countless times before, one that never truly changes, no matter how much we try to deny it.
“Thank you. ”
The garden stretches wide and open, its gentle slope leading down to a river, its waters shimmering with a cosmic-blue hue. A cluster of cypress pines stands tall beside us, while on the other side, a thicket of serene beeches forms a quiet barrier. Trees weave through the center of the garden, their branches casting a labyrinth of clawed shadows across the grass. The sun spills its golden glow over everything, lending the scene an almost ethereal quality.
Before me, a bowl of white bean basil soup and a Caesar salad are placed by one of his staff, though the table is already scattered with wine, bread, and cheese—an array of indulgence.
“Red paints you devastatingly well.”
“Is it your favorite color?” My finger brushes over the rubies. Eyes resembling a sea stare at me intensely, I almost want to cower to them as he reaches out for the wine bottle and pours the ironically cardinal liquid into my champagne glass.
“You may sing like a bird, Wild Rose. I know you have words hanging on your tongue.” He sits the bottle down.
“Maybe I prefer my silence to speak for me.” I grab the glass and sip the wine, its bitter sweetness runs down my throat effortlessly.
“I’ve been good, Odessa. Do not let me break that pattern too quickly, it would be such a shame.”
I would love to know what this man does when he is not being good.
“I want the cameras in my bedroom removed.”
At first, I hadn’t puzzled the grating feeling that marred a trail of goosebumps on my skin until I found a diminutive dot in one of the bathroom vases. It was a clown ask on my part, to be prudish over a few cameras but willingly leave my door open for him to watch me at night. But I want what I want, and an explanation is not worth either of our time.
“Demanding, are you?” he leans back into his seat, and I glimpse the silver chain peeking from the two popped buttons on his charcoal shirt.
“I’m simply shuffling the same deck of cards you play me.”
The way the stupid material clings to his muscled arms makes me want to stare hard, maybe even take a picture. It lasts longer. His cold azure eyes cause chaos to bloom in my blood, muddling my thoughts and holding me hostage to his ploy.
“That almost sounds like an insinuation that I’ve made you a witness to the tricks and taunts I’m holding to my chest.” His lips stretch into a devious smile.
“This is not supposed to be a gilded cage, Sebastian.”
“If not a cage, then what Odessa?” he drawls.
“It’s an agreement, and you’re my bo?—”
“No, Wild Rose , this is not business. Not when we know what keeps us awake at night, and no, I much prefer a choker than a cage. That way I can always drag you back to me, when you are off wandering in the woods.”
He couldn’t have possibly been the one watching us that night, could he?
This thing between us feels like needles dipped in substance, tearing into my skin. On one hand, I could preach about how I should not have carelessly opened the door to let this fiend in. While on the other, I could put blame on how tortured strays can find one another even blind.
He was meant to be part of a hint to the mystery, but it all went down the drain when my morals flew out the window in search for his lack of. I let this man into corners of my life where he never should have been.
“Glass, it’s fragile, but when broken, the shreds seek nothing but blood to smear it. So I suggest you wrap that chain tighter.”
The inevitable is lucid, the peril is present, and the fear only trickles further down my spine. Yet I keep walking, even when the metaphorical ice creaks under my feet, even when I know that not all questions should have answers, including the gut-wrenching ones. Closure doesn’t always come in the shape of broken truths, but in realizing that you won’t always understand it all, that sometimes it’s okay to stay in the dark. Yet how come I can not make sense of my own healing.
“Should I feel threatened?”
“No, you should heed my promise, because the more you bare those teeth at me, the more I’ll itch to pull at them.”
Our eyes stare unrelenting, and as the silence grows, I see the viciousness swirling behind his orbs. He is a man covered in sin, yet I know he would taste as sweet as heaven, because no matter how much I search for the angel he once was, it’s the devil dressed in silk I keep coming across.
I’m made of the same ashes I will be once I die, and because I’m nothing less of bones and flesh, so I beg to wonder. What if this brute of a man can crawl into my most ruined parts of me and kiss them to life. What if he could do the most hauntingly precious thing and know what love is.
“Death and poetry are entwined limbs Wild Rose , and while you’re as gracious as you are ethereal, you’re just as vulgar and eruptive as my most perverted thoughts, because pretty eyes hold the darkest nightmares just as poetry praises death, and death worships poetry.”