Chapter 6
Chapter six
Martine Lilian Huntington-Russell
The door slams behind us, locking me inside Hayden’s world.
I stumble forward as he finally sets me down, my body aching from the chase, the mud still drying against my skin in thick, flaking patches.
My breath is uneven, my pulse a wild, unsteady rhythm in my throat.
The estate is eerily silent, vast and perfect, as if untouched by time.
Only the soft hum of electricity and the steady ticking of a grandfather clock in the shadows beyond the foyer are the sounds in the room—aside from my heavy breathing.
Hayden stands before me, brushing dirt and mud from his sleeves from handling me as though I were an incredible inconvenience to him.
The chandelier overhead casts jagged shadows across his face, accentuating the merciless cut of his jaw and the hollow beneath his cheekbone.
He looks at me as if I am a burden, a mess to be cleaned up, a problem to be dealt with.
"You have a room upstairs," he says, voice rough. "You'll stay there until I say otherwise."
I swallow, forcing my shoulders back, even as I feel the weight of his gaze pinning me in place. "I don’t want a room upstairs, I want to leave."
A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, void of warmth. "That’s not an option."
I narrow my eyes. "So what’s the plan, then? Keep me locked up like some tragic and unwilling pet?"
His smirk widens. "But a pet obeys. You, on the other hand, don’t seem to be capable of proper behavior."
"Then the easiest solution seems to be to let me go."
He turns on his heel, ignoring my words entirely. When I don’t move, he glances over his shoulder, amusement flickering in his expression. "Don’t make me drag you to your room. You’d hate it, but I’d enjoy being rough with you."
The memory of being thrown over his shoulder, helpless and thrashing, is still too fresh.
My skin burns with humiliation as I force my feet to move, trailing behind him through endless corridors of marble and mahogany.
The air smells expensive, like leather-bound books and smoke.
It smells like him. And beneath it all, I am marred by the scent of my own filth, an ugly reminder that I do not belong here.
We reach a door. He pushes it open, revealing a bedroom that looks more like a luxury suite than a prison.
Sumptuous, elegant yet tinged with something that feels comfortingly sterile.
The walls, the bedding, the curtains, everything is cream, soft, untouched, a sharp contrast to the dark, rich wood and deep colors of the house I’d seen on the way here.
As if this room was meant to be something delicate, something pure.
It doesn't look, feel, or smell like Hayden. I’m not sure why, but I don't like that I can’t see touches of him—only me.
In the center of the room, a bowl of perfect green apples sits on display. Glossy, the most crisp shade of grass green, stacked to perfection as a mockery.
My stomach knots, and my breath catches in my throat. These are just like the apples from my apartment at Eulogia. Once an unanswered question, now glaringly obvious.
I turn to Hayden, rage curling in my gut. "It was you!"
He leans casually against the doorframe, regarding me with cool amusement. "Do you not like apples?"
"That’s not the point." My voice sharpens. "Someone left apples in my suite at Eulogia. And now here they are."
His gaze darkens, but his smirk remains. "Threatening apples. How unsettling for you."
I stare at him, waiting for an answer, and like a stone wall, he gives none.
My fingers tighten into fists. "It was obviously you."
He steps closer, slow, deliberate. "And if it were?"
Something about the way he says it makes my pulse stutter. He’s playing with me. Teasing and provoking to see how far I’ll push before I snap.
"Then I’d start wondering if you have a fetish for stalking."
He chuckles, low and rich.
A cold wave rushes through me. He doesn’t know. He can’t know.
Green apples. Most of the pages I’ve ever written about in my diary have been the brutal comparison of myself and that awfully beautiful fruit. Tart and wicked at their core, yet beautiful, glossy, and unassuming on the exterior. A contradiction, just like me.
My father always said I was a green apple.
Not ripe enough to be sweet, destined to rot from the inside out.
He used them against me, weaponized something I loved, and twisted it into proof of my own supposed shortcomings.
He claimed no one would ever want to take a bite unless they craved the sharp, sour taste of something truly awful.
Green apples were always a special reminder of my childhood horse, Cherry. I loved her so much, and every time I rode, I would give her sugar cubes and green apples.
I remember always having the sugar cubes in my pocket, sucking on them the entire ride like only a child does. And then at the end, for a job well done, Cherry and I would split a green apple.
Father found out somehow that this small joy meant something great to me, and instead of allowing his child the reprieve of sweet and sour treats with her horse, he weaponized it. I refused to let my father take something I loved away from me.
And now Hayden has placed them here, in a supposed space meant for me. The pain it causes, seeing a symbol of myself in the worst possible way, as the centerpiece, is so much more distressing than he can comprehend.
My breath comes short. I feel stripped bare, not in the way he wants, but in a deeper, far worse way.
"You read my diary," I accuse, my voice sharp as glass.
I don’t know how my gut has suddenly convinced me of this, but I feel he’s guilty of invading my privacy.
His smirk deepens. "I have better things to do than sit around and read the diary of an ungrateful little thing like you."
"Then how do you know?" My voice rises, venomous. "The apples. No one knows. Not a single person. You had to have read it."
He leans in, the air between us crackling. "Reading your diary would require me being interested in what goes on in your head."
I want to slap him. I want to scream. Instead, I force myself to stay still, to stare him down even as the heat of his body reaches mine.
For a moment, we stand staring, unbreakable in our eye contact as we wait to see who crumbles first.
He gestures toward the room. "Shower and change. Dinner is in an hour."
I don’t move, I only cock an eyebrow. "And if I don’t?"
He steps closer, tilting my chin up with a firm grip. His touch burns my skin.
"Then there will be consequences."
The words settle over me like chains. He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t have to. I already know what men like him are capable of.
“I don’t have any of my things here.”
“I’ve provided everything you’ll need, Martine.”
I give him the dirtiest look I can muster, shocking myself that I am capable of such venom. I’ve never comfortably shown such outbursts to anyone ever.
He stares at me long enough to make my skin itch, and my chest flush.
"I didn’t expect such a well-brought-up woman to behave like such a fucking brat."
"Your mistake was thinking you brought home possession and not a woman," I snap.
The smirk returns, but this time, something darker lingers beneath it.
“One hour.”
With a final glance, he turns and shuts the door behind him, leaving me alone.
Alone. Fury simmers beneath my skin. Did he really buy me?
Did my father actually sell me off like a prized possession, a fucking commodity to be traded between men who see nothing but an object to own, to conquer?
Or is this worse? Was there never a deal at all?
Just Hayden deciding, in that sick, entitled way of his, that I belonged to him?
Was I something to be taken, claimed, owned?
I can’t continue to wonder about the truth of it, because the truth may be too difficult to swallow.
I exhale, stepping deeper into the room to explore. The bed is large, the sheets pristine. The wardrobe is open, revealing a curated collection of clothing all in my size. Everything has been prepared, but still I yearn for my suite at Eulogia.
It doesn’t smell like my preferred room diffuser of citrus and honey.
My books aren’t here, and I’m certain the detergent on the sheets used isn’t to my liking. And worst of all, my beloved cardigan sets and loafers, which I’ve spent years sourcing with my stylist, are most definitely not here.
All of my perfectly curated comforts, carefully selected by a handpicked team of staff, have been stripped away. I feel naked, and I’ve yet to undress.
I move stiffly towards the bathroom and turn on the shower.
I start peeling off my ruined clothes with a begrudging reluctance and curse under my breath as I step into the water.
The hot spray hisses against my skin, washing away the mud, the grime, everything except the lingering touch of Hayden's hands.
As I reach for the shampoo, I imagine clawing my fingers through his disgustingly perfect hair, except instead of washing, I’d pull, hard enough to make him hiss.
The shower products are the brand I like, but the washcloth just isn't right.
The soap stings as I scrub at my skin, as if I can erase the feeling of his touch, the sheer audacity of him thinking he can own me. Every motion feels like surrender, like stepping deeper into whatever twisted game Hayden is playing.
When I emerge, my skin is scrubbed raw, my towel wrapped tight around me, the cuts in my palms barely deepened.
As I drag the towel over my arms, I think about actually scratching his eyes out, feel the phantom satisfaction of nails sinking into arrogant flesh.
But the moment shatters when I face the open wardrobe, filled with clothes that fit too perfectly.
A reminder that, no matter how much I want to fight, he's already thought ahead.