Chapter 17 #2
I meet her gaze. “I know what it looks like. But it’s not cruel. It’s just, he doesn’t know how to be any other way.”
She’s quiet for a moment, but I can feel her weighing something.
She shifts, softening her tone. “I’m having a few people over Friday night. At the flat. Stelle, Ambrose, Walker… just something low-key. Music, wine, nothing dramatic. You should come.”
I smile, grateful she’s not pushing.
“I’d like to, but I doubt I’ll be able to.”
“Do you think he’ll let you?”
I hesitate. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Will he listen?”
“I’ll try to make him.”
Dale watches me for a moment. Not judging, just seeing me.
“Good,” she says. “Because I was serious when I said I’d like to be friends.”
She gives a small smile, not pressing any further.
“I’ll try to be there,” I say quietly. “I promise.”
And I mean it, even if I have to lie to get out the door.
“It’s a tough subject to bridge, Martine, but I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Ford…” She purses her lips, pausing as if rolling the words over her tongue.
I bristle at her words, not because I detest her for asking, but because it's too painful. So instead, I sit silently, staring at her as she chews on her words.
“If I told you we were involved, would you believe me?” She says, shocking my nervous system for the second time in just a few seconds.
“I would say yes, but it would be hard to. I know my brother was a bit of a…”
“Womanizer?” She laughs sadly, as though talking about him is painful, and I couldn’t relate more.
The grief is sitting in my throat, causing me to pause to speak for fear a sob will come out instead.
“That’s a nice way of putting it,” I say with a quivering voice, and her eyes soften to me.
“Neither of us expected it. Truly, I think we hated each other more at first, but something shifted just before he…” her eyes fill with tears.
“I understand. There's no need for us to visit with this now. Let us enjoy our gin.” I pat her hand and then dab my eyes with my cloth napkin, trying to control the shaking sobs that are bubbling in my chest.
Dale stayed longer than I expected. We drink our martinis, pick at the sugar almonds, and talk about everything and nothing. The conversation drifts easily, touching on fashion, mutual friends, and the flat at Eulogia, which I haven’t returned to.
She doesn’t press me again, and I’m grateful. She knows when to leave things alone. By the time she gathers her coat and kisses my cheek goodbye, the sun has started to slip behind the trees. The house feels bigger once she’s gone.
I wait for Hayden to come back, but he doesn’t.
No phone call, no message. Just absence.
The staff returned sometime mid-afternoon, silent as ever, to serve tea, their movements precise, practiced, invisible until they aren’t.
Now, it’s just them and me. The house is hollow without him, even with the fire still lit.
I sit for a while in the drawing room, legs curled under me, the ring on my finger catching the fading light.
The footman appears at the doorway, as he does each evening when the meal is ready to be served.
“Mrs. Herron,” he says, “are you ready for dinner in the blue room?”
I nod, shocked by being called that for the first time. “Yes. Thank you.”
He disappears as quickly as he came. I stand, smooth the front of my trousers, and follow the soft sound of footsteps down the hall.
I stand up and look in the mirror on the wall, straightening the large emerald choker around my neck. Since wearing it, I’ve noticed it loves to get tangled in my hair and pull it, just like the man who gave it to me.
The dining room is glowing when I enter, the light low, flickering against the silverware. Only my place is set.
A single plate. A single glass. One chair pulled slightly out from the table.
The room is silent except for the faint clink of porcelain being adjusted behind the double doors.
Everything is perfectly arranged: monogrammed linen, polished cutlery, a delicate crystal tumbler half-filled with vodka on ice.
The same thing Hayden always drinks with dinner.
It smells sharp and green, like crisp citrus.
I sit.
Dinner is served without a word. The staff moves like shadows, efficient and invisible.
A roasted chicken breast arrives first, perfectly carved, with crisp and golden skin.
There are buttery fingerling potatoes, accompanied by a small salad of bitter greens dressed with a citrus vinaigrette.
I eat slowly, quietly. The vodka pairs beautifully with the sauce on the chicken, rich, dark, full of rosemary, and a hint of clove.
Hayden isn’t here, but his presence is everywhere.
When I finish, the table is cleared almost immediately. I don’t ask for anything. I don’t have to.
Dessert follows.
Fruit in a shallow porcelain bowl: raspberries and tiny champagne grapes, all glistening. A dollop of cream sits beside them, thick and soft, barely sweetened. A flute of champagne is poured for me, no words, just the quiet pop of the cork and the pour, slow and elegant.
And then, the last plate is placed in front of me.
My breath catches. A small, white pill resting in the center of a pristine porcelain dish. No note. No explanation. Just a quiet offering.
I press my thighs together under the table.
It’s absurd how fast my body reacts, how quickly my mind folds around the idea of it. The anticipation. The way my pulse slows and sharpens all at once. I haven’t even touched it, and already my skin feels more alive.
He knows exactly what this does to me.
The staff is gone, silent as ever, doors closed behind them. I’m alone, and yet I feel watched.
I glance down at the pill again, then to the flute of champagne beside it. Pale gold, delicate bubbles rising like breath from the bottom.
It’s all been prepared just so.
Flashes of what he’ll give me, what I’ll earn, rush through my mind in quick, vivid strokes. The way he touches me when I’m obedient. The way he looks at me when I’ve done exactly what he’s asked: the quiet praise, the low murmur of “good girl” against my lips.
Being called his “little whore.”
I imagine him coming home and finding the empty dish. The champagne flute has a trace of gloss on the rim. The pill had already dissolved in me. Is this the complete surrender of my trust?
The desperation I feel to take it and see what happens affirms it in me.
If I take it, he’ll reward me. I know he will.
He always does when I behave, when I wait for him, when I’m good.
Even when he’s not here, he’s pulling the strings. Guiding the evening as he guides me.
And I want him to.
I lift the flute of champagne and take a slow sip, the cold fizz hitting my tongue just right. Then I reach out, and with two fingers, I press the pill to my lips.
I knock back the rest of the champagne in one breath along with the pill, dry, biting, perfect. The fizz curls down my throat like silk, and I feel a dizzy warmth begin to bloom behind my ribs.
My hand drifts to the silver bucket beside me.
The champagne bottle is already tilted on the ice. Perfectly placed, like everything else in this house.
I pull it out, cold and dripping, and refill my flute to the top before bringing it to my lips. But this time I don’t sip. I drink. Long, deep pulls that go down too fast, too much, until I’m breathless and buzzing, stifling unladylike burps.
It’s almost immediate, the soft hum, the blur at the edges of my thoughts, like the world pulling gauze over itself. I feel as though my limbs get lighter and heavier at the same time. My heart beats a little louder in my ears. Everything slows. Everything softens.
I reach for another sip but miss my flute. My hand is slow and uncoordinated, and suddenly the table tilts, or maybe I do. I try to steady myself, but my body doesn’t listen.
Then the room begins to slide sideways.
I fold forward before I even realize I’m falling, my cheek slamming into the cold porcelain rim of the dessert bowl. The berries burst beneath me, cream streaking my skin, raspberry juice spreading like a bruise across my jaw. My hair sticks to it instantly, tangled and wet.
I hear the chair creak beneath me. The sound of the flute tipping.
Then nothing.
Hayden Herron
The house is dark when I pull in. Late, past midnight, but the lights should be on. Someone should be waiting at the door for my return. I told security I’d be back by dinner and not to leave her unattended.
Instead, the estate seems quieter, with few lights illuminating the massive building.
I leave my Porsche idling for a moment, headlights illuminating the east wing, and then I kill the engine. The silence hits harder than it should.
I’m not in the mood to be ignored.
My shoes crunch over stone as I cross the drive. The air smells like rain, like soil, and I breathe deeply to steady my shaking hands. The front door opens before I reach it, as it should. One of the footmen bows quickly and disappears just as fast. I don’t return the gesture. I don’t stop moving.
The staff know better than to speak to me when I look like this.
Another dead end, another wasted trip. Martine’s uncle has vanished like vapor, and the few names I did manage to trace in Prague are either silent or confirmed dead through my connections on the East Coast. I gave them two chances. I won’t give them a third.
I shrug off my coat and hand it to the butler as I step into the hall.
I pause.
“Where is she?” I ask quietly.
No one answers.
“Where is Martine?”
The butler clears his throat. “Still in the blue room, sir.”
I head down the corridor. The staff scatter ahead of me like dry leaves, and I push open the double doors to the dining room without knocking.
And there she is.
Her head is down on the table, slumped sideways, the elegant sweep of her neck exposed. One arm limp in her lap. Her hair is plastered across her face, stuck in something white and creamy.