3. The Contract #2
"What about contact with the outside world?" I hate how small my voice sounds. "What will my days even look like? Do I just—sit in your penthouse and wait for you to want me?"
"You'll live here. With me. Your days will be structured according to my preferences."
"My job?—"
"You don't have one anymore."
I flinch. Even though I knew it was coming. Even though I watched them walk me past my table like a funeral procession.
"My apartment. My rent. My bills?—"
"All taken care of. You won't need money. You won't need anything I don't provide."
"You can't keep me locked up like a slave."
"That's exactly what this is."
He says it so calmly. Like he's describing the weather.
"There has to be an out clause." I'm desperate now, and I hate him for hearing it. "If something goes wrong—if I need to leave?—"
"You can leave whenever you want."
Hope flares?—
"And when you do, your brother's debt returns to the Morenos. Carlo will be very pleased to hear from you."
The hope dies.
"So I'm trapped."
"You're protected." He sits back down, king on his throne. "I'm your only safety net. When choosing between two evils, always choose the lesser."
"And how do I know the lesser evil is you?"
"You don't." Those frozen eyes hold mine. "But I won't pass you around to other men like Carlo would. What happens between us stays between us. Only us."
I stare at him. This beautiful monster. This hawk who swooped in to save me from the wolves, only to carry me back to his nest.
"Show me the contract."
The document is twelve pages long.
I sit in the uncomfortable chair, I couldn't keep standing, not with my legs shaking like this, and try to make my eyes focus on the words. Legal language. Clauses and subclauses. Terms and conditions for the sale of a human being.
The Party of the Second Part agrees to reside at the residence of the Party of the First Part for a period of twelve (12) months...
The Party of the Second Part agrees to be available for the physical, emotional, and sexual needs of the Party of the First Part at all times...
...in all ways and manners desired by the Party of the First Part, without limitation or restriction...
"All ways." I look up at him. "That includes?—"
"Yes." No hesitation. "That includes what you so charmingly called 'funny stuff.'"
"What kind of?—"
"You'll find out."
"I need to know what I'm signing away." My hands are trembling. The pages rattle. "I can't agree to anything without knowing what?—"
"All you need to know," he says quietly, "is that you're saving your brother. And I'm saving you."
"This doesn't feel like being saved." The words tear out of me. "This feels like being enslaved."
Something flickers across his face. There and gone.
"There's one more thing."
He moves to his desk, opens a drawer. When he turns back, he's holding something small. A vial. Dark glass, no larger than his thumb, filled with clear liquid.
"What is that?"
"This is what will make things easier."
He crosses back to me. Holds the vial up to the light. The liquid catches the glow from the windows, refracting it into something almost beautiful.
"Every morning," he says, "you'll take this. I'll administer it personally. It's called the Protocol."
"What does it do?"
"It ensures compliance." Clinical. Detached. "While it's active in your system, you'll find it difficult, impossible, really, to refuse direct orders. Your body will obey, even if your mind resists."
The room tilts.
"You're going to drug me."
"I'm going to make this easier for you." He says it like it's compassion. Like this is kindness. "The Protocol removes the burden of resistance. You won't have to fight yourself. You won't have to struggle with your own responses. You'll simply... comply."
"That's not consent. If you drug me, I can't—I won't be able to?—"
"You'll be fully aware." His eyes hold mine. "You'll know exactly what's happening. You'll feel everything. The Protocol doesn't erase your mind, Miss Henderson. It simply removes your ability to say no."
I'm going to be sick.
"Why?" The word comes out cracked. "If you're going to do things to me—why does it matter if I can refuse?"
"Because I want your surrender." Something heated enters his voice. Something like hunger. "Not your submission. What I want is for you to stop fighting. To give yourself over to what's happening without the exhausting pretense of resistance."
"And if I won't? If I keep fighting anyway?"
"You won't be able to." He sets the vial on the desk. "That's the point."
I stare at the small glass container. Such a tiny thing. And it's going to strip away the last shred of autonomy I have.
"Every morning. For a year."
"Every morning. Administered by me. From my hand to your lips." His voice drops. "Control must be witnessed, Miss Henderson. Compliance must be personal."
The silence stretches.
"And if I don't sign?"
"Then you walk away. And tomorrow morning, Carlo Moreno receives a phone call."
I look at the contract. The vial. The beautiful monster behind the desk.
I pick up the pen.
"Chloe." My first name. It sounds wrong in his mouth. "Be sure."
"I'm sure."
I sign.
My name in black ink. Binding. Permanent. The end of everything I was.
I set the pen down. Something has gone quiet inside me.
"When does it begin?"
Those ice-blue eyes. That perfect, terrible face.
"Now."
"Now?"
"Stand."
I stand.
He rises. Moves around the desk. Comes to stand in front of me.
"Strip."
The word sucks all the air from the room.
"What?"
"Take off your clothes."
"But the Protocol—you said it starts every morning?—"
"I said it begins now." Soft. Implacable. "And I'm giving you your first order. Strip."
My hands are trembling. This is it. This is what I signed up for.
"Everything?"
"Everything."
I reach for the zipper at the back of my dress.
This is happening.
The zipper slides down. The fabric loosens.
"Now, Chloe." My name like a caress. Like a knife. "Don't make me wait."
I let the dress fall.