Chapter 3 #2
"Then you'll be hungry."
"I meant what if I refuse to come down."
He looks at me over his glass. "Then I'll come get you."
The threat is clear.
"I could lock my door," I say.
"From the inside? With what lock? There isn't one."
Of course there isn't.
"You've thought of everything," I say.
"I usually do."
I hate him.
Hate his calm certainty.
His complete control.
The way he sits there in his expensive chair in his expensive house and looks at me like I'm a problem he's already solved.
"I'll come down," I say. "For breakfast."
"Good."
"But I won't talk to you. I'll eat and then I'll go back to my room."
"We'll see."
That phrase again. We'll see.
Like my decisions don't matter.
Like my will is just an obstacle he'll eventually wear down.
Maybe it is.
"Can I go?" I ask.
"You're not a prisoner, Eden. You can go wherever you like. Within the house and grounds."
"So, I am a prisoner."
"You're my guest."
"Guests can leave."
"Not you."
I turn toward the door.
"Eden."
I stop, but don't turn around.
"I meant what I said earlier. I'm not going to hurt you."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
"Then what are you going to do?"
Silence.
I wait.
Finally, he says, "I'm going to teach you what pleasure feels like."
The words send ice down my spine.
I leave without responding.
I don't go back to my room.
Can't face that bed.
That cage disguised as luxury.
Instead, I explore.
If I'm trapped here, I need to know the layout.
Need to understand where everything is.
Need to find weaknesses.
The house is enormous.
I count twelve bedrooms on the second floor alone.
Most are empty, though a few are furnished like guest rooms.
There's a library.
A real library with thousands of books floor to ceiling.
Reading chairs.
A ladder on rails to reach the high shelves.
At the Sanctuary, we had one bookshelf in the common room.
Bible. Hymnal. A few approved texts on agriculture and household management.
That was it.
This... this is overwhelming.
I pull a book at random.
Jane Eyre.
I've never read it.
Never read anything except the Bible and the approved texts.
I open to the first page.
There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.
I read the first chapter standing there in the dark library.
Then the second. Then the third.
I don't notice the sun rising until light starts filtering through the windows.
I check the grandfather clock in the corner.
Seven forty-five.
Fifteen minutes until breakfast.
I shelve the book and leave the library.
Find my way back to the foyer.
Locate the kitchen by following the smell of coffee.
It's massive.
Professional-grade appliances.
An island bigger than my entire sleeping space at the Sanctuary.
Windows overlooking the grounds.
Mrs. Silva is there setting out plates.
She looks up when I enter. "Good morning, dear. Did you sleep well?"
The lie comes easily. "Yes, thank you."
"I'm making eggs and toast. Is that all right? Or would you prefer something else?"
"That's fine."
"Coffee? Tea?"
"Coffee. Please."
She pours me a cup and adds cream without asking how I take it.
I wonder how she knows.
Probably in my file too.
I sit at the island and wrap my hands around the warm mug.
The coffee is good. Rich.
Nothing like the weak, watered-down coffee we had at the Sanctuary on special occasions.
"Mr. Sutherland will be down shortly," Mrs. Silva says.
"How long have you worked for him?" I ask.
She glances at me, surprised by the question I guess.
"Thirty years," she says. "I worked for his father before him. Started when Vaughn was six years old."
Thirty years.
"You've known him his whole life."
"Most of it, yes."
"What's he like?"
She's quiet for a moment, plating eggs carefully.
"He's a good employer," she says finally. "Fair. Generous. He takes care of the people who work for him."
That's not what I asked.
"But what's he like?" I press. "As a person?"
"That's not my place to say, dear."
"You've known him for thirty years."
"Which is why I know it's not my place."
Translation: she won't help me. Won't give me information I could use.
She's loyal to him.
Of course she is.
Footsteps in the hall.
Vaughn appears in the doorway.
He's showered. Changed. Dark slacks. White shirt. No tie. He looks fresh. Rested.
Like he didn't spend half the night waiting to catch me trying to escape.
"Good morning," he says.
I don't respond.
He sits across from me at the island. Mrs. Silva sets a plate in front of him. Pours him coffee.
"Thank you, Beatriz," he says.
Beatriz. Mrs. Silva has a first name.
They eat in silence while I pick at my food.
It's good. Better than good.
The eggs are perfect.
The toast is made from bread that tastes homemade.
But I can barely taste it.
"You found the library," Vaughn says.
I freeze. "How did you know?"
He taps his phone. "I get alerts when certain rooms are accessed."
Cameras. Or motion sensors.
"I wasn't stealing anything," I say.
"I didn't think you were. You're welcome to read anything you like."
"I don't need your permission."
"Nevertheless, you have it."
I hate that word. Nevertheless.
Like my objections are just noise he's humoring.
"I'm going back to my room," I say, pushing my plate away.
"You've barely eaten."
"I'm not hungry."
"Eden."
Something in his voice makes me look up.
His eyes are softer than before. Almost... concerned?
No. That can't be right.
"You need to eat," he says. "I know this is difficult. I know you're scared. But you need to take care of yourself."
"Why do you care?"
"Because you're mine to take care of now."
There it is again. That possessive word. Mine.
"I'm not yours," I say.
"We've established you believe that. But belief doesn't change reality."
I stand. "I'm going to my room."
He doesn't stop me.
I make it to the doorway before he speaks again.
"There are books in your room too. On the nightstand. I thought you might like them."
I don't turn around. Don't acknowledge it.
But when I get back to my room, I look.
Three books on the nightstand I didn't notice before.
Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier. Wuthering Heights. The Handmaid's Tale.
He chose them. Deliberately.
I pick up Rebecca. Open to the first page.
Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.
I sit on the bed and start reading.
Lose myself in someone else's story.
Because it's easier than facing my own.
Three days pass.
I fall into a routine I hate.
Morning: wake up, shower, dress in clothes from the closet I don't want to accept.
Go down for breakfast.
Eat in silence while Vaughn reads the newspaper or answers emails on his phone.
Return to my room.
Afternoon: read.
Sometimes in the library.
Sometimes in my room.
Avoid Vaughn.
Evening: dinner.
Same as breakfast.
Silence. Tension. Return to my room.
Night: don't sleep. Listen to the silence. Plan escapes I can't execute.
Vaughn never touches me.
Never even tries.
He watches. Studies. Asks questions I don't answer.
But he doesn't touch.
It should be a relief.
It's not.
Because I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for him to demand the things I know he bought me for.
Sex. Obedience. Whatever dark things men like him want.
But he just... watches.
On the fourth day, I break.
"What do you want from me?" I ask at breakfast.
He looks up from his newspaper. "Excuse me?"
"You bought me. You brought me here. But you haven't... you don't..."
I can't finish the sentence.
Understanding crosses his face.
"I told you," he says. "I'm not going to hurt you."
"But you want something."
"Yes."
"What?"
He folds the newspaper.
Sets it aside and gives me his full attention.
"I want you to trust me," he says.
I almost laugh. "Trust you?"
"Eventually."
"Why would I ever trust you?"
"Because I'm patient. And because eventually, you'll realize that I'm the safest thing in your world right now."
"You're my captor."
"I'm your protection."
"From what?"
"From everything out there." He gestures vaguely toward the windows. "The Consortium. The auction. The men who would have bought you if I hadn't. Your father. The Sanctuary. Elder Jacob."
The name hits me like a slap.
"How do you know about Elder Jacob?"
"Your file was very thorough."
"Stop saying that."
"It's true."
I stand.
My chair scrapes against the floor.
"I don't want your protection. I don't want anything from you."
"Sit down, Eden."
"No."
"Sit. Down."
There's steel in his voice now. Command.
Every instinct from the Sanctuary screams at me to obey.
I sit.
Hate myself for it.
"Good," he says softly.
I glare at him. "Don't—"
"Here's what's going to happen," he interrupts. "You're going to stay here. You're going to eat. You're going to sleep. You're going to accept that this is your reality now."
"And if I don't?"
"Then you'll be miserable. But you'll still be here."
My hands curl into fists under the table.
"I have been thinking," he continues, "about what you said. About the contract not specifying the nature of our relationship."
My heart starts pounding.
"You're right. It doesn't. Which means we get to define it ourselves."
"What does that mean?"
He stands and comes around the table.
I want to bolt, but I can't move.
He stops next to my chair.
Doesn't touch me.
Just stands there, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at him.
"It means," he says quietly, "that I'm going to give you a choice."
"What choice?"
"I could keep you here as a prisoner. Locked in your room. No books. No freedom. Just walls and silence until you break."
My breath catches.
"Or," he continues, "you could have what you have now. Access to the house. The library. The grounds. Food. Comfort. Company."
"In exchange for what?"
"Your presence at meals. Your company in the evenings. Your willingness to engage when I speak to you."
"That's all?"
His mouth curves. "For now."
There it is.
The catch.
"What does 'for now' mean?"
"It means we'll renegotiate as things progress."
"What things?"
He reaches out. Slowly. Giving me time to pull away.
I don't.
His fingers brush my cheek.
Tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
The touch is gentle.
Almost tender.
I hate that it makes my pulse spike.
"When you're ready," he says, "I'm going to teach you what your body can do. What pleasure feels like when you're not taught to fear it."
My face burns. "I'm not—I don't want—"
"Not yet," he agrees. "But you will."
"You're wrong."
"We'll see."
He steps back, returns to his seat and picks up his newspaper like nothing happened.
Like he didn't just promise to— to—
I can't even think it.
"Eat your breakfast, Eden."
My hands are shaking.
I pick up my fork.
Hate myself for it.
Hate him more.
But I eat.
Because he's right about one thing: I can't survive on stubbornness alone.
And if I'm going to escape this place—and I will, eventually—I need my strength.
So, I'll play along.
For now.
I finish my eggs in silence. Drain my coffee and stand.
"May I be excused?" The words taste like ash.
Vaughn looks at me over his newspaper. "Of course. You're not a child, Eden. You don't need permission."
But I do.
We both know I do.
I leave the kitchen, climb the stairs, and walk down the long hallway to my room.
I close the door behind me.
And then—finally—I break.
The tears come fast.
Hard.
Ripping through me like a storm I've been holding back for days.
I slide down the door, pull my knees to my chest, and bury my face in my arms.
I cry.
I cry for the girl I was at the Sanctuary.
The one who believed that if she just worked hard enough, prayed hard enough, submitted hard enough, she'd be safe.
I cry for my mother.
For the way she looked at me the day before she died, like she wanted to tell me something but couldn't find the words.
I cry for the weeks I spent in Sarah's warehouse.
For the other girls there.
For number thirteen sobbing on that stage.
I cry for the Eden who stood in that auction room and thought she could stay strong.
Who thought defiance would be enough.
But mostly, I cry because I'm so tired.
Tired of running. Tired of fighting. Tired of being owned by men who think they have the right.
Elder Jacob wanted to own my body for God.
Vaughn Sutherland wants to own it for himself.
Different reasons. Same cage.
And I'm so tired of cages.
The sobs wrack through me until my throat is raw and my eyes burn and there's nothing left but empty exhaustion.
I don't know how long I sit there on the floor.
Long enough that the sun shifts.
Long enough that the light coming through the window changes from morning to afternoon.
Eventually, the tears stop.
Eventually, I'm just empty.
I drag myself up. Go to the bathroom. Look at myself in the mirror.
My eyes are red and swollen. My face is blotchy. My hair is a mess.
I look like I've been broken.
Maybe I have been.
I turn on the shower. Let it run hot. Strip off my clothes and step under the spray.
The water pounds against my skin. Too hot. Almost painful.
Good.
I want to feel something other than this hollow despair.
I wash my hair with the expensive shampoo. Use the expensive soap. Watch the water swirl down the drain.
At the Sanctuary, we had five minutes for showers. Cold water. A single bar of lye soap shared among ten girls.
Here, I can stand under hot water for as long as I want.
Can use products that smell like flowers and cost more than most families spend on groceries in a month.
Here, I have everything I could possibly need.
Except the one thing that matters.
I get out. Dry off. Dress in clean clothes from the closet I never asked for.
Go to the bed and lie down.
Stare at the ceiling.
I'm not going to cry again. I won't give Vaughn that. Won't give this place that.
I cried. I broke. I let myself feel the weight of everything I've lost.
But I'm done now.
I'm done being the girl who cries.
Tomorrow, I'll go back to planning.
Back to looking for weaknesses.
Back to being the girl who ran from the Sanctuary in the middle of the night with nothing but stolen money and desperate hope.
But today?
Today I let myself mourn the girl I used to be.
The girl who believed in escape.
Because that girl is gone.
And I don't know who I'm becoming instead.