Chapter 37 Keira
THIRTY-SEVEN
KEIRA
The hallway blurs past me in smears of color and shadow as I search for somewhere to fall apart alone.
My son is inside this house. Not with me and not safe.
I can't even keep myself safe. It's better that Hale is nowhere near that dining room right now. Nowhere near those men.
The staff bathroom is down a narrow set of stairs. It's small, with a flimsy lock on the door, but it will buy me time. He won't think to look for me there.
I slip inside and twist the lock with trembling fingers. The second my back hits the door, my legs collapse beneath me. Cold tile shocks my skin through my dress, but it barely registers.
My body is shutting down.
My hands won't stop shaking. I press them flat against my thighs, trying to breathe through this, but it's no use. My feet are going numb, pins and needles climbing up my calves as each breath comes shorter than the last.
The beginning of a spiral I cannot afford right now.
Hold it together.
I try to count since it can help diffuse a panic attack.
One. Two. Three.
His hand between my legs.
Four. Five. Six.
So obedient. I've heard she's quite accommodating.
Seven. Eight—
I let out a sob, shoving my fist against my mouth hard enough to break skin. But no matter how hard I try, I can't get my lungs to work. Each breath catches halfway, hitches, refuses to complete. I'm suffocating in a room full of air.
I picture Hale. His tiny hands, always reaching for mine. The gap-toothed smile that stops my heart every time. The way he still smells like baby shampoo and sleep when I hold him close in the morning.
If I fall apart now, I lose him.
If I don't walk back into that room and finish this nightmare, Ewan will take him from me. And I will not survive that.
You can do this.
You have to do this.
He's counting on you.
I drag myself off the floor. One hand on the sink, then both, hauling myself upright while my legs threaten to buckle. I smooth down the red dress. Check my reflection in the small, spotted mirror.
Mascara streaked. Lips bitten raw. Eyes that belong to someone who died a long time ago.
Good enough.
I turn and unlock the door, reaching for the handle—
It flies open before I can touch it.
"I don't recall dismissing you."
My heart plummets straight to the floor, through the foundation, into some cold, dark place where hope goes to die.
"Do you think this is some sort of game?" Ewan fills the doorway, blocking me in.
"I wasn't feeling well. I just needed a moment."
He steps inside. The bathroom contracts around him, walls pressing in until there's nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. No escape from the quiet fury radiating off him like a winter storm.
"You left without my permission." His voice is measured, which is always worse than shouting. "In the middle of dinner. In front of my guests."
"I'm sorry. I—"
"You embarrassed me, Keira."
"That wasn't my intention."
"Intent is irrelevant." Another step, and I retreat until my spine hits the edge of the sink. "Results are what matter. And the result of your little performance is that Dashkov thinks you're unmanageable." His eyes narrow. "He thinks I can't control you."
I want to scream that Dashkov had his hand between my legs, that he whispered things in my ear that made me want to jump off the nearest cliff, that I left because staying would have meant breaking in front of everyone.
But it won't matter because he doesn't give a shit about me. Only his reputation.
"I'll apologize to him. I'll make it right."
Ewan laughs. "How exactly do you plan to do that? Dashkov is considering pulling out of the deal entirely. Do you understand what that costs me?"
I don't answer.
He registers my silence as weakness and moves closer, crowding me.
"Sometimes I forget how much work you still need." His hand comes up, cupping my face roughly. "I've been too lenient with you."
"You were doing so well, Keira. I thought for a moment…" He sighs theatrically.
My teeth chatter uncontrollably.
"I didn't want to do this. You understand that, don't you? You've forced my hand."
My chest constricts. "You don't have to. I'll fix it."
"Hale leaves for Switzerland when we return from New York."
My brain refuses to process the words.
"There's a boarding school in Geneva. Excellent reputation. He'll receive the best education money can buy." His thumb digs into my jawbone. "And you won't have to worry about him anymore."
"No, you can't—"
"I can do whatever I want." His grip tightens, his fingernails digging into my skin. "That's what you keep forgetting. I own you. I own this house. I own your son. I own every breath you take. And if you can't behave, then I'll remove the one thing that makes you compliant."
"He's my son. You can't do this to me."
"He is my son." The correction is surgical. "And if you keep forgetting your place, I'll make sure he forgets your face."
Tears stream down my cheeks. I can't stop them. Can't breathe. Can't think.
"Please, Ewan, I'll do anything—"
"You'll do what I tell you. When I tell you. Without question." He releases my face, and I crumple against the sink. "That's all you've ever had to do, Keira. It's not complicated."
He straightens his jacket, checks his reflection in the mirror as if he didn't just dismantle my entire world with a dozen sentences.
"I expect you back in that dining room in ten minutes." He moves toward the door. "Smile. Apologize to Dashkov. Let him touch you however he wants. And maybe…maybe…I'll reconsider the timing of Hale's departure."
He pauses in the doorway, his silhouette blocking the light. "Oh, and if you're not out in ten minutes…"
He flicks off the light, and darkness swallows me whole.
The door closes—and then…the click of a lock engaging from the outside.
No.
No.
I lunge for the handle, twisting, pulling, slamming my palm against the wood.
He's locked me in. Set me up to fail. Given me an impossible deadline and then stolen any chance of meeting it.
I pound on the door. Call out for help. Scream until my throat goes raw.
But there's only silence.
And the crushing realization that I am utterly, completely alone.