Chapter 20
Sabine
Day one of my captivity:I slept like a rock for five hours.
Now, with clearer focus, I am sitting on the edge of the bed, listening to the rain tick against the window, trying to make sense of what has happened to me. I have been kidnapped and am the prisoner of a man whom I crave like the last box of Girl Scout cookies—Thin Mints, to be clear. Everything else is a jumbled mess of confusion.
I wonder what this day will bring, what Astor intends to do with me, how long he plans to keep me. And last, but not least, if he plans to kiss me again.
As if all this isn’t enough to send a woman teetering on the edge of a mental break, mixed with these emotions is the sick realization that outside these walls, no one knows I’m gone. I have no friends, no family, and my boss thinks I’m on vacation. No one misses me. No one is asking why I haven’t responded to text messages, or why I haven’t come home.
It’s eye-opening and very depressing.
A loud, brusque knock at the door sends my heart jumping into my throat. I grab the thin gray throw blanket from the edge of the bed, surge to my feet, and wrap it around my naked body just as the door unlocks and opens.
A woman breezes into the room, carrying a canvas bag over her shoulder. Her mood is almost tangible, as sour as the weather outside. While I’m shocked to see a woman at all, she is not surprised to see me. In fact, she’s annoyed and making a concerted effort not to look at me.
Yes, I’m insignificant. I get it.
Older than me by more than a decade, the woman is extremely attractive with smooth caramel skin and long dark silver-streaked braided hair. She’s wearing a pair of linen pants and a silk button-up shirt that emphasizes a pair of voluptuous breasts.
She drops the canvas bag on the coffee table in the sitting area and then turns to me.
My stomach drops to my feet.
The left side of her face is mottled with burn scars. The melted skin pulls her left eye downward, and it’s the same with her lower lip. The effect is jarring—the kind of injury that’s impossible not to stare at. One side of her face is supermodel perfect and the other, revolting.
A low rumble of thunder rolls through the mountains.
I look away but instantly regret it because she probably gets that all the time, and it probably makes her wildly uncomfortable. So, I refocus on her eyes, forcing myself to look there—and only there.
The glare I get in return leaves no question as to what she thinks of me.
“I’ll be back in one hour to clean the bed,” she says in a clipped tone.
Clean the bed? Is she the maid?
“Are those my things?” I ask, gesturing to the canvas bag.
“No.”
“What is it then?”
“Toiletries. Clothes.”
“For me?”
“Obviously.”
“From who?”
“Astor ordered it to be done.”
How nice of him.
“Where is my purse, my phone?”
“How should I know?”
I cock a brow. Okay, so the tone between us has been officially set—and it isn’t pretty. Well, I can play this game too.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Prishna, but you can call me ma’am. I’m Mr. Stone’s personal assistant.”
“Okay, ma’am, can you please tell me why I’m here?”
“Don’t worry. You won’t be for long.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
And with that whisper of a threat, Ma’am turns and storms across the room.
“Hey!” I yell after her. “If you hate me so much, then let me go.”
“Trust me, sweetheart, I wish I could.”
The door slams—and locks.
Wow.Day one in Stone Manor and I already have an enemy.
Fantastic.
I turn on a floor lamp and then make my way to the coffee table. Inside the canvas bag is a handful of drugstore toiletries and cosmetics. The foundation and concealer are not my color, but I can make them work. The clothes consist of two pairs of baggy boyfriend jeans, each a size too large, and two ill-fitting sweatshirts—the kind a junior-high basketball player would wear to practice. Finally, two pairs of granny panties—nude—and one bralette, two sizes too small.
There’s no question who did my shopping.
I begin folding the items back into place when, across the room, a silver sparkle catches my eye.
Frowning, I walk over to the picture frame resting on the bedside table.
The woman in the photo is in her mid-thirties with long blond hair and a soft pixie face. She’s painfully skinny, reminding me of a ’90s Kate Moss, but in the same way as Kate, she’s uniquely beautiful. She’s wearing a white silk dress, giving her an ethereal appearance. She’s looking directly into the camera—directly at me. Around her neck is a gold pendant of one half of a broken heart. On her ring finger is a massive diamond. I recognize it immediately as the one Carlos tossed to Astor after showing him the picture of his dead wife.
This is her.
The wife.
Nerves tickle my stomach.
I look over my shoulder at the door, then back at the picture, absolutely certain the photo wasn’t in the room when I arrived last night.