Chapter 6
Raya
He didn’t stick around long after discovering who I am.
Normally good at reading people, I had no idea what his thoughts were before he left.
I have no clue what this means for me.
Will he let me go?
Will he kill me because I’ve seen his face?
Have I watched too many crime shows?
Does it really happen that way?
I thought maybe I had leverage. If he wanted to trade me for a big payday, then he’d be less likely to hurt me, right?
All of that flew out the window when he pulled my name up online.
My mind holds onto a story I read about years ago.
Another politician’s daughter, Kaci Stewart, was abducted, and she was missing for over a year, after having been sold into sexual slavery.
The news of that is what prompted my own parents to tighten their security on me.
At least that’s the explanation they gave.
At the time, I thought it had more to do with the fact that I was a teenager and starting to feel caged and trapped.
That was when I was still willing to argue with them about having more liberties.
Maybe they were right, and my stupidity landed me here.
I can’t decide if being alone in this room is better than him standing right in front of me.
I try not to think about all the preparations he could be making right now to deal with me after finding out who I am.
I’m distracted by the opulence of the room. When I saw him in the surf shop, I never would’ve guessed he’d have a house like this.
I try to reason that I didn’t misjudge him.
He could have easily broken into this house while the owners were away on vacation, but that doesn’t explain how prepared he was to lock a chain around my neck.
My hands tremble, the plastic water bottle in my hand crinkling as I wonder just how many women he’s brought here.
Does he torture them?
Rape them?
Kill them?
I can’t decide which of those three options are the worst.
A whimper escapes my lips when I realize he could do all three to me.
I try to calm my nerves, telling myself that my parents have to be looking for me. My father would involve any agency possible for my safe return.
Kaci Stewart’s father looked for her. If I close my eyes, I can still see his emotional plea for whoever had his daughter to return her safely.
The man changed his entire platform because of what happened to his family.
Like my birth helped my father’s political standing, her abduction worked much the same way.
I shake my head, trying to clear it of the idea that my parents would be capable of doing this just to garner more time in the spotlight.
But then I freeze. Wouldn’t that be the best outcome? Wouldn’t it be beneficial to me if my parents had a hand in this? The man keeping me wouldn’t hurt me, right? They would only do it under the guarantee that I wasn’t hurt.
But then again, it doesn’t explain his reaction to what he saw online.
The realization that my parents aren’t involved is a doubled-edged sword. On one hand, I’m grateful they wouldn’t go to such an extreme, but at the same time, I’m terrified of what it could mean for me.
My stomach growls, but despite the fact that I haven’t eaten in what I can assume is inching up on twenty-four hours, I don’t reach for the food he demanded I consume.
I want to be mad at myself for not having lunch, for only having the diet soda I purchased at the surf shop, but eating can lead to bloating, and it would’ve been unacceptable to look heavier in my dress on such an important night for my father.
Puffiness in my eyes and lower belly wouldn’t automatically make people assume I had too many carbs for dinner. They’d automatically jump to the conclusion that I was pregnant. It happened once last year already.
Despite not wanting to eat the food he’s offering, I can’t keep my eyes from examining the tray. I’ve been eating expensive food my entire life, and I can easily tell that the items aren’t from a local run-of-the-mill grocery store, and it only adds to my curiosity.
I don’t expect an explanation from the man. He hasn’t answered a single question I’ve asked yet.
I don’t scream or beg for him to release me. I’m fairly certain he’d do the opposite of anything I ask.
I’m starting to wonder if acting nice is even going to work.
I know it’ll be less likely now that he realizes how much trouble he’s in because of who my father is.
Before I can work out a different plan, he opens the door and reenters the room.
I keep my eyes locked on him. If the man was upset that I didn’t remember him, I can’t imagine he’d like it very much if I ignore him.
He steps close to me but somehow also manages not to crowd me.
A shiver runs down my spine, making me realize that at some point tonight, I lost the shawl I placated my mother with earlier. I look toward the bed, but it’s impossible to tell if it’s there because the sheets are black.
“Are you cold?”
I swallow again as I look up at him, knowing I need to answer him but unsure if my voice will allow it.
“May I have a blanket, please?”
He watches me without speaking, and I’m familiar with the tactic. He’s trying to figure out my reasoning.
He wants to know if asking him for something is a form of manipulation, and maybe it is. If the man is willing to help me with something as simple as regulating my body temperature and being comfortable, maybe he’ll be more willing to let me go.
I’ve seen more than one interview with people trying to prepare you for different situations, and the one thing that sticks out in my mind is hearing one of them say to make yourself more human.
“I’m c-cold,” I say, my stammer more from fear than the chill in the room.
“I think a warm shower would warm you up much better.”
My head instantly shakes at the suggestion. “I’m not that cold.”
His chuckle is low and menacing and speaks of his intent.
“I never thought I’d have a use for these when I bought the house,” he says as he crouches and works the combination on the lock holding my chain to the eye bolt in the floor.
I’m shaking by this point, an uncontrollable tremor working its way up my spine until it’s difficult for me to hold my hands steady.
I’m in a constant state of questions, wondering if doing exactly what he wants will be what’s best for me. Is that what he expects? Will cooperating help me or will it piss him off?
Begging to be set free is on the tip of my tongue as he stands with the free end of the chain dangling from his fingers.
He changed his clothes while he was gone. Sweats instead of dress pants cover his legs. His button down has been replaced with a non-descript, plain t-shirt. This way he looks like a college guy, and I’m floored by how much his style of clothes makes a difference in how I see him.
The guy standing in front of me would’ve grabbed my attention on the video calls I attended when I was in college. I probably would’ve seen him and spent hours wondering who he was, what his personality was like. I would’ve crushed on this guy.
What a difference certain situations make.
“You’ll shower?” he prompts, giving the chain a little tug but not pulling it enough to jerk me forward.
Getting up isn’t a suggestion. He fully expects me to stand and walk across the room.
“Do I have to remind you of the rules?”
I shake my head but not because I’m answering him. I don’t recall him giving me any rules.
“Do it yourself, or I’ll do it for you.”
I swallow again, and the urge to beg is a physical thing growing inside of me.
I can only hope my understanding of his words are correct, that he won’t touch me or hurt me if I shower on my own.
He begins to walk toward a closed door on the far side of the room, not pausing as I stand to follow him.
I’m unsteady on my feet as I cross the room, and I know it has less to do with the drugs still in my system and more to do with the fear that’s threatening to take over my entire body.
Any chance of escape fades away as he bends down to relock the chain on yet another eye bolt in the floor of the shower.
We rotate positions as he steps closer because I can’t stomach the idea of him touching me. The brush of his fingers along my cheek when I first woke up was bad enough.
He doesn’t leave the room, and I don’t even know why I considered that he might.
“Go ahead,” he urges as if I need to be coddled and convinced like a small child.
It irritates me, but I’m not foolish enough to snap back at him. I know asking for privacy won’t get me anywhere, so I don’t waste the effort in doing so.
I keep my eyes on him as I blindly reach into the shower to turn the water on, fully expecting to get sprayed with an artic blast. I find myself shocked at the water already being warm when it hits my arm.
I have no excuse about being unable to get undressed because my gown is strapless, but I don’t reach behind my back to attempt to unzip it. I take a chance and step under the shower still fully dressed, watching his face as he leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest.
He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t demand I strip and shower properly.
If anything, I think I read a hint of amusement in his eyes, but then again, I could be wrong. My ability to read people accurately these days doesn’t seem to be working.
I didn’t look at him in the surf shop and understand the danger I was in.
“Soap,” he says, pointing past me, and although I’m hesitant to take my eyes off him, I look down.
My brows crease in confusion once again at the sight of the various bottles lined up on the wall.
He’s not using a 3-in-1 like I’d expect. There are five different bottles here, each one a high-end name.
He said he bought this house, but it could still be a lie. It’s very possible that my first assumption, that he broke in, could still be true.
I look back at him, making sure he hasn’t inched closer as I reach for the bodywash.