Chapter 7 Thea #3
I’m not sure why, but the thought saddens me. The idea of filling this house—meant to be an escape tucked away—with people feels wrong somehow, like letting people in would break the spell.
Obviously, that notion is ridiculous. He’s a congressman, and likely hosts massive parties and events here all the time as part of his job.
Then there’s this. This disgusting other life where he bids on women to use them.
I’m sure he’s brought many of us here. So, something already broke the spell of peace.
I can still see the girls from last week.
Faces painted pretty over bruises and swelling.
Wrists ringed in yellow marks the prep team couldn’t quite cover up.
There’s no peace here.
A boring, empty glass sits in the center of the table, and I stare at it as Edmond leaves me in the doorway to pull out a chair at the table.
Surely that’s not the centerpiece. Such a beautiful table accented by a vase of air?
My mother would have that overflowing with charming wildflowers she collected from the side of the road.
“Miss,” Edmond says, standing behind the matching chair. His hand rests on the backrest, and he waits in silence, gaze piercing.
My first thought is to tell him no. That I don’t want to sit. I don’t want to be here at all. To beg him to let me go.
But I’m unsure any of that would work.
My eyes dart around the vacant walls, toward the window that looks over the dimly lit driveway, then back to the seat that awaits me.
I drift forward and sit, allowing Edmond to push me up to the live edge.
My brows furrow at a piece of paper turned upside down in front of me.
It’s standard printer paper, blank at a glance but full of words on the other side if I squint hard enough.
What is this? My heart races as my adrenaline skyrockets. It’s only now that I realize I didn’t keep up with where the congressman went.
Oh gosh. What’s going to happen to me? My imagination has never lacked in this department. My mind runs the gamut of terrible possibilities in a horrifying sequence that has me twitching in seconds.
When my hands can’t seem to stop fidgeting, I sit on them.
Edmond leans down, his body stiff, and he sets a small vial of clear liquid next to the paper. Huh.
Curious, I reach for it.
A hand shoots out and grabs my wrist, and I jump, looking to Edmond. The grip is rough and not gentle, but not cruel either. Firm enough to stop me. But it isn’t Edmond’s hand. No, he’s standing wide-eyed on my left side, watching the person on my right. Congressman DuPont.
The pads of his fingers are unexpectedly warm and smooth against my rapid pulse. It’s jarring—how someone built to bruise can still touch like that, like maybe they’re trying not to …
When I look up at him, his stare barrels into me before he rips his hand away.
“Oh, yes. Don’t touch that.” Edmond adds that caveat to the tension beading in the room. He clears his throat. “Uh, Congressman DuPont, is there something you need? I was about to summon Thea’s meal. I will have yours sent up per usual.”
I shrink back in my chair to avoid the congressman’s scrutiny and test my tongue against the roof of my dry mouth. It would be nice if I could drink something. Which leads to the question: What is in the tiny vial if not water?
My stomach grumbles at the mention of a meal, but then nausea takes its place when I remember my night to come. With him.
The congressman steps back, his gaze resting on Edmond’s. But instead of turning to exit the room, he stalks over to the head of the table and pulls out a chair.
Edmond stutters. “I, uh … Sir?”
DuPont plops down, spine straight, legs spread.
He props an elbow on the armrest and curls his fingers under his jaw.
His expression is sharp, unreadable for the most part, but when he reaches up to adjust his glasses, a flicker of something raw passes over his face.
His brows dip enough to hint he’s perplexed. At his own behavior?
Edmond sighs. “I’ll get dinner then.” He struts out of the room, glancing back to give the congressman a questioning look before he rounds the doorway out of sight.
I peer at the liquid in front of me, unable to help myself. Out of the corner of my vision, the congressman leers at me. He sits back, slouching a bit, like he’s growing accustomed to that seat.
When he doesn’t look away, when he doesn’t let up with the unrelenting taunting, my skin prickles. Every second drags on longer than the last, and as I try to ignore it, my jaw fuses tighter and tighter. Finally, I snap, voice sharper than I mean it to be.
“What are you going to do to me?” The words explode out of me, trailed by a bubbling hiccup and brimming tears. “Please. Please let me go.”
He watches as I bring my hands up and fiddle with the sheet of paper, and he takes a long breath.
The frames on the bridge of his nose hitch upward as he contorts his face at the single tear dripping along my cheek.
He looks both thoughtful and vaguely annoyed by it, which threatens to undo me further.
Did he not think that women forced to service him would cry and beg to be let go? Because I can’t be the only one. If I weren’t so terrified of being shipped off out of the country, I’d … I don’t know, do something.
Ha. I internally snort. Who am I kidding?
I’m not that kind of person. I couldn’t stand up to Phil when my mother needed someone in her corner.
Or tell Tristan I’m not on the same page as he is.
What makes me think I can stand up to four grown males intent on keeping me trapped in this house for twelve hours?
I wipe at my rolling tears with the oversized jacket still wrapped around me, and I can’t help but be grateful for it.
As I tuck into it, pulling it tighter around myself like a flimsy barrier between my bare skin and the over-air-conditioned room, a low, gravel-edged sound rumbles from farther down the table.
It’s not loud, virtually a sigh, and half restrained at that. Perhaps he’s just clearing his throat.
He hasn’t said a word to me. Actually, he hasn’t said a word to anyone in this house. Back at the club, to the bidding—no words there either.
Is he deaf? I rack my brain for any bit of ASL from the class I took in high school.
Then I remember—there wasn’t an interpreter at the Market.
Even while I stood on that stage, utterly overwhelmed and blinded by the harsh lights in my face—I remember that.
I’m not sure what he’s getting all huffy and puffy for.
All I want to do is fold this paper into a nice little half sheet and swipe it across his neck and hope for the best. Except I could never.
I wish I could do something defensive, daring.
I mean, I wouldn’t want to slit just anyone’s throat, but his …
The point is … if I were braver, I’d attempt an escape.
A cart squeaking against the floorboards wheels into the room with Edmond pushing a raised handle behind it. Utensils shift and plates rattle as the metal cart cuts the awkward silence in the room.
Steam curls off a pair of heavy ceramic plates, each holding a thick, juice-soaked rib eye steak. It’s served with buttery mashed potatoes and sauteed garlic green beans—I can smell them from here.
Oh my gosh. My mouth opens as Edmond picks up a plate and slides it in front of me. I haven’t eaten proper food in over a week. Beef, nope. And forget mashed potatoes. Saliva, as gross as it is, pools in my mouth, over my tongue.
Edmond places the congressman’s plate in front of him and asks again, “Are you sure you don’t want to take your meal in your room, sir?”
The congressman leans back, offering a glare.
They stare at one another.
I take his silence as a no, but Edmond seems intent on double-checking. Is it not normal for him to eat in the dining room?
Edmond steps back, hissing out a tsk before he spreads both arms out and gestures to both our plates. “Chef has prepared a bourbon and balsamic caramelized rib eye with—”
I get lost in his words, entranced by the food on my plate with half a notion to snatch up my fork and knife and dig in. If I had a knife. I glance around my plate for one. Nope. Part of me wonders if one of the girls tried to fight her way out of here.
Leaning forward, I curl my hand near my fork, twitching to touch it. Edmond is still droning on about dessert, and I catch the congressman watching my knuckles turn white.
In a quick and sudden move, he holds up his hand to quiet Edmond’s diatribe.
“Oh, uh, please eat.” Edmond offers half a bow—spine straight, one hand resting behind his back—and inclines his head.
I pluck the fork from beside the plate, pile it with mashed potatoes, and shove it without propriety into my mouth. It undoes me. Warm, fluffy, rich—they melt across my tongue like the very velvet curtains that opened to put me here.
I can’t help the sigh that comes out of me, and my eyes flutter, closing as I swallow too fast. It’s not even halfway down, and my body’s begging for more.
Makes tonight almost worth it.
I gasp and pause. I hate myself for thinking that. Never ever think that again.
The loaded bite I took churns in my empty stomach, and suddenly I’m nauseous. I can’t believe getting some food has already made me drop my guard.
I fling the fork, and it clatters to the side as I push the plate back, swallowing the thickness in my throat.
The congressman, who has yet to touch his food, studies me. I want to smack the curious look off his face. To kick, scream, and run. I want to tell him to stop playing with me. Stop feeding me like he’s preparing me to endure him. That awful pinprick sensation tickles behind my eyes.
Say something! Say something!
But no matter how loud I scream at myself, or how loud the voices in my head prompt me to stand up for myself … I can’t.
“Is there something wrong with your food, miss?” Edmond approaches my side, and all I can do is shake my head and fold in on myself.
My shoulders turn inward. I slouch, spine curving as I pretend I’m okay. Deep somewhere, my mother’s words blare then fizzle out.
“Miss?”
“I-I’m not hungry.”
Edmond glances back at the congressman, who gestures to the paper on the table. He stands, picks up his plate, and exits the room without a single word or sparing me a look.
Edmond reaches in front of me and picks up my plate. For a second, I want to stop him, to grab at his wrist and demand he leave it. Only … I watch it go. He sets it out of the way and pushes the piece of paper in front of me.
“I will have the kitchen keep this warm for you. Perhaps your appetite will return once we go over this.” He turns it over, picking it up to hand to me.
The paper trembles in my hands, though I try to keep my grip steady. One page. One heavy stock page with a clean, professional letterhead. From the office of Congressman Slade DuPont.
Slade. My eyes catch on his first name, but then the words non-disclosure agreement glare at me, and I skim the first few paragraphs. My heart thuds in my chest as I do. Between the lines of standard NDA language, it’s cold. Precise and unapologetic.
He wants confidentiality. Irrevocable consent. I can’t disclose information “verbal, written, or otherwise obtained” during my time at the lake house.
I-I don’t understand. But as I read, the wording sharpens.
This Agreement applies to any knowledge of activities, substances, individuals, or conversations witnessed or otherwise discovered on or near the property identified herein.
I swallow hard.
Including, but not limited to, ingestion of gamma-hydroxybutyrate (GHB), and the parties present during said occurrence.
My thumb tightens around the corner of the page. What is GHB? Ingestion? I glance at the vial on the table.
Oh god. My stomach flips.
Why is this so formal? They’re protecting trade secrets. Not someone’s body. Not mine.
The Receiving Party shall not disclose or reference said information to any third party, including but not limited to legal counsel, law enforcement, media outlets, or immediate family.
Violation of this agreement will result in immediate legal recourse and potential criminal prosecution, including pursuit of financial damages and injunctive relief.
“What is this?” I whisper, the words barely leaving my throat.
Edmond sighs. “Congressman DuPont would like this signed. Anything that happens in the twelve hours you’re here is not to be disclosed to anyone. That includes the other girls.”
My lips tremble and my chin quivers. What’s he going to do to me?
I toss the paper down.
“Thea, please find comfort. Slade DuPont will not force anything from you this evening. You are free to eat, shower, and get a good night’s rest. The non-disclosure agreement is for this.” He reaches for and snatches the clear liquid off the table.
“What is that?”
“GHB. Gamma-hydroxybutyrate. More commonly known as the date-rape drug. However, it can also help you.”
I blink, scooching away from the vial he still holds in front of me.
“It is a central nervous system depressant that causes drowsiness, lowers inhibitions, confusion, and unconsciousness.”
“And what am I supposed to do with that?” I ask. Drug myself to forget?
“I’ve already explained too much. If you’d like to know the rest, Slade—er, Congressman DuPont—requests you sign the NDA.”
I stare at the verbiage on the single page, my mind spiraling.
Eat. Shower. Rest. Three magical words that are singing to me right now.
Louder and louder, overpowering the rich scent of meat and potatoes lingering.
Louder than the whir of the chilled air blasting into the room.
And louder than the pounding of my heart.
Why would he need my silence? It’s not like I could tell anyone even if I wanted to.
Unless … unless he plans to let me go someday?
My pulse trips over the thought. It could be a trick, another leash wrapped in the legal ink most politicians use to further their agenda.
Or … or maybe this is a way to keep me alive.
I want to know, I realize. I need to know, to find out, right?
My eyes scan the signature line.
What kind of girl signs her silence away to know the secrets of the monster who made her need it in the first place?