Chapter 23 Thea #2
It is nice, though, to have my pick of food at every meal.
My body has changed too. After the first week, I slowly noticed a difference.
My curves are back, voluminous like before.
I’m still on the thinner side, but the weight that trickled off from a diet of green juice and chicken has returned, and my shape is more feminine.
“Here.” Stefan serves me two slices topped with heart-shaped strawberries and drizzled in syrup. I blink at it. Okay, I may not have room for cereal, too.
“Thank you,” I say, taking the plate, shuffling over to the kitchen table, and sliding in.
“So, what’s on your agenda today now that it is raining, Miss Thea?” Edmond still hasn’t looked up from what he’s reading. What is he reading?
“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll help Stefan with his work.” My eyes flick to Stefan, and he stops flipping French toast to shake his head at me.
“No. I’m off to the produce shop today. We’re low on everything. I swear since you came around, we go through twice as much fruit and vegetables.” He waves the spatula at me, and I grin back at him with a mouthful of breakfast.
He wrinkles his nose and wipes his wrist on the lime-green bandana resting on his forehead.
Edmond doesn’t say much as I eat, sopping my strawberries in the leftover syrup. A dull haze clings to the room, and when a cloud-shaped shadow moves across the table, it exposes the concern in his eyes. I glance at the iPad.
“Can I see that?” I ask, gesturing to it with my fork and half-eaten fruit.
“He wouldn’t be happy if I gave this to you.”
“It’s not like they print newspapers anymore.”
“The iPad is not just the news. There are rules, Miss Thea. Ones even Slade cannot break.”
“Fine,” I say, scooting closer to him and straining to see. Heck, I’d settle for the date. This lake house bubble creates an illusion of time standing still, but I know weeks have passed.
He shakes his head, but slides his arm over so I can make out the headline he’s reading in the digital news app. While he’s distracted by his fried egg on rye, I read it.
Disappearances of Chicago Women Surge—Law Enforcement Doubles Down ‘There’s No Concern.’
My mind flips, and I jerk back, only to lean forward again. Who wrote this?
Piper Reeves.
The name is familiar—I remember seeing some of her other articles in the Chicago Chronicle. She’s searching for answers, and I … I have them.
Edmond jerks the iPad back, and I resume shoveling the rest of my food into my mouth, realizing Stefan somehow snuck another piece onto my plate. Between my bloated stomach and the lulling rhythm of the rain, I could use a nap, and it’s not even 8:30 a.m.
“What time to do you leave?” Edmond asks Stefan. He drops his tablet onto the table, and I eyeball it before quickly glancing away.
“Soon. I need to factor in time for the weather.”
“I have to run errands for Congressman DuPont, so I guess security is Thea-sitting.” He chuckles at himself, but I groan.
There goes my entertainment today. Stefan will be gone, and unless I want my hand slapped for messing in his kitchen, I’d better stay out of it.
I follow Edmond around at times, trying to figure out exactly what a butler does. Seems as though it’s more than typical.
The housekeeper might come today. Could I help her?
I finish my breakfast and put in my requests with Stefan. Although he says he doesn’t care what I want to eat, he never fails to make it.
Two hours later they both leave, taking the tablet with them, and I’m left wandering around the lake house barefoot.
The rain continues to fall in slanting sheets, tapping against the windows, as I drag my fingers along the wood paneling in the hallway to my room.
When I enter, I head straight to my dresser, attempting to find something comfortable, but as I yank open drawer after drawer, I groan.
Lace, silk, straps, zippers, and tags that itch—there’s nothing here that screams rainy day veg-on-the-couch.
It’s an Edmond-curated pile I’ve never had before, let alone the nerve to wear.
It’s better than what I had at EV—better than the barely there lace, or the matching sets that rubbed when I was only a number, one of many. Guilt crawls behind my ribs, uninvited.
I dig deeper, hoping something will magically appear, but each drawer tells the same story.
I rock back on my heels, sighing. This romper is about as comfortable as I’m going to get in my wardrobe, but Slade’s …
He’d kill me. But I also know from firsthand experience he has some comfortable T-shirts, so he might have sweatpants, too?
Darting up, I scramble out of my room and run to the stairs.
I quickly scan for security, but they’re regulated outside the house.
Running up, I make it to his suite. It’s wide open, so I hurry, bolting into his walk-in closet, and stop dead in my tracks.
It’s absurd. Nearly as large as my en suite bathroom and organized with a precision that feels personal.
I doubt the housekeeper did this. Maybe Edmond.
Suits line one side—black, gray, charcoal—in the only color I’ve seen him wear.
Button-downs hang crisp and untouched without a wrinkle or thread out of place.
“My goodness …” I whisper, suddenly self-conscious of any and all noise I make.
My fingers hover above his starched sleeves.
The familiar scent of him clings to the fabric in here—a clean laundry smell with subtle hints of faded cologne and masculine musk.
Greedy, I inhale as I brush the first sleeve, roaming from suit to suit.
I get lost in the shell of Slade DuPont—so formal, so cold, but there has to be more.
I’ve seen it in his bedroom decoration, in the comics just outside the closet.
Built-in drawers line the back wall, and I open the top to find silk ties and cuff links methodically placed.
I move to the next drawer, then the next, finally reaching the bottom to find it—the holy grail.
Tucked in the back, a plain gray hoodie worn at the cuffs.
I pull it out, unfolding it as my lips twitch into a half smile.
This doesn’t belong here, which is probably why I love it.
Tristan used to lend me his hoodies or shirts, but I wasn’t drawn to them like I am these.
Something black and yellow folded in the drawer catches my eye.
Batman shorts. No, boxers. A barking “bahaha” bursts out before I can stop it.
I stare at them for a long while, smiling.
This, this is the real him buried beneath it all.
Not the suits. Not the silent congressman, but the guy with secret Batman shorts and a worn hoodie.
And it’s exactly what I need.
I’m not sure what comes over me, but I peel off my romper right there in the middle of his closet and expose my lace undergarments to the entirety of his wardrobe before I slide on the Batman boxers, which to be fair fit me like pajama shorts, and shove my arms into the hoodie.
It’s fleece lined and I wrap my arms around myself.
A door slams somewhere, and my eyes widen.
I kick my clothes out of the way and fly out of the closet, pausing briefly to appreciate his room.
Then I dart out of it, rushing down the stairs and into the living room to plop on the couch.
It’s probably the housekeeper, considering Edmond and Stefan haven’t been gone that long.
Or security looking for me, and if they found out I was playing dress-up in Slade’s room …
I reach for the remote on the coffee table beside a seashell that makes zero sense in a house on a lake, but whatever.
Flipping on the TV, I scour the abundance of channels, ones I never had growing up since we couldn’t afford cable, and I hunt for something to watch.
You’d think with so many I’d find something quickly, but I don’t until I hit the movie channels. And there—The Dark Knight just started.
I smile, pulling the folded blanket over, and curl my legs beneath me as the screen flickers in the dark and the movie fills the empty void of the house. My mind drifts to Slade, and I wonder what he’s doing. So much so that I miss the opening scene.
I’m midway through the movie when a door opens from down the hall. I rise from my slouched vegetative state, push my curls out of the way, and crawl the length of the couch to see the hallway.
I startle back as Slade strides down the hall, hands in his slacks.
Behind him, the door to his office swings shut, and that must’ve been the door I heard earlier in his room.
He meets my gaze as he strides forward, head tilting to the side as he traces the pull-strings of the hoodie. His nostrils flare.
Crap. He’s noticed.
The rain is still beating against the house, but it’s quieter. Or maybe that’s me holding my breath. The living room lights are off, and when he enters, his eyes flick to the TV, then to me before he sidesteps to the lamp and clicks it on.
I shrink away from it, pulling the blanket back over me.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“I, uh, watching a movie?”
He stares at the screen, sucked in, and I observe him as he shuffles closer across the rug. When he doesn’t say anything, only stands there hovering, I ask, “Want to watch? I’ve never seen the whole thing before.”
He pushes up his frames, backpedaling to the couch and sitting the farthest away from me.
He stays focused on the screen. “I know people love The Dark Knight. Ledger as the Joker—it’s iconic.
But Batman Begins doesn’t get nearly enough credit.
Have you seen it? It’s the perfect origin story.
Shows him choosing to be the Batman.” He looks at me and does a double take. “What?”
I bury my hands in my sleeves, fists curling on the inside against the fabric. I slip a hand up to my mouth and cover the grin spilling from me. He isn’t even doing anything, but that’s the most I’ve heard him say since I’ve met him, and for some reason, it ruins me.
His hand comes up to rub the back of his neck as his jaw tenses. He glances at me, barely a flick of his eyes, but I trace the tightness of his expression to the tips of his red ears. He swallows and shrugs, and the way he tries to hide makes my chest ache.
“It’s nice to hear you talk,” I say.
“I’m sure you didn’t care to know all that.”
“It’s nice to hear you talk about anything, Slade.”
He rubs his hands together, shoulders relaxing.
I continue. “I’ve never seen Batman Begins. I’ll be honest I haven’t seen much. Oh! But I did see the Marvel movies with my boyfriend, er he was my boyfriend.” Guilt reprimands me as I realize I haven’t thought about Tristan at all.
Slade nods, the muscles in his neck flexing, and he leans back into the couch.
“Is Batman your favorite?”
Another nod.
“Why?” I ask.
“He’s always been. I really took to the Batman comics as a kid. My grandfather … he …” Slade pauses, his eyes dim, and his expression turns unreadable.
“He what?” I reach for the remote and pause the movie.
“Nothing,” he says. “Batman was just a guy. No powers. Just trauma and lots of money. He was human, flawed”—heated eyes bounce back to me—“obsessive. As a kid, it felt like anyone could be Batman. The part where he bleeds, breaks, but still keeps going. It sticks with you.”
The rough rasp of his voice cuts through the quiet of the muted TV.
Low and even, his words fall into the space between the trancelike rain.
I scoot closer, just a few inches, enough to feel the warmth rolling off him, and I lean into the cadence of his voice.
But it isn’t just the timbre of his words, but the words themselves.
“Is that why you … why you work to give the girls a fighting chance behind the scenes? Like you yourself are a vigilante in disguise—”
His expression revolts. “No. No. I’m not a vigilante. I’m not good. It’s not about justice, vengeance, or a noble cause. And like Batman, the core of it all is rotting.
“I’m not good,” he says again. “I allow this to happen, so that eventually I can bring them down.”
“Slade …”
“Batman isn’t pretending to be good. He’s just trying to outthink the monsters. Sometimes, to stop the worst of them, you have to be worse.”
What do I say to that? He’s sunk deep into himself, and anything I have to say feels too small. Instead, I reach out and rest my hand on his thigh. The muscle is taut and thick, and the moment I touch him, he shudders. Tension grows beneath my palm, and I almost pull back. No. I stay there.
He brings a hand to meet mine, covering it.
His skin is calloused, but his grip causes heat to bloom up my arm.
It ignites something under my skin. He doesn’t say anything else, and he doesn’t look at me either.
With his other hand, he reaches across his chest and picks up one drawstring, rolling the plastic tip between his thumb and forefinger.
“Is this my hoodie?”