Chapter 6
SIX
Chantal
I’ve officially cried myself dry.
I’ve been locked in this musty bedroom for what I’m pretty sure is going on three days—the sun’s set twice, but without a clock who really knows?—and I’m spent.
My tear ducts have as good as filed for bankruptcy.
The room they’ve stuck me in might’ve been fancy at one point in time. Maybe back when Coco started House of Chanel circa 1910.
But in today’s terms, it’s old and decrepit.
Its high ceilings with crown molding have collected cobwebs upon cobwebs, and the faded damask wallpaper peels at the seams like dead skin. The bed I’m lying in creaks even at the slightest movement, and the linens smell like they were run through the wash using dirty scum water.
There’s a fireplace in the corner that’s been boarded up, and the heavy velvet drapes clash so horribly with the rest of the room and are such an ugly eyesore it makes me cringe.
Old money gone to rot.
A property left to fester with nobody but mice and the masked men around to witness it.
The cold soup on the tray by the door mocks me. It’s been sitting untouched since it was delivered last night for dinner. The thick, congealed substance might’ve been tomato based at one point, but now it’s grown a weird film over the surface that makes it feel more biohazard than edible food.
Served alongside the so-called soup is a hunk of bread that looks like it could double as a doorstop—or maybe even a weapon to knock somebody out with—and a neatly folded beige jumpsuit I’m assuming they want me to put on.
Joke’s on them!
This Retrofête cost me forty-four hundred dollars. I specifically picked it out for my romantic getaway with Greg, the delicate pleating and plunging neckline both on trend and sexy as hell on my thick curves. They made my body look scrumptious.
A few days later, the short green frock is now torn and riddled with mystery stains that mortify me to even begin to think about.
But I’d still rather wear this than that travesty they call clothes.
The jumpsuit is beige.
Not even a cute taupe or a warm camel or that gorgeous brown-butter shade that was all over the Jacquemus runway last season.
Just… beige. The blandest, most basic, boring shade. The color of nothing. The color of a woman who has lost all hope and also all access to her stylist.
I’m not there yet. I absolutely refuse.
Here’s the thing about hunger strikes and hygiene protests, though—they only work if someone actually cares whether you eat or bathe.
Based on the complete lack of concern from my masked captors, I’m starting to think my strategy needs a revamp.
What would Simone do?
She’d probably tell me to stop being dramatic and start being smart. Use my assets. Work the angles.
I didn’t spend a lifetime watching Dad schmooze donors and twist arms on Capitol Hill—and just as long watching Mom finesse every room she ever walked into—without learning a thing or two about the art of manipulation.
Charm is a weapon, and, baby, I’ve got it in spades.
Always have, always will.
Time to stop the tears and get my head in this game.
A tap at the door interrupts my scheming.
“Come in,” I call, voice raspier than usual. What three days of crying and very little water does to you; it makes you sound like you smoke like a chimney and go through a pack a day.
The door creaks open, groaning on the ancient hinges in desperate need of oil, and in scurries the mousy woman who always delivers my meals. She’s carrying a fresh tray as she arrives to collect the old one.
Slender to the point of looking fragile and pale enough she comes across as sickly, she has dark hair cut into a pixie and eyes that never meet mine. Her clothes are plain and worn; a simple gray dress that hangs off her bony frame, making her resemble a mouse more than she already does.
It’s even in her movements, how she scurries around, darting from spot to spot as if trying hard not to be seen.
Up until now, I haven’t really noticed her; I’ve been way too busy wallowing in self-pity.
But that’s about to change. It has to if I have any hope of making it out of this flea trap.
“Hi,” I say. “I don’t think we’ve officially met. I’m Chantal.”
The woman freezes mid-step, eyes darting to me like I’ve just pulled a knife instead of offered a greeting. She sets the new tray down at the foot of the bed and picks up the old one. Then she starts to turn, about to scurry back out of the room.
“Wait!” I say desperately, sitting up on my knees. “Um… what’s your name?”
She hesitates for half a second, then mumbles, “Sorcha. My name’s Sorcha.”
It’s only a few words, but enough for me to pick up on a vague accent.
Irish maybe? Scottish? Welsh?
I genuinely can’t tell and wish I’d paid more attention the times I’ve traveled to the United Kingdom.
“Sorcha,” I repeat. “That’s so pretty. Sort of ethereal. Sort of like... some mystical woodland fairy or something.”
She stares at me as if I’m speaking in tongues, her pale eyes round and large.
“Listen, Sorcha.” I scoot off the bed, moving slowly so as not to alarm her.
“Is there any chance—and I know this is a super big ask—but could I get access to a cleaner bathroom? Because the one attached to this room is...” I pause, searching for a diplomatic word and come up empty.
“Um, there are things growing in there that I’m pretty sure are alive.
Either way, I’m not going in there without a hazmat suit. ”
Her cheeks flush a faint rosy shade. “I cleaned it best I could, miss. It’s an old bathroom. It needs renovation.”
“Right. No, totally. I get it. Budget constraints, I’m guessing?
” My head tips up for a glance at the water-stained ceiling and old chain-link chandelier that hangs precariously overhead.
“It’s just—and promise I’m not trying to be difficult here—but I went from hot baths at the Four Seasons to this.
You can’t expect me to go from luxury bath salts and fluffy robes and tiny chocolates on my pillow to mildew and rodents. It’s just… it’s not humane.”
The Four Seasons reference sails right over her head, which tracks. She doesn’t exactly scream five-star-hotel clientele.
I draw a shuddery breath and change the subject.
“Can I at least know where I am? Like, geographically speaking. Are we back in New York? Whose house is this? Because this place has haunted-Victorian-asylum energy, and I would really love some context. It might help ease my mind.”
Her body goes rigid, as if she’s recognized I’m fishing for info.
It’s fear based. Not fear of me, but more so fear of what happens if she answers my questions.
“I have to go, miss,” she mutters.
Then she’s slipping out the door before I can get another word in.
The lock clicks behind her, trapping me inside once again.
I stay where I am, staring at the door as I process my first failed attempt to do something other than weep.
Okay. So that was a flop. But Sorcha’s not totally a lost cause.
I can probably work her slowly over time.
…but the question is, how much time do I have? How much time am I willing to suffer in this Addams Family hellscape?
I’ll just have to work fast. I’m excellent at making people like me, even when they’d rather not.
It’s literally my superpower.
My gaze falls to the tray she’s dropped off. More gross soup and brick-like bread. I heave a sigh and pad toward the tray, deciding if I’m going to play the long game, I need to keep my strength up.
The rest of the day crawls by at a slug’s pace.
I force down a few spoonfuls of the so-called soup and almost gag.
It doesn’t even taste like Campbell’s, which should be the bare minimum. It’s somehow thick and congealed but runny and flavorless all at once, tasting more like ketchup diluted in dirty water than tomato bisque.
All it does is make me groan and think of brighter days having brunch at Café Boulud. Thinking how good I used to have it and didn’t even realize it.
I push the tray away and resign myself to starvation after all.
The bathroom remains a biohazard zone.
I work up the courage to peek behind the shower curtain and immediately shriek at what I find. A water bug the size of my thumb scuttles across the cracked porcelain as if angry I’ve disturbed his private abode.
The tub itself is permanently stained an eggshell hue that warns of a tetanus infection waiting to happen should I step inside.
There’s mold creeping up the grout between the tiles. The toilet works only barely but makes the sound of a dying whale every time I flush.
I miss my bathroom at home so much it physically hurts.
The rainfall shower. The heated floors. The little diffuser that makes the entire powder-pink room smell like rosewater and lavender.
Instead I’m stuck in a Victorian nightmare, still wearing my ruined forty-four-hundred-dollar dress, reeking of three days’ worth of funk.
This is pure madness. What the hell did I do to deserve this?!
It’s the question I turn over and over inside my head as I spend hours sitting at the barred windows. The view isn’t exactly scenic, but that goes without saying.
The estate is pretty massive—that much I can tell even from my limited vantage point—but it’s been allowed to deteriorate.
The hedges are overgrown and unsightly. What seems to have once been a garden is now a wild alcove tangled with weeds.
A gravel drive winds up toward the house but has gone unpaved for so long it needs a complete retool.
There seem to be no other properties close enough to call neighbors.
But in the far, far distance, if I squint hard enough, I can make out the Manhattan skyline, which tells me we’re back in New York.
…unless I’ve lost my mind and am hallucinating, which wouldn’t even surprise me at this point.
Still, if I’m within viewing distance of Manhattan, then that means it’s not so farfetched to believe I can escape. That I can make it out of this in one piece, with all my fingers intact.
The next question becomes: Who are these people? Just who are the men who are holding me captive?