Chapter 6
Imogen
It was noon by the time I fell asleep yesterday, and I slept surprisingly well because it was almost six the following morning
when I woke. Which is pretty exceptional, considering I’m a prisoner of a reclusive billionaire who’s sick and twisted enough
to buy women like cattle. I half expected to wake with him standing over me, his mask removed and a lecherous grin on his
face, but thankfully the room is empty.
Sunlight streams through the open drapes and the house is eerily quiet, which makes the rumbling of my stomach sound incredibly
loud. I was too tired to eat more than one sandwich yesterday, and I was also a little suspicious of the purple sticky substance.
I recall Lincoln declaring that the kitchen was well stocked and available to me, so I suppose I should go make myself some
breakfast. Then at least I’ll have a full stomach and a clear head for whatever horrors this day has in store for me.
Freshly showered and dressed in a pair of leggings and a tank top, I make my way to the kitchen, anticipating bumping into
Lincoln Knight on my way there. But I see no sign of any life until I get to the kitchen where Pierre is rolling out some
pastry.
“What would you like for breakfast, mademoiselle?” he asks, still concentrating on the pastry.
I cannot remember a time in my life I’ve ever been asked what I’d like to eat. It’s a surprise to be asked it here, in the home of my captor. “Um. Do you have oatmeal?”
“Yes. How would you like it?”
“With water please.”
He lifts his head for the first time. “What? No milk? No honey? Berries?”
My mouth waters at the prospect of such decadence, but I remain firm. “No thank you.”
“Not even a little cinnamon?”
“Just water is fine, thank you,” I say with a polite smile that I know he cannot see, yet still it feels necessary. As does
my breakfast of oatmeal and water. The body has no need for sugar or unnecessary additives, Imogen! Larissa’s words ring in my head. Oatmeal is healthy and nutritious. A healthy body and mind is the key to strength, and strength is survival.
“Fine,” he huffs. “I will make it as soon as I am finished here.”
“Can I go out into the garden?” I ask, biting on my lip.
Pierre nods, focused on his pastry once more. “Mr. Knight said you are free to roam the house and garden.”
Right. Mr. Knight said so. I’m still nervous to open the door that leads me to the outside world, unsure what to expect.
He said the garden was walled, so I anticipate it will be small, but I’m wrong.
It must be at least half an acre, probably more—all tangled undergrowth and knotted brambles.
I imagine they were once manicured gardens now lost to the ravages of time and neglect.
A crumbling greenhouse juts out like an iron skyscraper in a city of green, its glass roof broken and vines spilling through the cracks.
It’s simply . . . the most wondrous thing I have ever seen.
I resist spinning around on the spot and squealing with delight, although I do it internally.
Somehow, I appear to have stepped into a world of fairy tales and secret gardens, and all the pleasant memories of my childhood are right here with me, like precious buds entwined within the knots and thorns.
I am Belle dancing with her Beast. I am Mary having adventures with Colin and Dickon.
I am not a lonely orphan child, unloved and unwanted.
Right beside the kitchen is a square patch of paving stones, which appear to have been scrubbed clean of the moss that crawls
over the garden walls. And in the middle is a small metal table with two chairs. Their green paint is peeling and faded from
the cruel sun. Still, they look inviting to me and I take a seat, tilting my face toward the sunshine and enjoying the warmth
on my skin. I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with clean air and the subtle scent of jasmine. I’ve already decided this
will be my favorite place in the world.
I have never felt so . . . unobserved? Would that be the word? Even with the threat of Lincoln’s cameras watching my every
move, I do not feel them. I feel no eyes on me. No judgment. There is no one standing guard, waiting for me to commit some minor indiscretion.
I believe I could sing a very loud nursery rhyme and nobody would care to stop me. I bet I could even curse. I could scream
obscenities and ruffle nothing but the long grasses, already swaying in the gentle morning breeze. I don’t do any of those
things though. Of course I don’t. They are foolish and don’t get me any closer to my goal. Finding a way out of this house.
Freedom.
I suspect what will bring me closer to those goals is unfortunately not within this beautiful garden, but inside the house.
The place where I still have so much to explore. If I look hard enough, I am sure I’ll find a way out. And if I don’t then
find an escape, surely time alone will offer me an opportunity for one. And while I wait, I’ll ensure that both Pierre and
Lincoln learn to trust me.
I’ll make sure they never break down my walls.
Never discover my secrets. I’ll be a good girl and do everything they ask me to, even if those things aren’t what I want to do.
Immediately, I push away those thoughts.
They’re too dark to sully this otherwise perfect moment.
And right now, I’m not being asked to do anything.
So right now is the perfect time to start looking for answers.
When I go back inside, the kitchen is filled with the aroma of apple and cinnamon. Pierre’s no longer here and there’s a pie
on the side counter, protected with a glass dome and waiting for baking, and another in the oven. There’s also a bowl of warm
oatmeal on the table, covered with a dish.
I eat alone, wondering if Pierre’s apple pie is supposed to be for everyone to enjoy, or just him and Lincoln. I’ve never
tasted apple pie, at least not as far as I can recall, but the smell alone is making my mouth water, and already bland oatmeal
is becoming considerably less appealing. I wonder if I’ll be permitted to relax my eating habits here, if even just a little.
I can still be strong even if I eat a slice of apple pie, can’t I?
After my breakfast, I’m still alone in the kitchen and I have zero idea what I’m supposed to do now. Lincoln did say I could
use the house as I wished, didn’t he? So, rather than sitting here on my own with the temptation of apple pie, I should get
to work and go explore this vast fortress I’m currently trapped in.
I’m bubbling with nervous anticipation as I make my way down the hall. This house is so unlike my grandfather’s estate. His
was much more modern. Minimalistic. All hard edges—glass and steel and marble floors, where every sound would echo through
the hallways. Nothing soft, not even the beds. Everywhere was muted in color, as opposed to the vibrancy of the rich red drapes
and the dark paneled wood of this house. I’ve never been anywhere so still and so peaceful, like the entire place is sleeping,
waiting for something or someone to wake it up.
I trail my hand over an antique dresser in the hallway, half expecting dust to collect on my fingertips, but there is none.
Everything feels untouched, like the inhabitants move through this place without leaving a mark.
Ghosts, even in their own home. What kind of man lives in such a house?
What kind of a man is Lincoln Knight? Who is the true devil behind the mask?
I wander the hallways, too cautious to venture into any rooms that I pass, at least until I come across a set of arched double
doors. They appear to be made of antique oak carved with vines and flowers in eternal bloom and they are begging to be opened.
What is the point of such exquisite doors if they are not to be walked through? I trace my fingertips over a carved rose petal
and feel an irresistible urge to push against the door. I glance around and find I’m still alone. Is he watching me? Are there
cameras hidden in every dark corner? Is he spying on his captive, waiting for me to make a mistake? Does he want me to open
the doors and peek inside? Is he waiting for me to find the things he hides away so that he can punish me for any indiscretion?
My curiosity wins out, and with a hard push, I open the doors wide until the hinges creak under their heavy weight. Immediately,
my nose is filled with the scent of old paper and aged wood. Perhaps I was wrong about the overgrown garden being my favorite
place in this house. Stepping farther into the room, I’m unable to contain my joy and I spin around, like a ballerina in a
music box, my mouth hanging open in awe. There’s no need to hide my feelings when I’m alone after all, and this library is
breathtaking. The ceiling rises almost two stories high, atop walls lined with shelves and row upon row of books. The same
bloodred heavy drapes that hang in the rest of the house dress the high arched windows, allowing in vast swathes of sunlight
that dapple and dance across the book spines. A tall ladder, almost the full height of the room, runs on a track around each
of the three walls lined with books.
Beneath one of the arched windows, an old-fashioned desk sits as though waiting to be used, and behind it, a heavy wingback chair.
Beside that is a small table, containing a crystal decanter half full of dark liquor beside a tray of glass tumblers.
The entire room is stunning and now I truly feel like I’ve stepped into a fairy tale—into the Beast’s castle itself.
“I see you’ve found the library.” His deep voice echoes in the room, reminding me this is more nightmare than fairy tale.
I school my face into neutral and turn to him. Lincoln Knight looks different today. He still wears a mask, but this one is
vastly different. It only covers the lower half of his face—like a surgical mask but made of thick black fabric. On closer