Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Bianca
He's going to lose his mind when he finds out, and I know it.
I'm sitting in a roadside diner, and my hands are shaking. Thankfully, this is one of those places where people don't question you when you walk in looking a little out of place.
I've been planning this for a couple of days now. I got the brilliant idea that if he thought I was still injured, he wouldn't think I could escape. So I pretended. I pretended it hurt more than it actually did. I pretended I was wobbly and unstable.
I pretended I hadn't found the phone where he'd locked it up.
I was smart enough not to use it at first. But then, when he left, I went right to work. He didn’t know I’ve been watching him. I saw where he put my phone. I watched as he put in the password, and I bided my time.
At first, my fingers hovered over the screen to text Marcus. You'd think someone being held captive would, at the first chance, contact people who could save them.
But… no.
Maybe Ashland's words have been getting in my head, and I can't get them out.
Marcus killed two women before you.
How would he be able to hide something like that? Ashland is either crazy, or…
I shake my head and sip the now-tepid coffee.
Then I texted Marcus anyway, despite every instinct telling me to wait, to think, to listen to the warning bells going off in my head. I texted him and told him where I was.
And now Marcus is on his way.
Now that my thumb isn't hovering over the send button anymore, now that it's done and I can't take it back, doubt creeps in cold and heavy.
What if Ashland was telling the truth?
Now I have to face Marcus, and I… I don't want to.
Shouldn't I be looking forward to seeing the man I'll be married to? Shouldn't I want to tell him the truth about everything ?
Shouldn't I want to be… rescued by him?
But Marcus really isn’t the rescuing type—he’s the type who pays someone to do it for him.
All I can think about while I sit in this diner, tapping the vinyl tabletop with my finger, is whether or not Ashland's discovered that I left yet.
When the doorbell jingles, I look up, half expecting to see furious silver eyes zeroing in on me.
But no.
Ashland doesn't come.
He's your kidnapper, Bianca.
And Marcus is taking his sweet time.
“ You've decided to come back ,” his text said. “ Where are you ?”
I send him my location, then slip the phone into my jacket pocket. Will Ashland come after me again?
My hands are wrapped around the coffee. It doesn't taste as good as Ashland's.
My god. I can't think like this.
The phone in my pocket feels like a loaded gun, and my hands are trembling. Have I really fallen victim to full-blown Stockholm syndrome?
Every time the door opens, my heart races. I keep checking the parking lot through the windows, listening for the sound of Ashland's heavy footsteps.
But he doesn't come.
Why doesn't he chase me?
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“Can I get you something else to eat, love?”
The waitress stands with her hands on her hips, her head tilted to the side. She's seen this look—I know she has—the look of heartache.
“No, thank you.”
She shakes her head and pushes a few more creamers and sugars onto the table, as if that will help.
“Don't need to tell me anything,” she says. “I can see the way your eyes dart to the door, hoping someone will come after you.” She pauses. “For what it's worth, love, it won't always be this way. I promise.”
She reaches over and squeezes the top of my hand.
I bet a woman in a place like this has seen quite a lot. She truly believes I've been through a bad breakup or something.
Why do I feel like… she's not that far from the truth?
I should feel… free .
How am I both dreading and wanting Ashland to storm in, find me, and drag me back to that cabin?
The cognitive dissonance is making me lose my fucking mind.
I escaped. I made it out, and I'm no longer his captive. I texted Marcus just like I planned.
I'm crazy, and the only explanation is that he fucked with my mind.
No. No, I'm not crazy. I'm traumatized. There's a difference.
But wait—is there?
I stare at Marcus's contact photo. He looks handsome, put-together, normal. He doesn't look dangerous. He doesn't look threatening. He doesn't look like he could pull someone apart with his bare hands to protect me, like…
I can't think about this anymore. Every time I think of being with Marcus, I see Ashland. Ashland .
I shake my head violently and dial Marcus.
“Bianca.”
His voice is wrong. Cold. Distant. Perfunctory.
“Yes, it's—it's me.”
“Almost there. Where are you sitting?”
“It's a… small place. You'll see me straight away.”
He doesn't ask if I'm okay. He doesn't say, Thank god you're safe , or really, anything at all .
“Alright. Are you going to tell me why you left?”
I open my mouth to tell him the truth, but I can’t. Instead, what comes out is, “I'm sorry. I just needed some space.”
I don't know why I lie.
Maybe I don't want to see Marcus go after Ashland. Maybe I don't want a war on our hands, because that's exactly what it would be. Maybe I don't want to see Ashland get hurt.
I'm truly losing my mind.
“I've been worried sick,” he says, but it sounds like something rehearsed. “Your mother's been frantic.”
Is he reading from a script?
“Well, I'm back now.” Why do I sound so listless?
“Listen, I have an important dinner tomorrow night. Will you be able to pull yourself together appropriately? Will you attend, or do I need to tell people that you're unwell again?”
Unwell.
The word hangs there between us. Is that what he thought?
“I’ll be… fine.”
He didn't ask if I'm hurt. He didn't offer to come get me immediately. He's worried about how I look… for dinner.
“No, I'm fine. I just needed some time.”
I can hear him audibly sigh. “I don't understand what this tantrum was about, Bianca.”
Tantrum?
What the hell is he talking about?
The contrast between him and Ashland slaps me like a hand across my face.
Ashland: Did he hurt you? Did he touch you?
Marcus asks me if I can pull myself together.
Ashland knew how I took my coffee.
Marcus doesn't even know my middle name.
“I’ll be there soon. We have things to discuss.” Something about the way he says it makes my stomach tighten.
“Alright. I'll be here.”
“Good. Now sit tight and call your mother.”
He hangs up on that somber note.
He's just stressed , I tell myself. He doesn't know what happened. This must be my fault for worrying him. Because who just takes off and doesn't give any explanation about where they're going?
But it feels like the echo of the way I used to think, not what I actually believe now.
If I just explained—if I just told him …
No. What can I say? I was kidnapped by a man, but he actually takes care of me. He’s been very gentle and kind to me, and I hurt my ankle trying to get away.
Well, that's going to come out wrong.
I swallow hard and fidget with a little sugar packet on the table in front of me, flicking it with my finger.
A shadow looms nearby. I blink, and my head jerks up, but it's only the waitress back with a thick slice of apple tart on a plate.
“Here,” she says quietly. “This is on the house. I thought you'd like this.” Then she leaves.
This woman actually thinks I'm hurt. She thinks I'm nursing heartache. She doesn't know I'm free, that I escaped. She doesn't know that I…
I press my palms to my eyes.
Then why do I feel like I broke up with somebody?
Why do I feel like somebody broke up with me?
I stare at the tart. Golden crust, cinnamon-sugar glaze, the apples soft and glistening. It smells like comfort, like safety, like something Ashland would have made for me on a cold morning.
Marcus would make a comment, something about carbs, about my figure, about the wedding dress fitting properly. Something wrapped in concern that's really just… co ntrol.
That’s what it is, isn’t it? Control.
I grab the fork, and I take a bite.
It's fucking delicious.
I take another. And another. Each bite feels like rebellion, like reclaiming something. The sweetness dissolves on my tongue, and I close my eyes, savoring it.
When I open them, I catch the waitress watching me from behind the counter. She gives me the smallest nod, like she knows exactly what this moment means.
I finish every last bite.
As I push the plate away, a long, sleek black car pulls up out front.
Ashland hasn’t come.
He didn't come running after me.
He hasn't chased me.
But neither does… Marcus.
One of Marcus's men walks into the diner, staring around the place with disdain, his lips turned in a downward frown.
“Miss White,” he says, lifting two fingers and gesturing for me to come. “Mr. Crowning is waiting in the car. Let's go.”
He scowls at the empty dessert plate and the cold coffee. He reaches into his pocket and throws some bills on the table.
And all I can think of as I leave is…
What have I done?
When I get into the car, Marcus is on his phone. His jaw is tight, his lips set in a thin line.
I've been kidnapped. I was taken. I've been held hostage, and I escaped.
I fucking escaped.
And he doesn't even look at me.
Of course he doesn't know that, but…
“Have a seat,” he says, his eyes flicking up to mine for barely a second. “You alright?” As if he's throwing me a bone from his plate.
“Yeah. Yes, I guess?” I whisper, but it's more of a question than an answer.
He gives me a nod and returns to his phone.
As soon as the door shuts, he sets his phone down, and his eyes grow dark.
“Your mother mentioned that you were acting strangely before you left. We should discuss getting you some help.”
“I don't—I don't need help.” My voice is small. “And… seriously, nice to see you too? ”
He presses his lips together. A muscle twitches in his jaw as he looks out the window.
“Well, I hope this episode is out of your system, then. I won't have my wife just disappearing on a whim.” He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “I've had to make excuses for you. This is embarrassing.”