Chapter 8 #2
I work faster than I’ve ever worked, spinning a romantic tale of how we met on a ferry in the Western Isles last summer.
I even come up with an eloquent proposal he supposedly made to me on one knee by the loch.
I explain that we didn’t tell everyone we were engaged during the interview two weeks ago because the engagement had come about after I’d agreed to interview him and we didn’t want to upset Horizons Press.
I pretend we chose London because we both want to visit the British Library and the British Museum.
After all, we’re both meant to love books.
No sooner have I completed the last slide than my phone buzzes again.
I swipe up, breathing heavily. “I’m sending it to you now.”
He remains silent as I share it with him.
“What do you think?” I ask after a long beat.
“There should be a progression in the photos—from sexy to affectionate to loving to devoted.”
“Photos! I had to find them off of Pixabay,” I carp.
“Are you saying you’re incapable of making this montage?” he challenges.
“No!” I rush out.
“Good. Get working, Flame. I’ll stay up.” He makes it sound as if he’s doing me a favor.
Damn it all. I’m sick of combing that website for images. Everything has started to blend together and look contrived.
Before I can hang up on him, he rings off, leaving me to continue clicking through pictures.
An hour later, I’ve found photos that match his criteria and inserted them in the frames. No sooner have I sent him the post than he texts.
“Call me.”
I feel like a petitioner begging for a signature as I hit send. “What do you think?”
“The proposal needs tweaking to make me sound more devoted. Make the reason for our London destination a bit more mysterious and unique. The Western Isles meeting is decent, but neither of us sounds intrigued enough to push it to a second date.”
My jaw hangs open. “Is that all?”
“And find a captivating headline for the whole slide show. Something catchy like Mob Prince Charming Sweeps Edinburgh Social Influencer Off Her Feet.”
I grind my molars to a fine dust. “This will take till past midnight.”
“However long it takes, do it right. After all, you’re an artist, Flame. You wouldn’t have it any other way.” He kills the call, leaving me wanting to hurl my phone at the wall.
I work all night, sending him post after post, which he critiques and nixes.
He always gives me just enough hope that I can improve on the post to want to fix the mistakes, but an equal amount of despair that I’ll ever get it right.
I make two pots of coffee, blasting Bad Bunny’s Tití Me Preguntó for a burst of energy around 3 a.m.
By 6, haggard, bleary-eyed, and sluggish, I send him what I pray is the final version, all with the specifications he made an hour ago.
“Hmm. It’s very good, Flame,” he approves in warm tones. “But I’ve decided I don’t want us to share any of this with the world. These stories are ours to tell our grandchildren.”
“Grandchildren?” I splutter. “Are you serious? These are all lies! And we’re not having any grandkids. Forby, I’ve worked for ten hours on this hellish project. You can’t tell me we’re not posting it.”
His deep, satanic chuckle rolls down the line. “Yet that’s exactly what I’m telling you. Get some sleep, Iona. You’re getting crabbit,?1 and that’s not a good look on a bride-to-be.”
The line disconnects, and I’m left staring at the dish of fruit on the breakfast bar.
“I just wasted ten hours of my life,” I murmur, aghast.
I should post this project anyway, just to teach him a lesson. But posting it will have serious repercussions, and if I don’t have his blessing, I could get myself into a slew of trouble. I have no doubt he’d let me flail all on my own.
Why did he do it? There’s no question but this was an exercise in exasperating me. To drive me insane? To humble me? To demonstrate his power over me?
I’m so mad—and so jacked up on coffee—it’s awhile before I can relax enough to go to bed.
Before doing so, I compose a long, indignant text to him.
“I don’t know what you hoped to achieve tonight, but my takeaway from this experience is never to trust you.
You may make a mockery of my profession, but I take it seriously.
How would you like to have ten of your billable hours go to waste?
I’ve no doubt you’d make the client pay. I’ll make you pay too. Just wait.”
Feeling somewhat better, I send off the text and make some chamomile tea. Then I brush my teeth and crawl into bed, suddenly hit by a sledgehammer of fatigue.
* * *
For the tenth night in a row I wake up touching myself after dreaming of Leith.
In this dream he tied me to a pole and circled me while singing a taunting nursery rhyme about a sex-starved old maid and the young man who ate her out of house and home.
In the course of his song I lost all my clothes, until I clung naked to the pole, unable to hide myself.
For some reason my body and my unconscious find Leith’s mockery sexy. I rub myself until my pussy clenches on nothing, and a little orgasm explodes at my center. I’m frustrated with my body and psyche’s perversity—and perversion—yet I have no choice but to act on them.
Why should I be aroused by my enemy?
It’s almost noon by the time I wake up for good. Sleep-deprived and out of sorts, I stumble into the kitchen to make tea. Several worries crowd my brain at once.
For one, I know I ought to deal with my biological father, Phyfe MacGilson. Putting off our meeting will only make it worse. But I fear it like the plague, remembering how much he resembles the third man That Night.
For another, I have to give some explanation to Stennis for why one minute I’m calling him for Leith’s contact info and the next we’re riding in Leith’s car and I’m pictured with the debonair lawyer on my socials.
Young’s presence the other day deferred the inevitable, but it’s only a matter of time before Stennis confronts me.
Finally, I want to devise some form of revenge for what Leith did to me last night. It could be I haven’t delved deeply enough for dirt on him. I need to extricate myself from the marriage entirely or, at the very least, get him back for driving me so hard, only to call off the whole project.
Checking my calendar, I find I don’t have anything on till 4. I’ll use these few hours to concoct a suitable payback for my tormentor.
I can channel my rage into revenge.
1?irritable