He clears his throat when I don’t continue. My palm smooths over the hardcover book in my lap.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“The book?”
“No. The bookmarker.”
I slide out the torn paper, uncaring that I’ll lose my spot. Yesterday’s date screams at me. Eight weeks here feels impossible. “I’m sorry,” I say, peeking furtively at the desk drawer where I’ve stashed the calendar. “I took it from the library.”
He makes a thoughtful noise. “It’s been some time since you visited the cinema. Perhaps a movie will lift your spirits?”
“My spirits are fine,” I say and return my attention out the window. “Anyway, when I’m not forced to be in here, I like it.” I don’t mention that I do more than look from my window; I wait. When Hero hears about this and finally comes for me, I’ll be here, at the open window, ready for him.
“Very well. The Master of the House has requested your presence at dinner this evening.”
My head whips back to him, and he chuckles lightly. When the reverberation of his words dies, I’m left with two warring feelings: instinctual fear and a visceral need for answers.
“Please don’t argue or ask to decline,” Norman says.
“I won’t.” I’ve given up my quest for answers with the staff, but I can’t help feeling a new door has finally opened. I’ve been tempted to ask about Guy, but keeping my secret feels like the only thing in my control.
“You’ll need to dress appropriately,” Norman is saying through my thoughts. “Please choose something semi-formal. I’ll send Rosa in to help you.”
When he closes the door behind him, I leave my windowsill to go to the closet. I examine each piece with new appreciation. Money was tight for me growing up, but sewing was a hobby of my mother’s. I never took to it, but I’d often keep her company as she worked. I touch chiffon to my cheek and smile.
In the shower, I overload a sponge with soap and scrub with purpose. I wash my hair twice and condition. Afterward, I take time painting my face, trying not to think of what it means that I want to look nice.
Rosa is in a good mood when she shuffles into my room. I close my eyes and relax as she gently drags a comb through my wet hair, tugging lightly to free any tangles. Her sturdy fingers pull hair off my face, grazing my temples. It’s not often that anyone touches me anymore. My head falls forward, hair creating a dark veil as she brushes. I haven’t even touched myself. My mind makes up for it with occasional wet dreams, sometimes about a shadowed man abusing my mouth. I am guiltiest when I catch myself replaying them during the day.
The floor-length, tea rose pink dress I choose resembles a nightgown. In a way, it’s a small step up from what I’ve been wearing around the house. I’m oddly excited when I slide into heels, even if it’s just to wear them downstairs. I ask Rosa twice in halting Spanish if she’s sure I should wear them at all, and she confirms with a nod.
She accompanies me out but vanishes once we reach the base of the steps. I don’t need her anyway; I could find my way around the mansion, at least the parts I’m allowed in, with my eyes closed.
But no amount of time exploring this place could’ve prepared me for what I see next.
As I round the doorway into the dining hall, everything I know, all my myriad theories, anything I believed to be true shatters to pieces. Beautiful olive-green eyes framed by black rims bring my world to a halt. Where Guy Fowler should be sits Calvin Parish.
10
My hand spreads over my stomach and clutches my dress. I try to inhale, but air comes in short, impossible wisps. “Mr. Parish?”
“Have a seat,” Calvin says, his voice dripping with heart-stabbing indifference.
I take a step backward and make jolting contact with the doorjamb. “Where’s Guy?” I ask, my head shaking out of my control. “What are you doing here?”
“This is my home.”
“How?” I whisper.
“I’m not sure I understand your question. Have a seat, Cataline.” He removes his glasses with a heavy sigh. “I’m certain you’ve been warned about my patience?”
With tentative steps, I inch my way to sit at the opposite end of the table. As I do, his eyes drop from my face.
“Norman?” he calls, and instantly Norman appears. “What is this? She looks ridiculous.”
“It’s customary for dinner guests to dress as such in your presence, Master.”
“No need for formalities that will only confuse the girl. We’re not playing house here.” His attention returns to me. “Going forward, come to dinner as you are. And on that note, don’t call me Mr. Parish. Calvin will do.”
I swallow, running my hands over my silk-sheathed thighs. It wasn’t long ago that my mouth stretched from his throbbing dick. I shake my head quickly. “This can’t be real,” I say softly to the table. “This whole time—these last two months, I thought . . .” My head overflows with questions faster than I can keep up. I look up again. “Why are you doing this? What do you want with me?”
For rarely having ever made eye contact, his gaze is unnervingly fixed on me. It’s almost more shocking to have him stare at me so directly than what I’ve just learned.
“Norman,” he says without looking away, “excuse yourself.”
And again we are alone. He leans forward with agonizing slowness to set his elbows on the table. “I won’t answer those questions.”
“Why not?” I pause, awaiting a response. “Are you working with Guy Fowler? Is this because of what happened at the restaurant?”
A muscle in his jaw twitches. “No.”
“No what?” I cry. “No, you’re not working with him, or no, it’s not my fault?”
“Please, don’t get hysterical. Remember your place.”
“My place?” I repeat. “I don’t know my place.”
“The fewer questions you ask, the better. They’ll only lead to disappointment, as anyone you come in contact with has been instructed not to answer them.”
“For how long?”
He shakes his head, an admonishment.
My nails dig painfully into my palms, but I can’t seem to unfurl them. “You’re going to jail for this, and then to hell.” I falter delivering the words, but my need for information is quickly eating away at any fear. “Who do you think you are?”
“That’s a question I will answer. You know me as the founder of the company where you work, your boss . . . but I’m more than that to you now. I hold your fate. As such, you should do as I say if I care enough to say at all.”
“How long have you been planning this?” I ask quietly.
His eyebrows rise lazily.
“You’re psychotic,” I say. “How many other girls have you done this to? And what does this have to do with Parish Media?”
He sighs. “Nothing, I can assure you.”
“Where am I?”
“You’re still in New Rhone.”
Something in my chest breaks loose and relief manifests with a jagged sigh. I am triumphant, clutching to this nugget of reassurance. I lean forward in my chair and open my mouth.
“You’re a glutton for disappointment it seems,” Calvin says. “Go on, ask it.” Slowly he rises from his chair and stalks toward me. My eyelids beat rapidly, and my head tilts further and further until I’m looking up at him. He inclines over the arm of the chair so he’s hovering above me. His nearness is something I’ve furtively wished for in the past, and now that I have it, I don’t know what to do with it. “Why you?” he asks. “That’s what you want to know, isn’t it?”
I nod breathlessly.
His head slants to the side. “I often ask myself the same thing. Why you?”
Time slows. My lips split apart to breathe him in. I’m swimming in green, unfamiliar green, fighting a war I’ll never win. I reach up and feel his jaw, put my finger in his mouth. My arms are too heavy to move, though, and I’m drowning. My hands remain lifeless in my lap, where they always were. We are a mirage, but separately, he and I are real.