by Lana Sky
There, lying on the exact spot where I was the other night, is a square object wrapped neatly in crimson paper. A black bow gives it a wicked finish. Anticipation and sweat slick my palms, and it’s suddenly impossible to breathe.
“Miss?”
I look over and find the security guard watching me from the mouth of the foyer, his lips pursed.
He has a radio pressed to his ear and static issues from it. “My manager is pulling the camera footage now. Should we call the police?”
“No.” God, I don’t know why that word leaves my mouth. Or why my gaze won’t leave the box. A foolish thought crosses my mind before I can quash it. How might Damien’s gift differ from Simon’s?
There’s no mistaking who delivered this parcel for me. I smell him, tainting the air. Cologne. Mocking smugness.
I know as surely as I know my own name that he’s overseeing this very moment. Waiting.
“I…I overreacted,” I say, my voice rasping. “This came from a friend. You can go.”
“Are you sure?” The security guard looks torn between the floral massacre and his crackling radio. “If you want to file a police report, it should be done as soon as—”
“I’m fine.” I force a grin to prove it and nod toward the door. “Thank you. I’ll contact the manager if I need anything else.”
The moment the door closes after him, my posture deflates. Damn Damien. I almost wish he’d sent me something truly awful to put Simon to shame. Something I could march down to the police station or leak to the tabloids—possibly turning part of the vicious tide against Heyworth Thorne. Something to counter the sickly-sweet perfume of dying roses and prove once and for all that this gesture is a threat.
Or I could leave. Daddy wouldn’t question too much if I returned home now with my tail between my legs. He’d prefer having me underfoot, always protected.
I’m still torn between the two possibilities when I finally cradle the present in my hands. It’s lighter than expected. I undo the bow and strip the wrapping paper to reveal a wooden box with silver fixtures. After making sure no brooding madman is lurking in the shadows, I sit and lift the lid.
Inside, on a bed of red silk, rests a small sketch reinforced on a wooden base. I hate the gasp drawn from my throat when I recognize the woman staring up at me. At first glance, it’s a chilling rendition: someone with features similar to my own, frozen in a mask of terror. A second glance, however, reveals something far worse.
The artist was skilled enough to depict everything down to the moisture glistening on her lips. The sweat slicking her skin. Her wide eyes and her bare chest heaving with bated breath. How her exposed throat almost demands raking teeth and violence. Destruction. Lust.
Poor woman, whoever she is. Damien violated her in charcoal and ivory.
In disgust, I flip the damned thing over and set it aside. Only to reach for it again and observe every line more closely.
I’m not sure how much time has passed when I finally notice the folded slip of paper lying in the box beneath where the sketch was. The message scribbled on it reads more like a command than a contrite request: I assume this apology suffices. My studio. Tonight.
A sound tears from my throat, startling me. Laughter? It’s been so damn long since I’ve heard the real thing. No polite, restrained hahaha. I’m doubled over, clutching at my stomach as uncontrollable giggling reduces me to a quivering mess with streaming, watery eyes.
When I regain my composure, I rip up his stupid note and sprinkle its remains over the carpet of petals. Then I enter my bedroom, intending to pack. Return to Daddy. Damn Damien to Hell.
But the bastard didn’t content himself with violating just one room of my suite. His scent conveys a haunting warning before I notice the lit lamp on my nightstand. Someone left an object resting against its metallic base. Small. Black. Shaped like an earpiece.
That son of a bitch. Judging from the faint layer of dust on the device, it’s been hidden, out of sight, for a while. Months, perhaps. Maybe even longer. I have no doubt that every bit of data and moment of vulnerability collected was used to create the profile of this vain, boring, materialistic woman he claims I am.
Tears prickle behind my eyes, and I choke down a desperate gulp of air. Breathe. He won’t win tonight—I can’t let him win. Without thinking through the consequences, I snatch up the device and bring it to my mouth.
“Enjoying the show?” I croak into it, hating how broken I sound. Fuck Damien. In fact… “You asked me if I was a virgin? Why? Is that how you get off? Manipulating women into bed? Does your blind-man act not earn enough pity on its own?”
Low blow, Thorne. I’ve never spoken to anyone like this before. Anyone. A thrill runs down my spine, feeding my resolve. Excitement, rather than shame.
“Sadly for you, I’d rather have sex with my doorman. Someone who doesn’t need to paralyze his women to feel in control.”
I break off, panting. For all intents and purposes, I’m shouting to myself. As far as I know, he could have severed this line. But no. A psychopath would never cut off communication with his victim first. He’s listening, and I intend to give him a damn good show.
“Frankly, I’m disappointed, Mr. Villa.” I creep toward my bed and mount the edge of the mattress. Unease flickers through my belly, but I ignore it. I’ve played by the rules of politeness for so damn long. He’s pushed me to the brink.
“I thought you’d be better with your hands. Should I give you a demonstration, you sick bastard?” I turn, lying back on the mattress. My fingers flutter hesitantly before roving down my hip and finding the clasp of my jeans. “Listen and learn, Mr. Villa. You wanted something interesting to spy on, didn’t you? Well, here’s a sample of what you’ll never hear in person.”
I flick the bug aside without bothering to see where it lands. Somewhere close. Then I eye the ceiling and focus on…
I don’t know. My hand seems to move on its own. It slides between my skin and the fabric of my underwear, finding the spot he assaulted that night. Damn it. The flesh feels different. Stimulated. Slightly sore. Because he’s a bumbling, sloppy idiot—not because of the effects of the drug, rendering my body immobile against him.
It has no trouble at all reacting to me. One stroke of my finger along my entrance and I suck in a breath. I rarely have time for self-indulgence. Simon was always watching. Maybe he still is. I swallow hard and start to pull my hand away. But my finger crooks as if it has a mind of its own, stroking again. Faster. Harder.
Another, softer sound tears from my lips. A gasp. There. That’s enough. Damien doesn’t deserve any more of my debasement to entertain him. But even the thought of his name makes my chest tighten. It takes more effort to force air into my lungs. Because I hate him. Not because my traitorous body remembers what it felt like. His breath on my ear. His voice, hoarse and constrained—unsteady for once. Are you a virgin?
Why the hell did he care?
More importantly, why the hell can’t I stop hearing him ask me that damn question?
Virginity. Virgin. Virginal. My hips arch against the bed. My touch becomes bolder, every finger desperate to recreate the friction he had. Almost. Almost… Yes. Sparks prickle as my finger flicks. I drive my teeth into my lower lip to smother the sound crawling up my throat. A groan rips from me, loud despite the attempt. He’ll hear that and there’s no taking it back.
Good. He can mock me all he wants. Sell the tape to the tabloids, even. But that will never erase the fact that he’s listening. Right now, the artist is forced to bear my own form of art.
I stop thinking and let my body take what it wants. Rapid strokes. Deliberate motions. More. More. More
But I don’t feel the fire until my brain follows suit, displaying images without permission. Thick, soft fingers. A masculine voice reverberating through my skin. His taste on my tongue.
Hate must be the world’s best aphrodisiac. My skin burns, overheated. Every breath doesn’t feel sufficient. My eyes squeeze shut. Fi
ngers curl.
There.
I only have the sense of mind to roll onto my stomach and smother whatever sounds I make into my duvet before everything inside me catches fire. Fuck Damien. I hate him. I swear I can hear him goading me on without an ounce of shame. Don’t tell me what you see, Ms. Thorne. Tell me what you feel.
Empty. And stupid. And…lonely.
Boneless, I lie flat on my bed as my final cries echo back at me. The silken material of my duvet did a poor job of muffling them. Every word is clear. Make that a name ringing out as I pant and remove my hand from between my legs.
I give myself only a second to recover. Then I roll from the bed and hunt for the bug. I carry the damn thing into the bathroom, held between two fingers like a dirty piece of underwear. Damien’s voyeuristic show ends with a splash as I drop the device into the toilet and flush it. After watching it disappear, I climb into the shower and scrub myself clean for the second time today.
Dripping wet, I crawl into bed without bothering to towel off. Before closing my eyes, I turn on every single lamp I own, flooding the entire suite with light.
And only now can I find some semblance of sleep.
Fitful, nightmare-ridden sleep, haunted by a man more terrifying than Simon.
Simon forced me to play his games.
I never initiated a round on my own.
Three days. That’s how long I last alone, locked inside my suite without even work to distract me. Each one ends with me having to field a phone call from Daddy. Odd. Before, his customary checkups came weekly, disguised behind the pretense of casual conversation.
Tonight, he’s far blunter. “I don’t want you going out alone without calling for an escort.”
I can tell from the background noise that he has the news on. A crisp-sounding reporter drones on about the latest headlines, but they’re too faint to make out. I take a stab in the dark and guess. The Borgetta case.
“What happened?” I ask. Yesterday, he questioned me about my habits. Why wasn’t I at work? Who knew that I had a detail following me? Why had I taken almost a minute to answer my phone?
“Nothing,” he says too quickly. “They’re calling for a storm tonight, so I just think you should stay in. I have to go. Have a wonderful evening, darling.”
A wonderful evening. I’d laugh if the current state of my day weren’t so pathetic. Without a television to use as a distraction, I lugged my old laptop from the recesses of my storage closet and spent the past twelve hours attempting to do work on the ancient dinosaur. For all I know, Damien bugged it as well. Just in case, I type FUCK YOU into a blank document, hoping whatever spying software he uses allows him to catch it. As my computer sluggishly attaches my finished files to my email, I open the browser and find myself hovering the mouse over the search bar.
The first news site I venture onto reveals an inkling of why Daddy’s so on edge—and not just because of Damien. A witness in the Borgetta case was reported missing by his family and found dead hours later. No leads.
Not only that, but the article links to one with a headline that catches my notice: The Curious Case of the Villa Family—and Their Money.
According to the author, Damien immigrated to the US in his late teens with two younger brothers, Mateo and Mathias. Twenty years later, he’s amassed a small fortune, but the circumstances surrounding his finances remain murky at best, and rumors of crime have dodged the family for decades—the worst of which was solidified when his youngest brother Mathias was convicted of Emily Borgetta’s murder.
And my father was the judge who all but sentenced him to death.
I shouldn’t pry anymore. Besides, Daddy told me all I needed to know of Damien. The key takeaway being: madman. I exit the browser only to find myself on the same page seconds later.
My, my. The topic of Damien certainly triggers an avalanche of search results. Thousands, actually. Dominating the top of the list are articles headlining his art and alter ego Sampson. Apparently, he doesn’t go out of his way to hide that part of himself.
Most of the articles read as though they were written by sycophants who’ve never met the man in person, so different from the few cynical pieces regarding his family. Artist captures the morbid honesty with dangerous charm. That earns a snort from me. I’ve found more charm in a cactus than I could ever find in Damien.
Regardless, I keep clicking, determined to hunt down anything sordid. Bingo. He was at the center of a scandal once, which nearly tanked his investment business and dragged his name through the mud: the Borgetta murder.
Despite the fallout, he put the bulk of his fortune into his brother’s defense fund as recently as this year. Each appeal brought new disturbing faces to light: potential evidence tampering, rumors of corruption in the prosecutor’s office, and racial bias. In fact, the overturned conviction came almost entirely from Damien’s dedication.
But it wasn’t enough to save Mathias.
No wonder he hates my father.
I close my laptop and eye the view from my window while digesting the new information. So Daddy may have blurred a few of the facts. Why? I sigh rather than come up with an answer.
Gradually, darkness falls across the horizon, but I can’t muster the strength to turn my lights on just yet. It’s easier to face myself in the dark. How disgusting am I?
Not enough, apparently. Three days later and Damien has yet to respond to my parting gift. Not that he should. Screw him.
But that’s the punchline, isn’t it, a part of me taunts. You want to.
I don’t. Despite everything, I barely even thought of him. During the day…
At night, my fingers took on a life of their own as my brain played a distorted slideshow of the night he drugged me. Over. And over. And over. Like a waking nightmare. One that left me gasping, and writhing, and flushing with a mixture of shame and guilt.
Fuck Damien. I almost want him to show up unannounced. It would give me a chance to play my final card. To see the look on his face when I call my father—
Speak of the devil.
There’s someone at my door. The handle jiggles, sounding impossibly loud in the silence. I swallow hard and slip from the couch while flicking through possible culprits. It could be a security guard or one of the men Daddy put on my detail finally deigning to show his face.
Or…
Someone determined to get in without announcing their presence. Without knocking, they try the handle again. Roughly. After the stunt with the roses, I had the hotel change the locks. I can’t shake the feeling that my visitor is caught off guard by that fact. They try the handle again. Again.
Only now am I aware of how late it is, past the hour when I’d usually be asleep. The perfect time for someone to slip in unannounced. Simon?
Air leaves my lungs in a rush. Before I can fully process my plan of action, I’m bounding into my bedroom on the tips of my toes. My phone is on my nightstand and I grab it, scrolling through my numbers. Daddy. The police. Someone. My trembling fingers can’t seem to settle on a contact.
“Th-this isn’t funny.” I know he can’t hear me. I threw the bug away.
Calling the police is a better course of action. I raise my phone to my mouth only to jump when a sound ricochets from the foyer. Bang! A sterner thud. Not merely a test of my handle, but a deliberate tug on it.
“If this is your idea of a joke…” I swallow the thought as my footsteps back me toward my closet. I’m a child again, drawn to obvious hiding places.
Hide. Run. Don’t breathe.
The police never believed me then. They rarely do now. Good monsters know how to hide in the dark. How to master it.
“Stop,” I tell the shadows as another thud reverberates from the hallway. “You win.”
Bang!
Terror robs me of the ability to speak. My chest heaves as I stand against the closet door, clutching a heel I don’t even remember grabbing from my floor. I brandish it in a shaking fist. Waiting… Waiting…
Finall
y, my tormentor grows bored and calls to me by name. “Open the door, Juliana.”
God, it’s like my body reboots at the sound of that accent. Then anger jolts me into action. I march into the foyer, and I don’t bother to look through the peephole before throwing the door open. I can smell him.
Sure enough, he swallows the doorway, blocking the light from the hall. An enigma of black cotton and gray satin.
“You fucking bastard. How dare you—”
“Step aside!” He brusquely shoves me from his path as he says something else over his shoulder. Snarled words I don’t understand. Spanish?
It’s only when another man pushes past me that I realize who he’s speaking to. Dressed in black and built like a bear, this newer man switches my lights on and prowls my suite with a hound-like intensity. I swear I hear him sniffing the air.
Denied my anger, I can only question, “What is this?”
His jaw clenched, Damien says nothing, leaving me to decipher what’s happening on my own. They’re searching for something. Someone. He’s far too tense. Worried? If this is his way of apologizing, I’m not convinced.
After a few minutes, the brawny man reappears from down the hall. “Claro.”
“Good,” Damien replies. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard his voice so hard. His accent crackles like lightning over thunder. “Return to the lobby and survey the crowd. Report back if you see anything out of place. If not, take up a post on this floor. Somewhere discreet.”
The man heads for the door. “Sí.”
The moment he’s gone, I whirl on the remaining intruder. My palms connect with his chest and I shove hard. He barely even flinches. Fine. I settle for slapping him instead. I’ve barely connected with his cheek before my wrist is captured in his grip.
“You’re hysterical.” He sounds as if he’s trying to convince himself of that fact in order to maintain his composure. The last time I slapped him, he issued a warning. I won’t let it happen again.
“I’m hysterical?” My voice echoes back to me. A stranger’s. “You sick, fucking—”
