BILLIONAIRE (Part 6)

by Jones, Juliette

  The dream fringed my awareness darkly, stealing a degree of brightness from the day. I wanted to see Alexander, and reassure myself that he was real, and that I was safe. I walked to the door and turned the knob.

  At first I thought it was stuck.

  My heart skipped a beat as the cold terror bubbled up. I tried again, twisting frantically.

  He’d locked me in.

  $

  I might have blacked out for a minute, from the residual, billowing fear that was a product of my upbringing. The surging intensity of it, in fact, surprised me. It was the one thing I hated more than any other: that feeling of being locked in with no escape.

  It unhinged something in me.

  I couldn’t believe Alexander – my Alexander – would do such a thing. This wasn’t a door to the outside world. This was his bedroom door. Downstairs was his apartment door which led to the elevator and the hall to his office. There was a doorman and a locked, guarded front door of the building. No one could get to me here. This wasn’t about my protection.

  This was about my entrapment.

  He didn’t want me to leave. He wanted full control over my whereabouts, to such an extent that he would lock me up.

  It was too much.

  I thought of calling him but I was too angry. He was the very last person I wanted to speak to at that moment. It didn’t matter that he was doing this for his own peace of mind. The bottom line was he didn’t trust me on some level. He wanted to control me and own me and dominate me, which was all well and good when it was consensual and in the name of sexual satisfaction. This was something different. This was beyond the scope of what I could tolerate.

  I picked up the intercom that buzzed down to Alexander’s kitchen. I knew Alexander would be in his office, but I thought Claude, Alexander’s chef, might be here. He worked some evenings, preparing food, cleaning and arranging Alexander’s travel plans, if he had any. I’d met him only once, in passing. “Hello?” I said into the speaker.

  Nothing. The swirls of anxiety were surging through my veins like ice-fire.

  “Hello? Claude, are you there?” I could hear the shaded anxiety in the echo of my voice.

  A crackle. Then a voice. “Hello?” He seemed surprised to hear a female voice. Of course he would have been expecting Alexander’s orders, not mine.

  “Claude, it’s Lila.” I almost screamed at him, Let me out. Please help me. I need you to come and let me out. I fumbled with a request that might sound reasonable. “Uh, I wondered if you could bring me something to drink. Yes, a drink. Alexander said I could order anything I liked, if you don’t mind bringing it up, that is.”

  “Not at all,” he said. “Should I call Alexan—”

  “No.” My answer was too sharp, too urgent. I made a point of at least attempting to smooth my panic. “No, that’s not necessary. He’s working and I’m waiting for him in his room. I’d just like a glass of champagne, if it’s no trouble. If you have some there.”

  “Of course. We always keep champagne. I’ll bring it right up, Miss Lila.”

  “Thank you. Oh, and you’ll need to bring a key if you have one. The door seems to be locked.”

  He paused at this, then gave a stilted, “Of course.” I could only hope he’d obey my wishes and refrain from alerting Alexander. But then he probably knew that Alexander didn’t like – to put it mildly – to be interrupted when he was in his office; this detail would be my salvation. My release. My freedom.

  I had to get out of here. The panic continued to roll and to coil itself into my gut.

  I paced as I waited. My heart raced erratically. I willed myself to calm down, reminding myself that there was no need to overreact. But my psyche didn’t seem to want to listen. It was too ingrained, this fear, too unruly. Too fresh, after the horrible dream. As I paced, I realized that the sound of the lock clicking into place would have summoned my subconscious fears. That’s why I’d had the nightmare, because Alexander had insisted on imprisoning me, whether to stop me from working with him or just because he was an overbearing, unreasonably-obsessive tyrant, I didn’t know. I didn’t care. All I wanted to do was escape from this closed room, which seemed to be shrinking. I could almost feel the walls closing in. My skin felt clammy and cold with sweat and my mind whirled in full-blown panic.

  A soft knock rapped at my brain. “Miss Lila?”

  I rushed over to the door. I heard the key click into place. Those few seconds felt unfathomably long as Claude fiddled with the lock, finally releasing it. The relief I felt when that door swung open was indescribable. I almost threw my arms around Claude in a fit of uncontrolled gratitude. Claude was tall and thin, and mild-mannered. His eyes were a clear sky blue, giving him a look of cleanness, like he was a tee-totalling vegan or something, unsullied by sin and substance. He looked wholly surprised by the state of me, with my luxurious coat and wild eyes. His expression was wary, cataloguing his role in this unexpected scene. I could see the thoughts play across his face: Should I have unlocked this door? Was it locked for a reason? Will Alexander be angry? Will I get fired and lose my ridiculously fat salary considering all I do is occasionally cook and clean for a filthy rich mogul with questionable scruples and an imprisoned, crazed sex slave? Or some such.

  Claude placed the bottle of champagne on ice and two glasses on the table outside the bedroom door, clearly reticent about entering the room itself. “I should probably give him a call—” he began.

  “No,” I said quickly. Too quickly. But I continued, unable to stop myself. “Please, Claude. Please. Please don’t call him.” Then, I tried my best to smooth his concern, to lay whatever qualms he might have been having to rest. “There’s no need. Alexander will be back any minute. I’ll tell him how happy I am that you brought me champagne. And so quickly. Thank you, Claude. Alexander and I are celebrating. I start work on Monday.”

  I was babbling, I realized. Claude continued to watch me with obvious confusion. Who was I? Was I really Alexander’s employee? And if so, what was I doing locked away in his bedroom? There were too many odd questions floating around to work through. It was easier to just ignore them, to let him be on his way.

  I stood in the doorway, watching him retreat, making sure the door stayed open. I poured myself a glass of the cold, bubbling liquid as I stood there, and I drank it in thirsty gulps, feeling better already. I took the new iPhone Alexander had bought me out of my bag and placed it on top of the empty glass. I didn’t want him calling me. Or tracking me.

  After drinking one more glass of champagne, I closed the door behind me and walked down the grand, curving staircase. I didn’t have to enter the kitchen to make my way to the front door. Silently, I let myself out.

  $

  It felt strange to be back on the busy streets again, alone. It had now been several weeks since I’d been away from the company of Alexander for more than brief separations. The streets seemed dirtier than I remembered, and more chaotic. I’d grown accustomed to opulent order, after all, of an almost complete removal from the real world.

  I also wasn’t used to the extreme attention I seemed to attract. People noticed me, and I wasn’t sure why. Sure, I was dressed in obviously-expensive clothing. My coat and my boots were both to die for; these were the details the women noticed. Their eyes followed me as I walked past, taking in the impeccable cut of my garment, the stylish boots, and my long hair, I couldn’t help notice. Blond hair and expensive clothes were hardly traffic-stopping in New York City, but I continued to feel like a freakish spectacle as I walked along the streets, with no particular destination in mind.

  I let my coat fall open to allow the late-afternoon air to cool me down. Between my anxiety attack and my hasty escape, I felt flushed, and spooked. Several men stopped in their tracks as I passed them, their eyes drinking in the shape of me, the tight-fitting and very-short dress I wore. I was almost amused by their reactions. Was I really that noticeable? I’d run my fingers through my hair after my shower but hadn’t bothered dr
ying or styling it, so it was long and loose, a little disheveled, like I’d just crawled out of bed, which, come to think of it, I had. Could they sense my vulnerability, and my newfound sexual awakening? Something about their expressions suggested to me that they could. That on some base, primitive level they were reading my femininity and my fertility despite all the layers of civilization we found ourselves mired in. I might have been an unstable mess, but I was hot: this is what they noticed. I could see it in their eyes. It was exactly the look I’d spent years trying to avoid by wearing thick, unfashionable glasses and baggy, dull clothes. By stooping under the weight of books and never making eye contact. Times had changed.

  I stopped to look at the window display of a swanky furniture shop. The couches and chairs were exotic-looking. Animal skins and leather. Maybe this was where Alexander shopped, I thought, a pang of confused despair seeping into my bones.

  Now one step removed from the bad dream and the locked door, a glimmer of calm sanity was returning to me. But I was far from cured. That horrible dream had reignited hidden, painful cloisters of my past that I’d hoped were well and truly behind me. Something about the dream and the damage clung to me, like cold, wet, invisible leaves. Damn it all. Maybe I needed therapy. I thought I’d managed to evade all that, to work through these issues myself through study and hard work and convoluted avoidance techniques. Why was it all returning to me now? When I thought I’d moved on?

  My only answer to this question was that Alexander’s behavior had kicked up an innate, survivalist defiance in me. My piece of mind and sense of safety had been profoundly violated as a child, shattered many times over. As much as I loved the protectiveness Alexander showed towards me, there was a line that had been crossed. It pissed me off, too: I’d told him about all that. Had I mentioned how he, the monster, had locked me up? Had I made it clear how terrifying that had been for me? That Alexander knew all that – or at least some of it – and still chose to lock me in his admittedly luxurious prison, it just didn’t sit well. At all. I needed a break. I needed some time to think and to breathe.

  Still, I missed him. I missed the haven of him.

  Of his apartment and his money.

  Of his strong arms.

  I missed his face.

  Had I acted too rashly? Probably. The two glasses of champagne I’d chugged had given me a frantic courage and, now, cast the city light in a soft, sparky glow. The fact that I had no money and no phone seem less urgent than maybe it should have. I could always go to Eva’s, I reasoned. She probably had another roommate by now, but I knew she’d let me sleep on the couch if it wasn’t already being occupied. Or even in her bed, if that wasn’t already being occupied.

  I didn’t feel like going there yet. In fact, after thinking it through, I decided I wouldn’t go there. Alexander would look for me there. He knew where Eva lived and it would be the first place he’d search. I wanted him to worry about me. I wanted him to be anxious, after what he’d put me through.

  What I felt was completely reckless. Utterly lost. Free, in the loosest sense of the word. Not good free, entirely, but adrift.

  “Wow,” a male voice said, diverting my attention. A man stood next to me, and he was facing the window, but his head tilted towards me, stealing a glance. His eyes roved my face, my lips, my hair, wandering to the low cut of my dress and the curve of my breasts. “That leopard sofa is amazing.” He wasn’t looking at the sofa.

  His eyes were green. He had dark blond hair and a business suit on. A nice one. Expensive. He wasn’t excessively handsome but he was nicely groomed. He was making the most of what he had. “My name’s Mick. Mick O’Neil.”

  “Hi, Mick O’Neil.” I wasn’t feeling especially social. I turned back to the window.

  But Mick O’Neil was persistent. “Can I buy you a drink? Or something to eat? I was just going to that new fusion restaurant on the corner, and I’d love some company. If you’re not busy.” He was a flirt, and his eyes were friendly, edged with undisguised interest. He had that Irish thing going on, of smiling, open-faced eagerness. He seemed harmless enough and I was hungry. Famished, in fact. In the end I hadn’t eaten much of the ice cream, I remembered, feeling a stab of curling woe at the memory. Among other things. Mick noticed the blush that rose to my cheeks as I recalled the only form of nourishment I’d had so far today. Mick couldn’t have know what caused me to blush but he seemed riveted by it. “You are incredibly beautiful,” he said.

  I glared at him, suddenly wary.

  He immediately backtracked, smiling apologetically. “I’m sorry. That was out of line, maybe. It’s just that … you are. I couldn’t help noticing. I’ll try not to notice, if it offends you. So, how about that drink? Will you join me? My treat. I hate eating alone.”

  “Sure,” I said, mindful of my empty wallet, my nonexistent bank account and my craving for another glass of champagne. I was destitute, unemployed, at least temporarily estranged from my perfect, obsessive billionaire boyfriend. What I felt like doing was getting wasted. To forget about Alexander for a few hours. I wasn’t a big drinker, after watching my mother slowly wither away and die from her disease, but I knew I was nothing like her. I didn’t just want to forget my troubles, I wanted to have fun. Right now. Mick O’Neil seemed like a festive, upright sort of a guy. And he was paying.

  He started walking and I followed, falling into step beside him. “You haven’t told me your name,” he said. “You don’t have to, of course, but since we’ll be having dinner together, I’ll need to call you something. Just in case I need to say something like, ‘Pass the butter, Miss Ridiculously Sexy’ or ‘Can I offer you another glass of wine, Gorgeous?’ See, I don’t want to offend you again.”

  “Lila.”

  He was a congenial guy with a sense of humor that might have appealed to me if I hadn’t had the day I’d had. Make that the month I’d had. I was used to Alexander’s lofty, almost-arrogant steadiness. I’d liked that about him, how we didn’t feel the need for constant, banal conversation to fill the gaps; we’d been as comfortable with silence as we had with words. Our personalities had fit together, somehow. His idiosyncrasies and flaws had meshed with my own.

  Until he went and fucked everything up.

  We entered the restaurant, which was glinting with modernistic chrome and shiny glass. Mick took my coat and hung it on a nearby hook. His jaw visibly dropped as he took in the sight of my clinging mini-dress, but he caught himself, forcing his gaze elsewhere. It was a dress Alexander had bought for me in Paris, to wear, he’d said at the time, in private. You’re a goddess, he’d said when I tried it on. I can’t believe you’re real. And you’re mine.

  Efficient staff offered us a table, filled water glasses, gave us menus, recited specials, took drink orders.

  I sipped champagne and listened to Mick O’Neil’s chatter, wondering if Alexander knew yet of my desertion. I looked at my watch, the gold one he gave me. In Paris. I was surprised to see that almost two hours had passed since I’d left Alexander’s apartment. He’d probably answered his emails by now. I pictured him returning to his bedroom, finding me gone. The thread of satisfaction I felt, knowing he’d be frantic – no, crazed – when he found me missing, was laced with guilt, and sadness. I wanted him to worry, yes, but I also wanted to comfort him. To reassure him. To explain to him that he couldn’t act like that. Like a dictator who held the only key. I couldn’t handle that kind of treatment. I didn’t want to be trapped, or locked up. It scared me. It scared me to the depths of my lonely, broken soul.

  I wanted to forgive him. I wished I could. He must have had a reason for doing what he’d done, even after I’d tried to explain to him. Maybe I hadn’t explained well enough. My thoughts felt muddled and hazed by the effects of my turmoil and the alcohol I’d consumed.

  “Lila?”

  Someone was speaking to me. Mick O’Neil.

  “Here, have the last of it,” he said, topping up my glass. “I can order another bottle if you want.”

>   Oh, God, I’d drunk the whole bottle, while stewing over Alexander, feigning interest in Mick O’Neil’s stories about his work as a stock broker and his seven half-brothers. I’d tried to eat some of the sushi, but the more I drank the less hungry I felt.

  Mick was sitting very close to me in the retro-style booth. So close, in fact, that his thigh was touching mine. My dress, I noticed then, had ridden up to the very top of my thighs. It was indecent, really, especially since I wore nothing underneath. “Lishen, Mick,” I said, and was surprised to hear that my words sounded slurred. I made an effort to steady myself. “Thanks so much for dinner, and the champagne. I really think I need to get going now.” I tried to stand up but the room tilted, and I sat back down.

  Mick O’Neal’s hand slid over my thigh, and the expression in his eyes changed, almost imperceptibly. Like a shadow had drifted across his face. I recognized that look. Intensity. Danger.

  “Don’t go yet, sweetheart. We’re just getting started. Have another drink.” His arm slung itself around my shoulders and his gaze was on my nipples, which were clearly outlined by the thin knit fabric. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous. We could get a cab together. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. Come on, I insist.”

  I was very drunk but I could still hear the warning bells, clanging loudly. Mick had also been drinking. Whiskey. His hands were getting bolder and his manner had changed. He no longer looked friendly. He looked focused. And very, very determined.

  I wanted Alexander. I wanted him to rescue me, to keep me and hold me and shield me. And not lock me up.

  “Sure,” I said, a clawing sense of self-preservation kicking in. “Let me use the ladies’ room first, then we’ll grab a cab.”

  Summoning every ounce of self-control, I stood. I swayed slightly but managed to grab my bag and walk towards the bathroom. Finding it, I glanced behind me, relieved to see that the bathroom door, as well as that of the restaurant kitchen, were hidden from view of Mick’s table. I went through the kitchen door. The room was hectically busy, and crowded with restaurant staff. Some glanced at me curiously, but were too busy to take much notice of me. I wandered through, finding a service entrance, which led out to a back alley. It was dark outside now, and raining. I almost turned back when I realized I’d forgotten my coat. But that would’ve been too obvious, of course. I couldn’t go back for it.