Save Me in the End

by Rea Winters

  Hanson shut the door behind him and saddled up on a stool at the bulky wooden table in the middle of the kitchen. After pulling an encrypted tablet from his messenger bag, he tapped away at the keys, powering up several files at once. Information sectioned off into hologram panels projected from a glass sphere embedded in the rim of the device. As Hanson typed, all relevant panels enlarged while the others shrank and floated at their sides in square particles.

  “What’d you find?” Xara asked, though her attention was more so on brushing off her white t-shirt and jeans, which she somehow always managed to stain with coffee grains.

  “Roselyn Alejandra Hayden. Born and raised here in Selas, currently twenty-four years old. Greek native mother, Orelan-born Cherokee father, both deceased. The mother went first, then old dad met his maker as recently as late last year. She’s the princess of Hayden Industries, which boils down to a conglomerate of highly influential tech companies founded by the old man’s old man – Roselyn’s grandfather. Family’s wealth didn’t start there, though. Traces as far back as the Tobacco Boom in the mid-sixteens. For the past few generations, the Haydens have consecutively been only-child families, so she’s technically the last of her line - give or take some great uncles or distant cousins who married into other families a long time ago.”

  “So, she’s old money and she’s all alone. Got it. And the deep dive?”

  “Here’s where things get interesting and a lot more transparent. Apparently, our friend Rosie was a bit on the sickly side for the better part of her young life. She’s had four heart surgeries, including a full transplant. Spent most of her time in hospitals or at home instead of schools and parties. Lost her mum around age ten and then spent the rest of her formative years being raised by nannies, nurses, tutors and maids.”

  “Not a lot of life experience.”

  “Exactly. So, I’m guessing that’s why even though everything with the old man’s name on it technically belongs to her, it’s all managed by his former assistant, who now works as a Proxy Chairman at the company and also happens to be our Rosie’s fiancé.”

  “And who’s that?”

  “One Perry Jamesan Pryce, currently thirty-five years old. An east coast native, who migrated to Selas to work under H-Industries in her mid-twenties. Hayden Senior practically placed his daughter in this Pryce’s custody, which wouldn’t be so bad if not for this.”

  With a few more taps, three other boxed blew up before them. Xara bent forward with her palms square on the table, squinting at the screen. Her squint became a low eyed glare as a big piece of this job’s puzzle became clear to her.

  “Yeah,” Hanson seconded the assassin’s unspoken thoughts.

  Ms. Pryce is no stranger to legal trouble, having had some complaints of domestic abuse and assault illegally buried via greased palms during her time on the company ladder and even before that in her youth.

  Since the date she was fully cleared to stay home, Rosie had never been to a proper doctor’s office again. Instead, a concierge medic would stop by the mansion bi-annually to perform standard check-ups. Wouldn’t be out of the ordinary on its own if not for just after the father’s death, when this trusted family physician began receiving handsome bonuses after late-night visits to the estate where he reportedly treated Roselyn for ‘self-inflicted’ injuries such as cracked ribs and dislocated shoulders.

  “Either she’s really good at flinging herself down stairs without cracking her head open or–”

  “Pryce is beating her.”

  Old wounds of her own popped a stitch or two, always did in cases like these. Her blood came to a simmer both at the imagery of what happens to Rosie and the memories of what used to happen to another woman in her life who had been very dear to her. One she failed to save from bastards like Perry James Pryce.

  Xara knew what to expect then. This fiancé was hurting her, so Rosie Hayden wanted her dead. And she was more than happy to oblige.

  06.

  Arrays of champagne and liquor floated around on steel trays held up by dainty young women and equally delicate boys all dressed in slinky black dresses and golden accessories. Soft jazz played in the air at a volume slightly lower than the waves of abounding chatter.

  Rosie and two hundred other people were on the roof top of a skyscraper, mingling under blue and silver streamers and decorative hanging lights. The head branch of her father’s corporation was celebrating some milestone or an anniversary…some event Rosie couldn’t bother to recall that Perry had been boasting about over conference calls for the past month.

  She stood at a little round table nearest to the platform where the heads of the branch would give their self-aggrandizing speeches and handout praises to their favorite underlings. Her dark silver cocktail dress shimmered in the moonlight, but left her legs vulnerable to spring’s chilly night breeze. She had to clutch a full flute of champagne in one hand and hold the edge of the table with the other, subtly bracing against a barrage of physical discomforts. Her head was pounding and sweat gathered at her brow despite the chill as she endured an irregular flutter of pain in her chest that had steadily increased since their arrival.

  So consumed with wonders and worries over her meeting with Sir Vengeance, she’d forgotten to take all of her medication two days in a row and her body was making her pay. There was still time to remedy the worst of it, but the timing couldn’t be worse. Perry was set to take the stage any minute now.

  Rosie thought she could hold on until then, but once the cacophony of noise and the suffocating mixture of cigar smoke, liquor, and sharp perfumes began to make her stomach turn, she gave up and left the rooftop.

  She took the elevator down a few floors, exited on an empty office floor, and found her way to the restroom. A second after the door swung closed behind her, she trotted quickly past the connected lounge area, dropped the composed façade and with slightly trembling fingers, dug a bottle of anti-nausea pills out of her purse. She swallowed two of them with a palm full of faucet water, then braced against the sink taking deep breaths, waiting for the room to stop tilting.

  “Roselyn, dear?” An old woman called. She and two other older women from the party surrounded her, the former rubbing circles into her back. Rosie vaguely recalled meeting each of them at her father’s funeral some months back, the oldest woman being a close business partner and personal friend of his.

  “Are you all right, dear? Too much to drink?”

  “No, I just forgot to take my heart medication. Silly me.” She chuckled. “I’ll be fine in a few minutes.”

  “Rose!” Perry called after bursting through the door, quickly veiling her anger in concern when she saw the other women surrounding her. They decided to leave the couple and find another restroom, congratulating Rosie on having such an attentive spouse on their way out.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Holder.” Perry nodded polite farewells to the women as she held the door open for them, then pushed it closed and locked it. With a terse sigh, she fidgeted with her tie and stood on the threshold between the restroom and the lounge.

  “Are you okay?” she asked lowly with one brow raised.

  Rosie didn’t answer, instead focused on breathing as her heart rate began to spike again. Perry strutted in slowly with one hand in her pocket and used the other to jerk Rose’s arm, forcing her to turn and face her. The pills in the open bottle still clutched in her hand scattered across the counter and onto the floor. Perry scoffed, let her go and scratched her own brow.

  “How long do you plan on keeping this up?”

  Rosie didn’t answer, always unsure of what she meant during vents like this.

  “I get that you’re used to being coddled over every little sneeze, but that part of your life is over, princess. I told you countless times how important it is that the people out there see you supporting me. Yet, when it’s my time to shine, you’re nowhere to be seen. No, you’re in here, faking a stomach ache and getting babied by a board member. I thanked you for joining me here t
onight, pointed you out to the crowd, asked you to join me on stage, everything and you’re just gone. Had fifty people looking around and whispering about me—I looked like an idiot!”

  Rosie flinched, her fist curling around the pill bottle.

  “You don’t care, do you? All I do for you and you can’t even care enough to help me just this once.”

  She swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry. Well, I don’t need sorry. I need you to be less spoiled and selfish, Rose. Especially at times like this. I’m trying to build something here.” Perry gripped the smaller woman’s chin, forcing her to lock eyes with her. “You’re only as good as your last name. That’s your entire worth, Rose, and I am trying not to let that go to waste. Do you understand that?”

  She nodded. Perry sighed again, let her go, and faced the mirror, adjusting her tie and fussing over the lapels of her suit.

  “All I need is another year or two of your cooperation after the wedding and then I’ll send you somewhere nice. How does that sound, huh? Somewhere nice and quiet where you can spend all the time Dr. Devens recommends to collect yourself under the gentle care of our nation’s best mental aids. Just like I promised. Okay? Now clean this mess up, get your stuff, and come back upstairs. We need to do some damage control.”

  Rosie gave herself exactly one minute after Perry left to move again. Tilting her head back, she held back as many tears as she could, then took a few more deep breaths before squatting down and cleaning up her mess.

  In the quiet, dark wishes flooded to the forefront of her mind, setting her blood to a low simmer as a deep ache rippled through her chest. She hadn’t heard the restroom door open, but registered the heavy steps approaching. Quickly, she wiped her face and stood, prepared to face whoever it was with a pasted-on smile.

  “Sorry about the mess, I—” Excuses fell back into her throat as she stared, stunned by the person before her. As if the ache in her soul had summoned her, Sir Vengeance stood before her in a black suit, red tie, and the same shiny sunglasses and tight ponytail. She swiped the pills from the counter into her large palm, then gently extracted the bottle from Rosie’s loose grip and shuffled them back inside. From her jacket pocket, she pulled out a folded piece of paper with writing on it and slipped it inside the bottle before sealing it up and putting it back in her purse.

  Then she stepped a little closer. Close enough to reach up and gently stroke away a tear on Rosie’s cheek with her knuckle. Her thick brows furrowed and long jaw clenched tight, twitching slightly despite her efforts to keep her expression neutral.

  “Remember not to scream. Okay?”

  Rosie managed to nod, as confused by the towering woman’s words as she was captivated by the soothing tone of her smooth velvety voice, enhanced by the pin-drop silence of the room.

  After a closed-lipped sigh, Sir Vengeance slipped both hands into her pockets and left the room.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  The night came to an end with Perry carting Rosie around to different corporate elites who were delighted to get a good look at her, kiss her hand, and give their condolences once again on the loss of her father. Sent off with a few firm handshakes and winks of approval, Perry escorted Rosie to the door with a big satisfied grin on her face.

  They entered the car in silence and remained that way the whole ride from glittering downtown to their lavish suburban neighborhood. Perry’s personal driver rolled to a short stop at the appropriate sign just as a loud motorcycle rolled up to the side of the car. The broad figure behind the handlebars – dressed in a simple leather jacket, dark jeans, and a big black helmet – tapped on the driver’s window.

  The driver rolled down the glass a pinch. “Something wrong?”

  Her answer came in the hard thwack of a steel rod against the glass, shattering it into little pieces. Leather gloved hands swiftly gripped the driver by the back of the head and knocked him out with a few face smashes into the steering wheel.

  Perry and Rosie jumped, the former yelling and fumbling to get out of the car, while Rose was frozen in place. The scream caught in her throat slowly faded, an odd sense of familiarity taking over as she watched the mystery figure dismount the bike and stand beside her window, facing the street.

  “Hey! I’m calling the cops right now, pal. You better—you better just get out of here,” Perry threatened, her fake bravado shaking as she hid behind the trunk.

  The attacker balled her fists and marched behind the car. Perry stumbled backwards, tripping on the curb in a failed attempt to run away, and dropped her phone. Remaining eerily silent, the stranger gripped her by the hair, dragged her back to the street….

  “Ahk—no, please, no-no-n—uhck!” And bounced her face off the bumper.

  Perry sputtered on the blood from her broken nose. And her pain didn’t end there. It was only just beginning. Punches of fury rained down on every part of her body and Rosie witnessed it all from the back windshield, the horribly satisfying scene lit like a show in the bright taillights.

  When the stranger finished, she stood up straight, rolled her shoulders, cracked her neck, then pocketed Perry’s watch and wallet. Perry was left rocking and moaning in agony on the street while Rosie watched the stranger get back on her rumbling steel horse and ride away, yearning to hop on and never look back.

  07.

  "You useless bitch-grrh-fuh..."

  Rosie sat in a chair by the hospital bed clenching a fist hidden under the hand in her lap, forcing herself not to flinch at the corporate hyena’s vile words. She wouldn't touch her. Not for a while anyway. Perry’s doctor said it would take a couple weeks, perhaps longer, for her to recover enough to function normally. Between the concussion, two cracked ribs, a fractured forearm, and a face swollen and bruised to the shade of a rotten grape, the heiress prayed for longer.

  "You should've--gah, ahk--you should've fucking screamed fuh-for help..."

  Rosie kept her mouth shut, opting instead to keep watching her wince and fidget in disorienting pain. The doctor and a couple of nurses who arrived to check on them were surprised to find their patient writhing in agony until they discovered that the trigger to her morphine dispenser had fallen to the floor and rolled far under the bed. It had been kicked actually, not that they would know. Rosie chewed the inside of her cheek, resisting the urge to smirk with grim satisfaction at her small revenge.

  The doctor sedated Perry once more and she drifted to sleep with an ugly grimace on her face.

  "You're free to stay until visiting hours are over, Mrs. Pryce."

  "Miss Hayden," she corrected with an appropriately semi-pleasant smile. Once the carers left, Rosie stood over Perry, scowling down at her, refusing to let welled tears fall as she reimagined her beating with resentful pleasure.

  “You screamed plenty, didn't you?”

  Rosie left the hospital and returned home feeling safe and at ease for the first time in years.

  Even though it wouldn’t last, she allowed herself to indulge; played music and cleared the kitchen of the usual staff to bake a pie from her mother’s personal cookbook, putting a Greek-spin on an Orelancian classic.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  "Miss Rose?"

  "Yes, Julian?"

  "I understand your need for fresh air and a change pace what with the tragedies you've endured as of late, but are you sure it's wise to be alone right now? I don’t think Pryce-aobe would approve.”

  Rosie looked behind her at the semi-crowded city street, then back at Julian who was still sat in the driver's seat of the town car. Truth be told, she was a bit nervous, but it wasn't the frightened anxiousness that usually over took her. Just the opposite.

  "Thank you for your worry, but I'll be fine, Julian."

  "Okay. You call me as soon as you're ready."

  "I will."

  The older man rolled up the window and drove away, leaving the heiress stood on the street. She didn't stand out much, wearing a beige black-buttoned trench coat and sensible shoes, though th
e freshly baked pie wrapped in cellophane keeping her hands warm did garner a glance or two in passing. She had told her personal driver a.k.a. the Chaperone that the decorative dessert was for the old friend she had met in the park. The one he thankfully hadn't gotten a good look at it and she avoided giving too many details about. She had told him this old friend also owned a store on this street and asked her to visit. It wasn't a total lie.

  She walked up the street and rounded the corner to a quieter, more shadowy side of the block and found a small building tucked between two larger crummy ones. Double checking the address on the slip of paper, she swallowed, steeled her nerve as much as possible and entered through the black metal gate of a door. It was unlocked, just as the paper said.

  The stairway to the loft only went one way – up. The wood and steel steps were aged, dark, and narrow. The faint smell of ash in the chilled air came from the fires that led to the condemned status of the surrounding buildings. It all made her wonder what this area used to be like before it was ruined and forgotten.

  Remembering not to knock, Rosie let herself into the apartment. For a grungy setting, it was surprisingly spacious, clean, and lit brightly by hanging warm lights. Not at all like the scary dank garages seen in the action films she'd watch in preparation for this day. Hints of some kind of oil or polish pervaded the air over the smell of burnt coffee.

  She stepped further inside, placing the pie and her purse on the heavyset kitchen table on her way to the middle of the room. When a glance to her right and left revealed no one, she began to think perhaps she'd come on the wrong day or to the wrong place.