by Mason, V. F.
And art apparently heals a soul or so the shrink said who told me Esme had experienced trauma, but she would overcome it in time.
Still, I felt like the worst sister in the world, especially when Esme told me if I loved her, I wouldn’t let her stay with Grandmother.
His arms soothed me though along with whispers of forever as he held my ring finger up, studying the platinum band with diamonds on it. He had proposed the minute we moved in together.
But after my prince beat me, everything was lit up in different colors, flashing all our time together and tainting it with a disgusting darkness. Small details I hadn’t noticed before sent alerts through me, forcing me to study his behavior from a different angle.
His irrational jealousy that somehow always ended up being my fault, his disapproval of my friends after the birthday party, and how they slowly stopped calling. How he hated me cheerleading, and I became so fed up with the arguments I quit. I even changed my wardrobe so he wouldn’t accuse me of trying to seduce other men.
He basically placed me in his penthouse, disconnecting me from the other world and rarely allowed me to go anywhere without him unless it was school, but even there, his driver took me, probably taking notes about my actions.
He showed up on campus a few times, giving deadly stares to whoever came close to me, which earned me a stay-away reputation because no one wanted to get in trouble.
And while I found most of it strange, I let it go because I loved him, and after losing Mom and Esme, he was all I had.
Besides, I fought so hard with Mom over this relationship. How could I give up on it so easily, right?
But after the incident with the belt… when he beat the crap out of me only because I dared to say I would go to a baby shower my friend hosted regardless of his approval.
He snapped.
All his care during that week didn’t diminish my feelings or make me believe in his words about change and it never happening again.
My mother drilled into me from an early age that if a man doesn’t mind hurting you, you should run.
Because sooner or later, he would hurt you again.
He stopped being the man for me the minute he dared to raise a hand to me.
Every time he touched me or kissed me, revulsion rushed through my system, demanding I scream at him and race outside the apartment far, far away from this monster.
He had all the keys though, and with no means of communication, I couldn’t do anything but play along. His whole face brightened when I whispered my forgiveness, and he booked us a vacation to the Bahamas the minute I got better.
I refused all his attempts to call Esme. I would never allow him to be near her again.
Today he finally left the house, and I sprang into action, storming his office to get my documents from his safe that thankfully I memorized the password to.
Only, what I found in there made me barf all over the floor, swaying to the side and gripping the table with both hands for balance as the hideous images from the pictures and folders played in my mind.
Him hitting me ended up being just the tip of the iceberg, and before thinking about it, I dialed a number in his office he told me to only call if I urgently needed something.
A man he considered a friend who probably didn’t even know what he truly hid behind the mask my prince showcased to the world.
Someone else picked up on the other end, assuring me he’d inform him about my call as soon as possible. So I gathered all the paperwork, ready to rush from the apartment, but that’s when he showed up.
He swept his green eyes over me, understanding hitting him at once, and he bolted after me but not before I managed to lock myself inside his office. He has an additional lock in here so for now it gives me protection, but not for long.
“Open the fucking door, Evangeline.” He repeats again and again, anger lacing his every word. “Or I swear—”
Zoning out, I don’t even bother to listen to whatever crap he spits because all this man knows is to tell lies.
My mom was so right when she said to stay away from him. I should have listened. Parents are not always right when it comes to such things, but my mom never forbade me anything unless it endangered me.
The door handle shakes as he presses on it over and over again, banging on the door and trying to rip it out. Considering the muscles he covers with his shirts, I’m sure he will succeed sooner rather than later, and I will be powerless against his rage.
The reason I’m even writing right now is to let someone know about his hideous crimes and what he has done to me in case his friend arrives too late. I will hide it under the chair. If he kills me, the police will have to come and search the place anyway. He might fool everyone around him about his identity and what his business truly entails, but he won’t be able to cover up my death or make it seem like I’m alive.
My father’s famous name will finally come in handy.
So I pray right now, for myself and Esme, holding her image in my head as my little angel doesn’t deserve to be left all alone in this world.
Thoughts about her will make me survive any pain and grab onto life as hard as I possibly can.
Compared to my prince who turned out to be a monster, the man I called to help has integrity, a heart, if his interaction with older people is anything to go by.
My only hope right now is Lucian Cortez.
If he doesn’t come in time to save me… I pray he saves Esme from my prince’s clutches and won’t let him destroy her life as he did mine.
Because compared to me, she didn’t choose him, and instead he was dragged into her life like a disease eating out healthy cells and slowly killing the body from the inside.
My prince.
I wish I could cross out every reference like that I made to him in this diary and use his real name.
As people need to know the monsters of this world by name.
The name of the man who wears a mask of a good citizen but instead participates in the most vicious crimes.
And I’m willing to sacrifice my life in order for the world to know it.
His name is
Esmeralda
The chirping of birds in the distance disturbs me, and I burrow my head harder in the silky pillow, groaning a little when my body sends aching sensations through me as I float on cloud nine because the mattress almost swallows me whole.
Shifting the blankets closer to me, I tangle my legs in them and try to go back to sleep, needing a bit more rest but the chirping intensifies, almost making me believe I’m in a forest. The wind brushes over my exposed skin, nipping on it gently, and I shiver a little despite the warmth surrounding me.
Sighing in exasperation, I roll onto my back and snap my eyes open only to close them again when the sun coming from the balcony door shines so brightly it blinds me. “The man clearly doesn’t believe in curtains,” I grumble, rising on the bed and blink a few times adjusting my vision.
My gaze lands on my finger, the ring glistening and reflecting the sunshine, sending colorful shadows on the blanket, and my mind instantly goes to my man.
A man who introduced me to things I could only dream about last night, playing my body like a virtuoso maestro, and I was a helpless instrument in his hands ready to emit any tunes he wished.
His every touch, kiss, lick, and thrust brought me so much pleasure I might get addicted to him and not ever search for the cure for this desire that fills my every bone.
Bringing the ring closer to me, I give it a soft kiss, and a happy laugh spills from my lips at the thought of marrying my charming asshole who turned my world upside down and brought so many twisted and new emotions. I think a lifetime won’t be enough to uncover them all.
Speaking of my fiancé.
Frowning, I look around the spacious room and for the first time study the environment around me.
White and brown dominate the room, highlighting bare walls where only a wooden clock hangs right above a small bar located in t
he left corner close to the balcony sliding door. I suspect it leads to a view of the entire mansion and gardens since most master bedrooms are designed in such a way the owner has access to his territory at all times.
I can just imagine my handsome man drinking whiskey while he leans on the railing and watches everyone like a hawk, ready to strike anyone who dares to threaten his peace.
Heat scorches me, lust rushing through my veins, tickling my sore muscles just thinking about it, and I shake my head but store this fantasy to explore later.
A brown king-sized bed stands right in the middle with the matching nightstands on either side. The gold marble tile feels cold against my feet when I swing my legs to the side and step on it.
Two polished brown doors lead to the open closet and the bathroom. A small desk stands several feet away with a swivel chair. A chessboard is on the table alongside a stack of books, several of them flipped open.
Spotting Lucian’s shirt from last night, I grab it and put it on while walking toward the desk. I drop onto the chair and pick up a book, too curious to know what he reads about to resist the temptation.
During our dates, he never discussed his hobbies or literature preferences. In fact he struck me as a man who isn’t interested in art much and withstands it only for my sake.
Which should have been a good indication to marry the man, right?
“Oh my,” I murmur, realizing they all talk about human psychology, especially about psychopaths and serial killers, going further into their psyche with hideous pictures that make me snap it shut and place it back on the desk.
I’ve never gone to college or bothered with school generally. Most of my teachers considered me too stupid and always preached how lucky I was to have my artistic talent because, otherwise, my future would be grim.
As a result, I don’t really have much knowledge on the subject, and besides even if I had a choice, I’d never touch psychology.
I do not care for the justifications or explanations when it comes to monsters.
Viewing other books, I realize they are all centered around the same subject with only one about human anatomy, and it sends uneasiness through me, not really knowing what to think about his interests.
A knock tears me away from my thoughts that are ridiculous in their nature since he owes me no explanation for his interests and surely doesn’t need my approval to dwell on the subject deeper, and I call out, “Come in.”
Harold enters and then covers his eyes, muttering, “I apologize. I thought you said come in.” He’s ready to bolt, and it hits me that I’m wearing only a shirt.
A shirt that’s longer than some of my dresses. “It’s okay. I’m decent.”
He removes his hand, and I notice a designer bag hanging on his elbow while he holds a tray with a steaming cup. “Señor said you love green tea.” He strolls to me, still keeping his eyes on my face as he puts the tray in front of me, and I inhale a jasmine smell, my stomach growling loudly, and Harold shakes his head. “You need food. What would you like to eat?”
Wrapping my hands around the cup, I sigh at the warmth and rub my feet against each other since the icy marble floor is seriously freezing in here. Lucian needs to invest in rugs and curtains, otherwise this engagement won’t last long. “I’m starving so whatever.” I glance at the clock that shows it’s ten past eleven, and although I’ve never slept in this late unless I spent the night painting till I dropped in exhaustion, there are no regrets now. “Whatever Lucian had.”
The corner of his mouth lifts up. “He doesn’t eat breakfast.”
Oh.
This information along with the books show in a vivid light how little I know about my fiancé and earlier doubts slip back in.
People stay engaged for years. You’ll have enough time to get to know him.
The thought somehow calms me down, cancelling the familiar panic that would probably rear its ugly head quite often now since I dared to listen to my heart and ignore the mind.
Harold clears his throat, reminding me about his question, and I smile at him. “Let the cook surprise me.”
“Would you like to eat here or downstairs?”
“Downstairs.”
He half turns, ready to go when he stops and slaps himself on the forehead. “Ah, my old brain.” He extends the bag to me. “Here are clothes for you. Lucian figured your dress might be not suitable to wear.” My cheeks burn, probably becoming bright red under his understanding gaze and remembering how Lucian tore it apart while getting to me.
Not suitable to wear indeed.
“Thank you.” I get up and take it from him. “Where is Lucian?”
“He needed to take care of some things in the office, but he said he would be done by noon.”
“Awesome.”
He gives me one last nod and goes to the door, leaving me alone once again.
Peeking inside the bag, I find a blue dress and snatch it out, quickly removing my shirt. I could have taken a shower, but I like Lucian’s scent attached to me.
The dress ends just above my knees and flows around me in waves, held together by the small straps.
Without bothering to check myself in the mirror, I put on the lacy panties and slip into my sandals ready to go outside.
The minute I step into the huge hallway, seemingly spreading for miles, portraits occupying the walls greet me, showcasing men of different ages painted in their dashing suits.
Under each one of them a name is written, and understanding dawns on me.
They are the heads of the Cortez family dating from the late nineteenth century, and although they smile, the heaviness of their persona forces you to avert your gaze from them, which adds to the gloomy atmosphere in the hallway that’s already dark due to the brown tones dominating it.
Even the sun streaming through the windows doesn’t help much.
I see various doors leading to rooms off the different wings. God, their place is really enormous. Several statues are spread around the space. And judging by texture and technique used on them, they must have cost a fortune.
Walking toward the stairs, I feel so cold and out of place among the mausoleum created in here, and I shiver a little, wondering if Lucian plans to live here after we get married.
Wouldn’t it be better to just dedicate one room for all these guys rather than scare the crap out of everyone on the second floor?
Descending the stairs, I detect the smell of coffee floating on the air, and my eyes widen when the full view of the first floor opens up to me.
Red, gold, and brown dominate the color scheme, the marble floor glistening under the sun.
Expensive paintings hang on the walls, showcasing events from mythology, some of them from ancient Greece and others from ancient Rome. I know because I’ve painted them myself.
The myths fascinated me so much I couldn’t sleep or eat, wanting to finish all the images created in my head, needing to express the disturbing yet alluring world they all must have lived in if they truly existed.
This collection was sold off a few years ago, so how in the hell did he manage to get it?
A hallway leads to several arch-like doors, which probably consist of the dining, common, and terrace rooms present in most mansions, albeit this one must have several add-ons because the architecture screams prestige and luxury.
Expensive oak furniture fills the place, and the only thing missing to finish the composition would be a crystal chandelier to add brightness to the place; although, despite the change in décor, somehow the house still manages to draw you into the heaviness and a certain behavior, because I want to keep my back straight and not mess up.
Grandmother might be strict, but even her house didn’t evoke such emotions.
I hear hushed whispers coming from the kitchen, and then someone exclaims, “I will not survive without a dishwasher for long!” and then he starts muttering something followed by a heavy sigh.
I tiptoe closer, looking and not spotting anyone, while I cont
inue to listen to the conversation. “Come on, Ricardo! Renovations take time.”
I peek inside and see a man who must be in his sixties wearing a white apron and slapping his towel at Harold who glares at him. “Why does my kitchen suffer because of it? I do not need new equipment.” He picks up the frying pan, puts it on the stove, and cracks a few eggs in it before adding chopped tomatoes, and my stomach growls again, demanding the food right now. “In fact, why is Lucian turning the house upside down and changing all the first floor!” He throws some salt in it while adjusting the temperature of the oven and opens it up. I groan inwardly seeing several muffins baking in there. “He ignored this mansion for years, preferring New York, and now he’s back and brings all this chaos with him.” He frowns, his gray mustache and eyebrows furrowing.
Harold slaps his hand on the counter, digging his finger in Ricardo’s belly. “You complained for years about the issues in the kitchen.” He opens his mouth to protest, but Harold’s next words strike him speechless, and even his jaw drops. “He’s getting married.”
Ricardo stays silent for a few seconds all while the frying pan keeps crackling, and without turning to it, he turns off the stove. “I’m cooking an omelet right now for his future wife?” he asks, and at Harold’s nod, he exclaims, “Mierda!” He grabs the pan and races toward the black bin standing by the sink while Harold just rolls his eyes, apparently finding the outburst a usual occurrence. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’d cook her my famous pancakes!”
“They’re famous only among us.”
He removes the pan’s lid ready to throw away my omelet, and my stomach weeps in protest.
“No!” I yell, entering the kitchen and showing myself to them. They simultaneously swing their heads in my direction. “I love omelets, and I’m so hungry I might die.”
They gape at me for several seconds before breaking into action.
Harold quickly runs to the round table in the left corner of this huge kitchen that’s indeed under renovations because various pieces of equipment are missing with a few holes in the cabinetry, and most of the dishes are wrapped in paper or inside huge boxes.
