Breaking Grace

by Rose Devereux

  For a fleeting moment, I see myself from across the room. I see a girl sitting naked with her head bowed, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  I want scream at her. Don’t adapt to your misery. Don’t make excuses for him. He isn’t helping you. He’s breaking your soul for an empty promise he may not even keep.

  Vengeance isn’t worth losing myself for.

  I know how to resist. I’ve been doing it my whole life. My father tried to change me and he failed. So will Bram.

  I shake my head quickly. Rubbing my eyes, I try to tear away the fog of the last week. Underneath the need and the longing, I’m still me. I still have a chance.

  Adrenaline powers me out of bed and into the shower. Every movement, every tiny decision, feels important. I stash the high heels and lingerie in the closet and make my bed.

  Telling him won’t work. I’m under his spell now. If I ask him to let me go, somehow he’ll make me change my mind. He’ll make me wonder why I ever wanted to leave in the first place.

  Bram brings my breakfast at seven. “Good morning,” I say.

  “Good morning.”

  He’s already dressed for work in a dark blue suit and gray shirt. His eyes are bloodshot and his lids are heavy, but he only looks more handsome.

  The craving to touch him flares across my skin, making my nipples tingle. My bruises throb. I want to show them off, to share that dark, violent bond with him again. I want his wet tongue in my throat and his fingers on my clit. I want to take care of him.

  Every feeling proves what I know. Last night was dangerous. It changed me. It stripped my nerves raw and turned me into an addict.

  My stomach churns with nerves as I slice my omelette with the side of my fork. Bram watches every bite. Like last night, his eyes are roiling with emotions I can’t read or understand.

  I pretend to be ravenous, but I feel sick. It’s all I can do not to choke and cry.

  He doesn’t ask how I slept, or if he bruised me. He doesn’t seem to care.

  The silence is like an iron weight on my head. Where were you? I want to scream. Wasn’t I worth staying with? What do you want?

  Every swallow is magnified in the tense air. God help me escape this man. Help me be who I was before.

  When he stands up, I do, too. I’m shoveling in the last bite of eggs as I follow him to the door.

  “I’ll see you later tonight,” he says. His voice is clipped and distant. I feel it like a knife down my spine.

  “Okay. Have a good day.”

  He presses his thumb to the wall and the door swings open. Heart racing, I hover behind him. “I’m almost finished if you want to take my plate.”

  “I’m in a hurry. I’ll get it later.”

  My heart is a brick in my chest. Gone is the emotion he showed while spanking me. It’s as if the intimacy and closeness never happened.

  He feels nothing for me. He never did.

  Smiling through the sting of rejection, I hold out my plate with both hands. “I ate it all. I was a good girl.”

  I hold his gaze with mine. It’s like staring into cold ash, and then something breaks deep in his eyes.

  “I noticed,” he says. He still doesn’t smile. He glances at my empty plate before taking it.

  “Thank you for breakfast,” I say.

  He nods and walks out. The door begins to swing shut.

  I pull the linen napkin from the pocket of my robe. I slip it in front of the lock just as the door closes.

  I hold my breath. The lock doesn’t click.

  I stand with my fingers over my mouth, listening to his footsteps. His heavy tread echoes in the hall and down the stairs. The sound of the Master. Soothing and terrifying.

  A silent minute goes by. He must be in the kitchen by now.

  My thoughts tear apart as I picture him putting my plate in the sink. I hate him. I miss him already. I wish he’d come back and tell me what I did wrong. I hope he never comes back again.

  I have to focus. Soon I’ll hear the garage door, and he’ll drive away. That’s when my life will truly begin.

  I freeze as I hear a sound. Hollow knocking.

  His footsteps. Coming back up the stairs.

  He knows. The lock didn’t click. He saw the treachery in my lying face.

  I grab the edge of the napkin and pull, but the door is too heavy. All it does is rip.

  I drop my hand. This is the end. The honesty I promised was a sham. The obedience, a line of bullshit. And he’s about to discover it all.

  His footsteps stop. He must have gone into his bedroom. He’s coming here next.

  A shiver breaks over me and my skin prickles. I slink to the far corner and wait.

  “Please,” I whisper. “Please.”

  My brain is on fire. I’m too petrified to think. I wrap my arms around my knees and put my head down. Total submission. I won’t even look at him when he comes in the room.

  He’s walking down the hall again, coming for me. But then the sound fades and disappears down the stairs. With a gasp, I raise my head.

  I’m trembling. Two minutes later, the garage door opens and shuts, and he’s gone.

  Gone. And the door is unlocked.

  I can still hear the growl of the engine as I leap to my feet. Prying my fingers around the edge of the door, I pull it open.

  Cool autumn hair rushes in from the hallway and light hits my face. Sweet fucking freedom.

  I’ll never go back.

  Bram

  “Happy birthday!”

  I walk into the lobby of my office on four hours sleep, only to be ambushed by a fucking surprise party. There are balloons everywhere, a buffet table loaded with food and champagne, and forty people popping up from behind the furniture. Jesus Christ.

  I’d forgotten it was my birthday. Too bad no one else did.

  “Thanks, everybody,” I say as confetti falls into my hair.

  I blow a piece off my upper lip and try not to look annoyed. I’ve barely had time to take off my trench coat and already I’ve having coffee, a Mimosa, and a massive rainbow-sprinkled donut shoved in my face. Interns and support staff mill around chatting like I just gave everybody the day off. Which I didn’t.

  But what the hell. They deserve it. And I’m not going to be a Scrooge as the first act of my thirty-second birthday.

  “Hey, buddy,” Fritz says, cornering me near the reception desk. “Don’t look so excited.” He’s got pastry glaze on his chin and a coffee so loaded with cream it’s white.

  I scowl at him. “Did you do this?”

  He swallows a hunk of sugar and nods. “Yes.”

  “For God’s sake, why?”

  “To foster the illusion that you’re human and actually have birthdays.”

  I’d never say it, but I’m touched. “Funny. Thanks.”

  “There’s a big table of presents over there. Stuff that will explode in your face when you unwrap it.”

  “And you…”

  “Organized that, too. You’re welcome.” He takes a loud gulp of coffee. “How’s it going at home? Coral told me a little bit.”

  At home. As if Grace and I are a typical suburban couple. “What’d she say?”

  “Just that she likes her.”

  I turn up my palm, which still stings. “She was a handful last night.”

  “I’m not surprised. She’s in love with you.”

  His words catch me off guard, making me smile like an idiot before I can force the emotion off my face. “Come on, Fritz. Girls in love don’t act that way.”

  He shrugs. “She wouldn’t be that feisty otherwise. Most women, that kind of offer, they’d sit back and ride it out. She’s fighting. There’s something she’s trying to protect.”

  I’d love to believe him, but I don’t. “Yeah, her fiancé’s memory. She’s in love with a dead guy.”

  “Because nobody’s made that impossible yet.”

  “No, Fritz. I’ve fought that battle before. I’m done.”

  He pops a chunk
of donut in his mouth and talks with his mouth full. “Uh huh. If you were done she wouldn’t be at your house right now.”

  After half an hour of happy birthdays and small talk with my staff, I retreat to my office. My first instinct is to bring up Grace’s feed on my laptop, but I disabled it. It turned it off and left her with the remote as a gesture of trust. She feels so out of reach. She’ll be on her own all day, away from my protection and control.

  I wish I could call her. For some stupid reason, I want her to know it’s my birthday. I want to hear her say it. Happy birthday, just like she said good morning when I brought her breakfast.

  I don’t need champagne or balloons, I just want to see excitement in her eyes. Genuine feeling for me. I saw a glimpse of it last night, when her beautiful pain smashed the wall between us. I felt so close to her. Like I was in her mind. Like I could feel what she felt.

  And then memory of James tore us apart. I thought I could rip him out of her heart, but he’s still there. Still fucking with me, even though he’s dead.

  Tossing my empty coffee cup, I sit down at my desk. I check voicemail and messages, and am about to ask my assistant to schedule a conference call when a notification pops up on my laptop.

  You have a new video message. Click here to view.

  “Goddamn birthday,” I mutter.

  I can just imagine who it’s from. Some guy I knew overseas years ago. My aunt in Canada, who every year tries to make up for twelve months of silence by keeping me on the phone for an hour and asking personal questions. She means well, but Christ. I last saw her when I was twelve.

  I click on the link and reach into my desk drawer for some eye drops. That midnight drive around town left me shot. At least I don’t have anything pressing to deal with today.

  I lean my head back, squirt in a few drops, and look at my laptop. At first I think it’s a fucking illusion. Blurry eyes combined with lack of sleep and the sting of Grace’s rejection.

  But it’s none of those things. It’s very fucking real. My own ghost returned to life.

  I click the arrow and the video plays. I thought she’d seem like a stranger, but she doesn’t. She’s everything she always was. She has the same golden skin, black hair, big eyes, and thick eyebrows that make her look intense, almost angry. Her hair hangs straight and long in front of one shoulder, and she’s speaking in that voice. That soft, musical accent I didn’t stop hearing for months after she left.

  “Happy birthday, Bram,” she says. “It’s been a long time. I hope you’re happy and life is going well. It is from what I’ve heard.” She pauses and smiles her shy smile. “And from what I’ve seen. I’ve looked you up on Facebook a few times. Anyway, I’m living in London and…I still think about you. My father passed away a few years ago, so things have changed for me. I’m really on my own now. Maybe we could…see each other someday? For a drink. To talk. Happy birthday again. Uh…you have my email.”

  The video stops. I sit back in my chair.

  I stare at her frozen image until the sound of a popping champagne cork brings me back to reality.

  “Holy shit,” I mutter.

  Indira. It’s really her. She finally did what I wanted her to do. She came back to me.

  But she didn’t do it until her father was dead. The man who controlled her every move, even when he was thousands of miles away in New Delhi. The man she was loyal to instead of me.

  I watch the video again, and once more after that. I can’t believe she’s back after seven years. I can’t believe I won.

  I stare at her face. Every angle is so familiar, like a song I used to know but haven’t heard in a long time. Everything I loved about her is the same. Except all the time that’s passed.

  I should feel more. I fucking try to. I should want to talk to her and fuck her and hold her for days. My heart should be pounding and my cock ready to fuck the way it is when I watch Grace’s video feed.

  But it’s too late. Everything I felt is broken now. What do they call it? A Pyrrhic victory. A win that feels a lot like losing.

  The day she left the school, I was sure she’d be back. Her father had found out where she was, but she was an adult. We were in love. I was her teacher and she needed me. I’d taught her many things, but the most important was this: that the ultimate loyalty was to herself.

  But she ran home to her father, and it took his death to bring her back to me. That’s not what I want. I don’t want loyalty that’s convenient. I want it to be hard. I want sacrifice.

  I’ll never be second best again. I’d rather be nothing at all.

  Thank you for the birthday wishes. Sorry to hear about your father. Glad you’re doing well.

  That’s all I write to Indira. She’s a smart woman. She’ll understand what I really mean.

  I moved on years ago. It’s over. Please don’t contact me again.

  After I spend two hours on calls, I go out to the lobby to open gifts. I unwrap Bram Russell bobbleheads and fake prescriptions for Fukitol, then have takeout delivered for the whole office.

  I’m standing in line with a paper plate and talking to one of the tech interns when my cell rings.

  “Bram Russell,” I answer.

  “It’s Miriam Peck,” barks a crotchety voice.

  Even though she can’t see me, I paste on a smile. “Miriam! How are you?”

  “I’m wondering what the hell you’re doing at the office on your birthday,” she says, and then she laughs. I’ve never heard her laugh before. It sounds like gravel hitting a window.

  “You know me, always working,” I say. “Good thing I came in, because I’ve been the victim of a very nice surprise party.”

  If she heard me, she gives no indication. “Well, I’m in town and I want you to meet me for lunch. The Irish pub on 19th Street. I’ve been going there for thirty years.”

  Lunch with Miriam Peck. Anything but that. Just give me another Boss Fuel mug. “That’s very kind, but really, it’s not –”

  “I won’t take no,” she says. “It’s your birthday. I’ll be at my usual table in twenty minutes.”

  “Twenty minutes?”

  “Don’t be late. Oh, and Bram?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  “A surprise?” I say. But she’s already hung up.

  Grace

  I run straight for Bram’s bedroom. It’s closer than I thought – just down the hall.

  Through my panic, I can’t help noticing the stark opulence of the house. All of the windows are tall and narrow. Everything is made of dark stone or exotic wood. His bed is covered with a thick fur blanket, and the headboard is distressed brown leather. The lamps are made of gold-veined marble, with metal shades that must glow when they’re lit. So unusual. Larger than life, like he is.

  I slide open the door to his closet. It’s a room in itself, filled with the most beautiful fabrics I’ve ever seen. It opens a window into who he is, but I slam it shut with my hardened heart. Finding my dress is all that matters now.

  I see it hanging at the end of a row of tailored shirts. It’s been cleaned and pressed, but it smells like him, as if he’s been holding it to his face.

  My pussy aches at the thought. This is what he trained me for. To crave him. To put on my own chains so I could never escape

  I throw off my robe and slip into the dress. I’ve got Coral’s ballet slippers in my hand -- those go on next. Now for money. I’ll need it for a ride out of here.

  I rush to his nightstand. A bottle of aspirin, a Kindle, an old Swiss Army knife. Nothing else. Shit.

  I yank open the drawer. I paw frantically past headphones and magazines, feeling for cash or the edge of a wallet. My heart jumps when I touch a leather corner.

  I pull it, turning everything in the drawer upside down. Fuck. It’s not a wallet, it’s a book. No. A small photo album.

  It’s made of something gray and smooth, like lizard skin. On the cover is a nameplate with a black circle on it. A halo
.

  A sick chill slithers over my skin. Put it away. It doesn’t matter. Go.

  I open the cover anyway. The hand cut paper is rough under my fingers. It smells old.

  Every page holds a single black and white photograph of a girl. Not all of them are young or beautiful. They’re women I’d see on the street. Ordinary, but not ordinary at all.

  Each one is dressed in a tight black dress that laces to the neck, but leaves a swath of exposed skin under the laces from belly to chin. They wear black pull-up stockings that stop just above the knee. Their thighs are bare. They wear black Mary-Janes with thick high heels. Solid, old- fashioned shoes.

  The background looks like a strange country. Twisted trees like I’ve never seen before. Meadows of tall, dead grass. An old brick building with turrets rising into the sky.

  In some pictures, the girls are sitting at desks in classrooms. The windows are barred and the walls are peeling.

  I flip past pictures of haunted faces, my heart weeping for them. I feel like I know them. Like I could reach out to them and comfort them. I’m them, and they’re me.

  One picture shows a girl with her arms strung up to a pipe above her head. Another is handcuffed to a man’s leg. There are pictures of lashed skin and bruised mouths. Another girl is tied naked to a tree with her legs apart and a gag in her mouth. Beside her stands a man holding a riding crop.

  Bram. I know those shoulders and that stance. Long legs apart, boots anchored, arms crossed.

  What people said about him was true. No one saw anything, because it didn’t happen here. It happened in that strange place, in another time. With all of those girls.

  I flip to the next page to see a blonde woman sitting on leaf-strewn steps in her pretty, laced-up dress. I gasp when I see who it is.

  Coral.

  She’s thinner, maybe eight years younger. She’s looking up at the camera through her lashes. Her eyebrows are raised, but she isn’t smiling. None of the girls are.

  What is this place? Why was she there?

  No wonder she handles me so well. She must have been trained, like Bram is training me. Was training me, until I woke up from this trance.