by Whitney G.
I leaned against a wall and felt an uncomfortable, warm feeling in my chest. I wasn’t sure what the hell it was, and although it definitely had something to do with Meredith, I needed it to go away.
It’s not going away unless she does…
Several minutes later, my phone buzzed in my pocket. Meredith.
“Yes?” I answered.
“Hey, there.” The sound of running bathwater was in her background. “What are you doing right now?”
“I’m contemplating some things.”
“You sound really upset. Is something wrong?”
“Yes.” I paused. “I’m struggling to finish something that I’m normally very good at doing.”
“Maybe you should take a break from it for a while.”
“I’m nearing an extended deadline,” I said. “I was supposed to have this done quite a while ago.”
“Oh…Well, is there any way that I can help you?”
I said nothing.
“Michael?” she asked. “Michael, are you still there?”
“I’m here. There’s nothing you can do to help with this.”
“I beg to differ... I’m sure there’s something.” She sounded like sex, and my cock hardened at the slight change in her tone. “If you’re willing to take a break at some point today, would you want to come over? We can talk about it.”
I shook my head. I needed to say no to this, to end this call—never talk to her again, and do my damn job. I needed to stay in my lane of loss and loneliness, where no one else was ever welcome to drive along with me and matter.
“I’ll be there in five minutes,” I said.
“Five minutes? Were you ever planning to stop by my place, if you were already so close?”
“I definitely was,” I said. “I’ll see you soon.”
I ended the call and started taking the remaining flights downstairs. I knew now, more than ever, that killing her wasn’t going to happen. I was going to have to come up with one hell of an alternative.
It would be a different type of job, and it would take precision and skill, some of my best and complicated work to date.
I’d need more time—six to eight weeks at least, and I’d have to let her get close. But not too close. I’d need to be a lot more personal, but I couldn’t let her know any of my secrets or the truth about how fucked up of a person I really was.
I just needed to get her to trust me enough to fall a bit harder. To say “yes” when it was time, and I could take things from there…
Michael
Before
Subject: Wire transfer & a few things
Weiss has been handled and I’ve got two underlings getting jobs at Wal-Mart to get closer to Sutton. That one should be done in a few months.
Wire transfer for your last job is completed. They paid double since you finished it early.
--Trevor
Subject: Re: Wire transfer & a few things
Noted. Taylor is finished. Housekeeping will find him tomorrow morning. Send someone to double check the cameras across the street this evening.
--Michael
Subject: Re: Re: Wire transfer & a few things
Done.
Where are you on the Thatchwood job?
--Trevor
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Wire transfer & a few things
There’s been a problem…
Certain circumstances have changed since I made a mistake, and I need to carefully make some adjustments.
--Michael
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Wire transfer & a few things
What fucking ‘adjustments’ could there possibly be to this easy-ass job? And what mistake?
--Trevor
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Wire transfer & a few things
She has a new boyfriend…
--Michael
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Wire transfer & a few things
You better be fucking kidding me.
Can you please tell me that you’re not the boyfriend?
--Trevor
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Wire transfer & a few things
Ask me another question.
--Michael
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Wire transfer & a few things
Pick up your damn phone…
Adjustments and all, will she still end up gone in the end?
--Trevor
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Wire transfer & a few things
Absolutely.
--Michael
Meredith
Now
The flames in the fireplace hiss and crackle as Michael moves the rook chess piece across the board. We’re sitting in the great room, in silence, waiting for the latest news update on my story, since the woman who the police thought was me, turned out to be someone else.
My symptoms of Stockholm Syndrome are slowly settling in, and I know, deep down, that my resistance will eventually stop. I’ve read enough books about captives who eventually adapt to the world of their captors, but I still can’t think of a single story where the captive was already in love with the captor. One where the ‘happily ever after’ was reached and ripped away by the hero himself.
I haven’t spoken to him since the night he caught me, and although I tried to refuse his offer to watch this report, I couldn’t resist. I have no phone, no laptop, no internet access. I have to take whatever rare glimpses of the real world that he offers in order to keep myself sane.
Not only that, but I’m unnaturally drawn to him and I can’t deny the palpable tension between us. Hatred of this situation or not, and despite the fact that we’re not talking, I can’t help but want to be around him. And every now and then, like on nights like tonight, I don’t mind engaging him in a silent game of chess.
Even if I always lose…
Looking over the board, I see where he’s moved his piece and move a pawn two spaces forward. His gorgeous eyes meet mine, and for the first time in forever, he looks like he’s somewhat sorry for what he’s done. Not wanting to completely believe that, I look away and focus on the television.
“Now for our special report, The Missing Heiress: The Meredith Thatchwood Story,” the redheaded news anchor smiles onscreen. “With the help of the police department and several sources, here’s the update.”
“As of today,” the anchor says, “Heiress, Meredith Thatchwood, has officially been missing for four weeks. Newly married to what her closest friends say was the love of her life—the wealthy club owner of Fahrenheit 900, Meredith disappeared shortly after returning from her honeymoon.”
My blood begins to boil at the repeat of this blatant lie, and I lean back against the couch.
“The police have had few leads, but they insist that they’re working on the case. Not that this is much relief to Meredith’s friends and family. We sat down with a few of them tonight to get their thoughts.”
All of sudden, a glittering crown appears onscreen, and then a few pictures of my face appear underneath it. Then, as if one mention of the story’s cheesy title wasn’t enough, it rolls onto the screen in a bright and golden cursive.
Seconds later, it cuts to a shot of Gillian sitting in a chair. Although she’s dressed in an immaculate grey pantsuit, her eyes are red and puffy, and she looks as if she hasn’t slept in weeks.
“Meredith,” she says, looking directly at the camera, “If you’re watching this, please know that I love you and I believe you’re still out there. I’ll be waiting until you get home, and I will use every single dime I have to make sure that whoever did this to you is punished for the rest of his or her life. I love you.”
The news anchor nods and places her hand on her chest. “That was so heartfelt, Miss Weston. Speaking of things that are missing, since you’re here, do you think you’ll ever pen a sequel to your bestselling novel, Turbulence? I really enjoyed that book, and I’m sure your legion of fans would really appreciate an update.”
Michael looks up at the TV, holding his
next piece in the air.
Gillian glares at the reporter and storms off set.
“I thought that was a very good question,” Michael says to himself. “What do you think?”
I look over at him, but I don’t answer. The sound of my father crying makes me focus on the screen again. I’ve never seen him cry in my entire life, and the mere sound of it cuts me deeply. I try to hold back tears as he struggles to speak, but it’s no use.
“She and I were…” He wipes away tears as the reporter hands him a Kleenex. “We were getting on good terms, and…” His voice trails off as he breaks down. “She’s my only daughter. She’s all I have left. The police aren’t working hard enough to find her. I’ve spent millions on putting up billboards all over the goddamn country and what the hell have they done? They’re not fucking—”
The rest of his words are bleeped out, and a crew of producers walk over to console him as he burst into tears all over again.
I’m tempted to lunge across the couch and strangle Michael—to try to physically fight him, but before I can make the attempt, he appears onscreen.
What the fuck…
“I love my wife,” he says, looking tired, yet stunning in his suit—his tattoos all covered up for the cameras.
From here, it looks like he’s actually been crying, too. His eyes are even redder than Gillian’s and there are bags under his eyes.
“She truly is the love of my life,” he says. “I can also promise that whoever did this will pay one hell of a price whenever we find out who you are.”
“Is there anything you’d like to say to your wife if she’s watching this?” the news anchor asks.
“Yes.” He looks directly at me onscreen as a few fake tears roll down his face. “If you’re watching this, please know that I truly do, fucking love you. I think we both knew that the first night we met.”
The camera cuts away to the police chief, and I look over at the real version of Michael, noticing the smirk on his lips.
“I think I gave a great performance for that interview,” he says. “I doubt anyone would suspect anything after watching that. Don’t you agree?”
With what little grip on reality I have left, I lean forward and swipe all his glass chess pieces off the board, shattering them to pieces. “That’s what the fuck I think.”
He clenches his jaw, glares at me as he picks up the undamaged queen piece.
“Is that all it takes for you to let me out of here?” I ask. “Fuck up your precious chess pieces?”
He turns off the television, and then he stands to his feet. I follow suit.
“I think we’ve seen each other enough for today,” he says, his voice terse. “I’ll leave you here and come back in a few days. Hopefully, you’ll behave better and be more fucking grateful.”
“Grateful for what?” I hiss. “You taking me away from everyone I know? Trapping me here without any goddamn explanation?”
“Yes. Exactly that.” He looks at his watch, then he looks at the glass on the floor. “You’ll need to clean all this shit up before I get back. Three days should be more than enough time.”
“And if I don’t?”
“You will.” He steps a little closer to me, his shoes stepping over the glass. “And you’ll never fuck up any of my things again.”
I take a step back and shove a crystal lamp onto the floor, instantly shattering its neck. “Now what?”
He looks down at the lamp, then his gaze returns to me. He looks me up and down, his heated gaze a mix between rage and want.
For several seconds, neither of us makes a move. Neither says a word.
“I really shouldn’t have fucked you.” He narrows his eyes at me. “That’s the only reason why you’re here right now.”
“I’m here because you’re a fucking monster.”
“Call me that one more time, and I’ll show you just how big of a ‘fucking monster’ I can be…”
The pained look in his eyes tells me not to risk trying it.
Swallowing, I back down and let out a breath. “If you’re doing this for ransom—Like, if that was your plan all along, I can happily put you in touch with the Thatchwood Estate. I rejected my inheritance years ago, but my father said it would always be there if I changed my mind.” I hesitate. “It’s worth eight million.”
“No,” he said. “It’s worth eighteen million.”
“So, you made me fall in love with you so you could get it? That’s what this is about?”
“I didn’t make you do anything, and for what it’s worth, I’ve earned your inheritance several times over in the past few years, so trust me, eighteen million isn’t much of an incentive for shit.”
“A few days ago, you asked me what I would want if I could have anything in the world.” I change the subject, hoping to gain ground again.
“You chose not to answer. I took your non-response to mean nothing.”
“I didn’t answer because I wasn’t exactly sure,” I said. “I can tell you what I want.”
“I no longer give a fuck about what you want.” He looked down at his chess set. “I want to replace that chess set, so I’m going to do that.”
“I think you do want to know.” I looked right into his eyes. “I’d like to ask you a question, and I’d like you to be one hundred percent honest with me.”
“Meredith—”
“How’d you know my name on the first night we met?” I cut him off before he could shut me down.
“What?” He looks caught off guard. “What did you just say?”
“I’ve replayed all of our memories and encounters over and over again, and I can’t remember a single moment when I told you my name that first night. How did you already know it?”
He doesn’t answer, but his eyes tell me all I needed to know.
There’s something he isn’t telling me. I suddenly feel like I’m on the set of a dark film, the only actress who doesn’t have access to the script. I also know that there’s something darker, deeper to this, and I’m not sure if I should push him for more.
Then again, I can’t help. it
“Did you know who I was before we met?” I stare at him. “Yes or no?”
“It’s best if I don't answer that question.”
“Had you seen me before we met? Like around town?”
He stares at me, looking torn between answering and ignoring me. Stepping back, he walks toward the door, silently letting me know that this conversation is over.
“Yes,” he says, looking over his shoulder. “I’d seen you several times before we met…”
Michael
Before We “Met”
The woman standing outside the doors of Club Swan is a fucking vision. Under the harsh glow of the neon lights, dark brown curls frame her faintly freckled cheeks. Her bow shaped lips are coated in a devilish shade of red, and the black dress she’s wearing is shorter than the grey coat that barely hits her thighs.
Looking at her now is a mix of lust and torture—a living, breathing example of someone I want at first sight, but someone I’ll never be able to have. It’s also like staring at one of those alluring “Life in New York” postcards from a cliché gift shop. The image can probably sell itself, if the pretty words don’t do it first. Beautiful girl stands on street corner as snow falls; she smiles as New York City’s skyline glitters in the distance. Here is where she’ll explore all the possibilities in life. Come here to our city and explore yours …
Then again, this woman is far sexier than any supermodel I’ve ever seen. Her name is Meredith Alexis Thatchwood and she’s far more intriguing than they are as well.
She’s twenty-four years old, fresh out of Fashion School, and way too damn naïve. She’s also damaged, irrefutably broken, but she hides it well under her six-figure wardrobe, beneath a smile that she’s been groomed to perfect.
I’ve only been watching her for a few weeks, but I already know her day to day habits. Every move in her predictable, unwavering routine.
>
Monday through Friday, she steps outside her expensive condo for a two-block walk to The Paper Café. The order is for her boss, and it’s always the same: Caramel spiced latte, add foam, hold the sugar. She hails a cab to Vogue’s headquarters in the One World Trade Center, where she spends the next twelve to fourteen hours catering to the whims of the top magazine editor in the country.
During her hour-long lunch breaks, she phones her best friend—Gillian Weston, and they talk and laugh about absolutely nothing. (I don’t even bother trying to overhear their conversations anymore.)
After work, she tries her best to distract herself from the loss of her mother by buying new books she’ll never read or running through Central Park until she can’t take anymore. She occasionally slips through the doors of Club Swan and spins her pain away, around the comfort of a pole; from what I can tell, she only dances on the faraway stage and she never lets any customers touch her. She’s there for herself, not anyone else.
It takes all of the restraint in the world for me to not go in and watch…
On weekends, she starts her mornings by faithfully penning five new pages in her diary. It’s a habit she’s kept since she was twelve, and the entries range from the sensible (“I really wonder if Fashion is what I’m meant to do with my life.” to the utterly absurd (“Last night, I dreamed that I was a bird.”). When she’s not watching Law & Order: SVU marathons or running last minute errands for her boss, she spends her Saturday nights swiping on Tinder. She almost always swipes left. (Especially on me, for some goddamn reason.)
Tonight’s “right swipe”—a blond-haired Wall Street guy who calls himself Jameson Turner—is an aberration in her system. He’s due to meet her at a bar down the street in thirty minutes, and I can already tell from the blush on her cheeks, that she’s fantasizing about all the dirty things he’s sent via private message.
