I was prepared to pull out all the stops to get rid of her as quickly as possible. I was going to fuck with her head in the worst possible way and just when she thought she couldn’t take any more, I was going to shovel a load of new cerebral bombs her way, until there wasn’t much grey matter left. At this moment in time I honestly didn’t care what state I left her in, all I cared about was my freedom. They might temporarily steal it from me, but there was no question I would be claiming it back. I was not going to be used as a pawn in Redcliff’s happy-ever-after plan, whatever that might be. Realistically, and upon given the right incentives, I knew that Jennifer would be relatively easy to control. Getting even with the old man was going to prove a much harder task, I suspected, but damned if I didn’t relish a good challenge. Grinding his face into the dirt was going to give me an extraordinary amount of pleasure and I was prepared to spend a lot of money, and I meant a lot, to ensure the job was done properly.
Fuck Redcliff, fuck Marianna, and Jennifer, well; she had better fucking brace herself, too. I was rip-roaring mad and my temper, which was normally tightly leashed and carefully controlled, was nearing DEFCON 1. Tension rippled through my body, bile bubbled up my throat, and blood solidified in my veins. I would have my pound of flesh, so help me god. Everyone who had wronged me was going to feel the wrath of my vengeance, and just like Icarus, they were going to burn. I might not be able to control the path of my destiny right now, but I would damn well be shaping my future. A week gave me plenty of time to plot and scheme, and I was extremely good at both. The inactivity was going to kill me, though. Seven days was a long time when you were trapped with nothing but ugly, dark thoughts inside your head.
Steeling myself to concentrate on the task at hand, I continued to flick through several glossy magazines, which all promised to have me in exquisite sartorial splendour for my wedding day. I couldn’t help but grimace. Throwing one across the room, I swore. I didn’t care who made the damn suit, but I knew it would be black. This whole charade was beginning to make me feel as if I was about to attend my own funeral – so I might as well dress the part.
One Week Later
Anxiety clawed at me, like a beast with no conscience that was intent on swallowing me whole. Giving up all pretence of sleeping, I left the stifling confines of my bed and padded through to the kitchen. I’d been tossing and turning for a good two hours now, and it seemed pre-wedding jitters were getting the better of me. I rolled my eyes at the irony. I didn’t give a flying fuck what Redcliff thought of me, and Jennifer Redcliff was going to get hers soon enough, but there were so many other tiny little details that I couldn’t get out of my head.
What if I couldn’t bear to look at her as she walked up the aisle, especially with all those cameras flashing and the video footage rolling? What if I couldn’t get the lies of my vows past my lips, or worse, stumbled upon them? Damnit, what if I couldn’t bring myself to go through with this farce? I hated to think how many people Redcliff had invited. Some would be close friends and associates of mine and I felt physically sick at the thought of creating an intricate dance of lies for them. Whilst I knew I had no choice in the matter, it wasn’t going to make the deceit any easier to swallow. I would have to make a speech, for fuck’s sake. How was I supposed to wax lyrical about the love of my life, knowing full well I was marrying the daughter of the enemy? Tomorrow might well be the greatest performance of my life, if I managed to pull it off. What was wrong with me? My usually unwavering confidence appeared to have deserted me this evening and I’d gone from being an untouchable God to a mere mortal. The armour I normally surrounded myself with had taken a good-sized dent.
As I turned on my poor, recently much overused coffee machine, I sighed. Worrying about things I couldn’t change would achieve nothing. I would get through this because I had managed to get through much worse. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Grunting, I searched around my kitchen cabinet and plucked out a shiny, glass tumbler. Filling it with water I necked the lot and then refilled it once again. There was a way out of this mess. Khalil would help me find one. Yesterday, he’d informed me of a possible sighting of Miss Morreau. She’d disappeared before my team could pinpoint her exact whereabouts, but now they had a rough idea of her location, they could begin closing the net. I needed answers and I needed them yesterday.
Flicking on the television, even though I knew I wouldn’t listen to a word that was said, I poured myself a coffee and then settled lengthways into my leather couch, with my hands behind my head. The noise was comforting. It calmed the clambering thoughts in my head. Oddly enough, tonight I seemed to need noise in order to receive peace.
Chapter Two – Jennifer
My hands were visibly shaking. Flexing my fingers repeatedly, I tried to still the tremors, but they were not to be subdued. It was hardly surprising. Today was the day I walked up the aisle and married… a monster. I was under no illusions that Mark Matthews would forgive me for what had happened, and I could hardly blame him. He’d been manipulated and sexually tortured until he could take no more, and then he’d been neatly cornered. He might have agreed to my father’s demands, but he’d come snapping and biting, feral as a wolf.
I sighed. Today was supposed to be a magical day – every little girl’s fantasy. A gigantic cathedral, a sea of flowers, a big fancy dress, and the man of my dreams. I’d imagined it would be filled with tears of happiness and protestations of love. How stupid was I?
Inhaling a shaky breath, I wondered what Mark would do with me. Having always been the sacrificial lamb in this family, today I was being sent off to the slaughterhouse. When I’d mentioned this to Michael, I’d refused to call him ‘Dad’ a long time ago, he’d laughed and told me to stop being so melodramatic. As if that made me feel any better. Dear old Dad couldn’t care less whether I lived or died, so I didn’t waste my breath trying to plead with him. All I had to do was play my part in this charade and he would be happy. I needed to keep Michael happy at all costs. The trouble was, in order to play my part, Matthews had to trust me, and I had a feeling that trying to coax that emotion out of him was going to be almost as impossible as trying to convince the Queen of England to relinquish her throne. Matthews wasn’t the sort to trust easily, and now that I had lost what little ground I had gained with him, I would be back to square one. Wrong, I thought grimly. I was going to be at least twenty stories below square one, trying to claw my way out with nothing more than my bare fingernails. Facing up to facts, I stifled a sob. The man was going to annihilate me.
Clutching my two hands together to stop them from shaking, I tried to look on the bright side. Mark Matthews would have to be a better flat mate than my father. Oh you think so, now that you’ve crossed him and hung him out to dry? The little voice inside my head burst into a fit of hysterics. I swallowed tightly and stifled another sob. Do not cry. Part of the agreement between my father and I, required that I walk down the aisle looking every inch the glowing bride, and that I perform the act of love-sick fiancée to the best of my abilities. It wouldn’t be a great look if my eyes were of the Rocky Horror Show panda variety, complete with tears dribbling down my face. You can do this, I whispered to myself. Compared with what I’d had to put up with in the past, this would probably be a piece of cake. One could only hope that were true, but my gut feeling said otherwise. There would be repercussions to my actions, however small my part was, and I was positive I wouldn’t like them. Three troubling questions plagued me. What was he going to do to me? How long would it take him to tire of tormenting me? Could we ever manage to live together amiably? They were important questions. Divorce was not going to be an option available to me and no stunt that Mark pulled would be worse than the consequences that Michael had already threatened, should I fail to carry out my end of the bargain.
Staring at the monstrosity of ivory lace and tulle that had been carefully hung within my wardrobe, I felt almost blinded. The dress was patiently awaiting its victim with quiet determination. The s
ight of it made me shudder. As soon as my dress fitting had been completed, I’d had it packaged up in black plastic and hidden in the garage. There it had remained these last three months. That was the minimum time in which a society wedding could be planned, so I’d been told. It had been three months of hideous torture. Michael was far too busy to concern himself with the details, so he’d hired a very efficient planner, who’d taken it upon herself to bully me into doing whatever she wanted as each choice unfolded. We’d talked to ministers, paraded ourselves around cathedrals, and picked hymns. We’d scoured the ends of the earth for photographers, videographers, florists, caterers and cake decorators. We’d stared at countless albums of wedding invitations and spent hours debating each single word and colour upon them. We’d had ten sample meals at ten different wedding reception venues, and I’d nearly choked upon a different canapé at each. They’d all had fancy names such as, ‘Asparagus Barquette,’ or ‘Watercress Oyster tempura’ and they’d all tasted like sawdust on my tongue. Thankfully, trying various different vintages of champagne just about managed to keep me sane. Until now, I’d had no idea how much effort went into planning a wedding. I couldn’t understand why anyone would want to do such a thing willingly. The work was endless. One moment I was picking silks and patterns for bridesmaid dresses, and in the next I’d be co-ordinating them with flowers and favours. My life was a whirlwind of shoes, hair and makeup artists, speeches, readings, menu cards, rings, and gift lists. Each item required a tick beside the box on June’s clipboard or we were not allowed to sleep. You think I’m kidding? The woman would have made an excellent mistress at Albrecht. She had more tenacity than a bulldog who’d just lost his favourite bone. At the end of the three months, as soon as I heard her Manolo Blahnik heels smacking into the floor I had heart palpitations. Needless to say we were barely speaking to each other. I daresay she couldn’t figure out either my lethargy or obvious depression, and there was no way I was going to enlighten her. I might have to perform for Matthews and a crowd of vultures on my wedding day, but I was under no pressure to continue the façade with her. June could take me as she found me, if she found me.
This morning I’d locked my bedroom door, having no wish to endure her endless chatter and wedding pep talk. I was already a whisper’s breadth away from tears, and I knew without a doubt that June would have me sailing into the black abyss of endless despair. You’d had thought it was her getting married, not me, and I heartily wished it was. She could have him. A small part of me desperately needed to clap eyes on Mark again, though. To drink in the perfection of his tanned, toned body, bask under the gleam of his perfect smile, and feel his hand fisting sharply in my hair. I had it bad for that man. I was entering into the most god-awful, fucked-up marriage of the century, and yet somehow, I was already in love with my tormentor. I was the kind of crazy that required padded walls and lots of drugs. Speaking of drugs, I reached for the little bottle of Ativan that had been my only coping mechanism for these last few months and I popped a couple of pills. I suspected it would take the whole damn bottle to get me through today’s proceedings, and I wasn’t entirely averse to going down that route if I had to. I was going to need at least a couple before I let June in, and she was beginning to get edgy as she paced outside my room. I could tell by the odd scuffle of her heels. Her pacing was getting too fast for the heels to handle. Too bad. If she smacked into the floor headfirst and had to be rushed to hospital, my day would probably improve tenfold. My brain just needed silence. I wanted to analyse every little detail of what I knew about Matthews, and form some sort of attack plan. I’d had months to get this under wraps, but my head was all over the place and I was no nearer to a solution than I was at the beginning. I had a funny feeling that Matthews would give me silence, a whole lot of peace and eerie quiet, and that I would probably rue my earlier thoughts. Be careful what you wish for.
“Do you need a hand in there, Jennifer? You’ve been in your bedroom for two hours, now. It’s okay to have nerves on your wedding day, you know. Let me in and we can have a chat.”
A hand? Now that was hilarious. No I did not need a hand, or even two. What I needed was a one-way ticket to a remote desert island and a team of marines, and even that wouldn’t save me now. It was payback time, and I was about to be served up as the main course in a gigantic dish of revenge. I didn’t want to think about it. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. What was he going to do to me? Would I be able to endure this new round of cat and mouse? How was I going to keep it together? I was so close to cracking. When I did, not if, broken glass would have nothing on me. When Mark and Michael finally finished with me, there would be nothing left to put back together.
A series of frantic raps sounded on my door, followed by lots of clucking noises and I banged my head against the wall, praying that I had the strength to get through this.
“I’m fine. Just soaking in the bath. It’s not everyday a girl gets married, you know.” My voice sounded bizarrely cheerful as I reeled off the lie. Perhaps my acting skills were better than I thought.
“Okay sweetie, but don’t take too long in there. You’ve got two hours until the Bentley arrives, and the photographer wants a formal family session in the drawing room prior to that. Are you sure you don’t need my help?” June’s voice had a whiney note to it.
Positive. “I’ll be fine. I promise I’ll be downstairs in half an hour. Just give me a few more minutes.”
She huffed, but I heard her heels receding back into the distance. Thank god. Leaning against the wall, I slowly slid down it until I reached the floor. My heart was beating double time and nausea consumed me. There was no escape from my fate. Caught in the line of fire, all I could do was take a bullet and crawl forward, one day at a time. I would survive this. I was strong, reasonably smart, and very resourceful. This was just another obstacle that needed to be overcome in order to attain my freedom.
My gaze wandered to the La Perla lingerie that hung on a velvet-lined hanger on the front of my armoire. I was about to attire myself in over one thousand pounds of sensual, sheer, cream lace and silk. Beautiful macramé cut outs would reveal more of my body than they would conceal and a large rhodium-plated metal buckle would accentuate my now tiny waist. Hysterical laughter began bubbling from my lips. I guess I had something that I could thank Mark Matthews and my father for. Between them they’d successfully wound my stomach in knots so tight, that I had barely been able to eat since I’d left Albrecht. I now had the figure I’d always dreamed of, whilst stuck in a nightmare that was worse than any hell I could have imagined.
The Velvet Chair is available on Amazon
Fire (A Special Agent Novel Book 4) Page 30
