Unbroken Love

by Cristiane Serruya

  Jesus. Ethan blanched but his mind quickly devised a plan to gain himself a few minutes more. “Stop the elevators. Now, Scott. All of them.” I don’t care who is inside.

  As Scott rushed out of the room, Ethan breathed deep, trying to calm himself. He was not expecting the visit. He had thought his parents had forgotten the threat when they hadn’t appeared or called anymore, but he should have known better. His hands started to tremble and he felt like a little kid again who was about to receive a punishment he didn’t deserve. He went into his bathroom and washed his face, combing his hair back. He looked at his image. He looked scared. He blinked forcefully a few times and composed himself the best he could. For a moment, he wished he had his beard back. It gave him a manlier appearance.

  Then he shrugged. Manlier or not, it makes no difference to Calista or George. Time to plan a strategy. A strange calm descended over him. Let’s hear what they have to say. Let’s see their evidence, then I can decide.

  Resolutely, he walked to his assistant’s office and ordered, “Switch the elevators back on. I’m going to receive them in the Greek Meeting Room. Turn the cameras on before you lead them in. I want sound and picture recorded. Bring me water and coffee, but don’t bother offering anything to my...guests.”

  “Ethan, your office is shitty today. The elevators stopped, and for fuck’s sake why so much light?” Calista shaded her eyes when she entered the room, immediately putting her sunglasses back on. “Women should be appreciated with candle light.”

  Ethan didn’t move from his place at the end of the huge table. He was sitting on the tallest and biggest chair. A trick he had learned from his grandfather. The light that came from the windows behind him flooded the room, making an impression on those who entered it. “I’m not here to appreciate you, Calista.” In fact, you repulse me.

  “Why do you always have to be so rude?” George asked, squinting his eyes.

  Because she is a— “Rude?” Ethan feigned innocence and changed the subject. “Don’t you like the paintings? This lighting was especially created for them.”

  “Of course,” Calista wandered through the room looking over the paintings. Picasso, Fontana, Miró, and many others graced the walls.

  Idiot. Ethan knew that Calista would never admit she didn’t know what she was seeing or how valuable those paintings were.

  He took his time observing her. The light glinted off her shiny hair. The black and white Chanel suit was prim and proper. It accentuated her trim physique and her classic beauty, without being vulgar. Ethan never understood how she could have fooled the English society for so long, but now he knew that society looked no deeper than appearances, which she mastered well. Appearances. The damned appearances.

  Scott served Ethan’s water and coffee, asking if he wanted anything else. Ethan thanked him and shook his head.

  Ethan noticed George’s frown at the rudeness, but his mother’s voice cut in.

  “You have wonderful painters, dear.”

  You still have to learn to speak English properly. “Thanks for pointing that out. Now, sit.” He motioned to the place at his right, and, turning to George, to the place at his left. “I am all ears. Calista, would you like to start?”

  She looked at him with an angry twist on her lips. “Do I look stupid, Ethan?”

  As always. He raised an eyebrow and evenly replied, “At the moment, yes.”

  Disbelief raced across Calista’s face. She raised her hand to slap him, but George quickly intervened.

  “He’s our best shot right now, honey. Calm down.”

  She forced her eyes away from his azure eyes to his mouth. “You son of a bitch. You stole from me. I want it back.”

  “Stole?” Ethan asked. The word shocked him. “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

  “I want my money, my inheritance. You’re a fucking piece of shit,” she said to him. “You were never more than a fucking piece of shit that destroyed my life.”

  Stop, mum. Stop, please, stop. It took Ethan a huge effort to control his emotions, and he thanked the lights for blinding the others from seeing them in his eyes or face. When he spoke, there was no inflection of hurt in his voice, “Calista, either you speak politely, or I’ll have to ask security to accompany you out.”

  “My son—” George started.

  “Don’t call me that. I’m Ethan Ashford, not your son.”

  “You may have taken your maternal grandmother’s surname, but you still came from the seed I poured inside your virgin mother. I’ve always liked to deflower virgins, haven’t I, Calista?” George said boisterously. “You’re a Smith.”

  Ethan snapped, and an ugly mask descended over his face. He said in an ominous voice, staring inside George’s light-blue eyes, “One day, George, I’ll pay for you to be fucked so hard you won’t know what hit you.”

  A cold wave rolled down George’s stomach in a way that should have made him sick, but it only aroused him. Ethan never cursed nor threatened and it was more than arousing for his perverted father. It was exhilarating. “It’s not a—”

  Not waiting his father to finish, Ethan whipped his head to glare at his mother. “And you, Calista, you’ll ask for my forgiveness; you will beg for it, but you, I will send slowly, very slowly to hell. I’ll hound you, I’ll corner you, I’ll expose you, until you die tormented and mad.”

  “Lovely way to go,” Calista muttered, ironically.

  George shook his head lightly at her, with a sardonic smile on his lips. “I’m sorry, Ethan. Please hear us out.”

  Anger pumped like hot lava through Ethan’s veins. He took a sip from his water to wet his parched throat. “Speak, before I decide to throw you out of here and out of Ashford Mansion. Don’t forget you still live at my grandmother’s house, my house. A little politeness would be appreciated.”

  Ethan could not believe his parents’ silly attempts at persuading him. “You came all this way just to make sure I give you money in exchange for those photos? Do you think I care if Sophia and MacCraig see them?”

  Ethan knew he was gambling with them. They had photos of Barbara mirroring Sophia’s style and of Barbara’s own style now. But he really didn’t care. He knew Sophia would not mind. “I have every right to go out with anyone I want. Barbara just looks like Sophia. A mere coincidence.”

  Then he noticed George nod to Calista.

  “Then maybe we can convince you in another way,” Calista said smoothly, her nails crawling up Ethan’s hand, which he pulled back instantly. “Remember...Eve?”

  Jesus. The blood drained from Ethan’s cheeks. His stomach churned and he thought he would be sick. His eyes took a careful sweep of his parents’ faces, before he decided what he was going to do. “Eve? Who is Eve?”

  “Innocent, virginal, poor Eve, deflowered and held against her will for six months, in Greece, twenty years ago. Oh, when she was sixteen. For the pleasure of two debauched men.”

  Sixteen? That thought had never crossed his mind. He had never again spoken of that subject with his grandfather. Eve was a whore. She had been deflowered before I met her. “I don’t know anyone by the name Eve.”

  “Sure thing! Maybe because her real name was Eva Argeous.” Calista pulled a woman’s photo from her Hermés handbag and put it in front of Ethan. Then, with a great flourish, out came a paper, which she unfolded and smoothed out lovingly and pushed it toward Ethan. “Surely you can’t deny that this man is your son.”

  Scotland, Glasgow

  The City of London Bank

  7:02 p.m.

  Alistair slammed the door of his office behind him and threw himself in his chair, putting an arm over his eyes.

  Another day wasted at the office. Another night I’ll spend away from Sophia and Gabriela.

  He liked working his cunning mind to coordinate and strategize the bank’s expansion in a solid but aggressive manner. After Nathalie was killed, he had regretted putting his career ahead of his personal life. Now, it seemed completely poi
ntless.

  And he knew he was not exactly putting his career before his life this time. Yes, he had work to do, but he should have straightened things out with Sophia before he left. He could have postponed his coming another day, gone to Inverness earlier this morning, and headed down to Glasgow this afternoon. He looked at his watch. He’d had a snack at eleven and hadn’t eaten since then but he was not even hungry.

  He was longing for some intimacy. He was longing for Sophia. And Gabriela.

  He knew he had been stalling and avoiding the conversation he had to have with her and the damage it could bring to them.

  He picked up the phone to ask his secretary to call Sophia but the words that left his mouth surprised even himself, “Please tell MacDouglas to prepare the G6. I’m heading to London. Now.”

  Fuck it. Fuck everything. I’ll send Malcolm or Berkley up here tomorrow. Let them sweat a bit for the money I give them.

  Atwood House

  9:43 p.m.

  Sophia wandered into the kitchen, not completely sure what she was doing there. The light that came in through the windows was enough for her to see her way around.

  The house was all dark and the employees had retired for the day. She had finished the work she had brought home and the book she was reading couldn’t hold her attention, which was a rare thing.

  The house seemed empty without Alistair. She felt very alone.

  She looked inside the freezer but it was not ice-cream she wanted. The banana cake also didn’t seem scrumptious enough. Although she had only eaten a tossed salad with Gabriela hours ago, she was not hungry.

  She turned back up to the TV room when she heard a strange noise. And then a thump. Her first instinct was to run to her daughter’s room to protect her, but controlling her fear, she called the outside bodyguard and asked, “Is there anything wrong?”

  “No, Mrs. Mac—

  In the next moment, she screamed in panic when hands grabbed her by the waist.

  “Mrs. MacCraig?” The outside bodyguard’s worried voice came through the intercom. “Are—”

  “Everything is okay,” Alistair answered, pressing the video camera button to assure the security guard. “I just surprised her.”

  “Good night, then, Mr. MacCraig.”

  Alistair turned her in his arms, with a wicked smile on his lips. “Christ, Sophia. If I knew I would be greeted with such warmth, I would have stayed in Glasgow.”

  “I was not expecting you. And I heard a noise.” She put a hand over her racing heart and looked him over. He was dressed in black jeans, a gray heavy wool cardigan, and black T-shirt underneath. Hmm. This is what I’m hungry for. She stood on her tip-toes and kissed him. “Sorry, love. Are you hungry? I can prepare something.”

  “Nae. I showered and ate during the flight. Well, maybe I can have some dessert.” He opened the refrigerator and rummaged through it, his smile hidden by the door. “Do you mind choosing some wine for us? White, please. Maybe a Sauterne or a Barsac. I’ll pick the dessert and bring it to the TV room for us.”

  “Okay.” She looked at him with a gleam in her eyes he didn’t understand and headed down to the cellar and was back in the TV room after a few minutes.

  Alistair, who was punching in the code for an R-rated film on the remote control, locked the door behind her.

  “A film?” she asked as she poured the wine and left the glasses and bottle on the side table. “Before you start it, I want to speak with you.”

  She knows. He sighed and sat on the sofa, taking off his cardigan and throwing it on the armchair nearby.

  “Ah…no. Please, come here to the office.” She walked away and halted in front of his shelf where among the books, sat photos of his family, his mother, herself, Gabriela, and Nathalie.

  When he reached her side, she said, “They could have been sisters.”

  Unfortunately her mother was a mad whore and her father an irresponsible idiot. And now she lives in Heaven. If such a place exists. He rasped, “Aye, they could.”

  She turned to look at him.

  Alistair was gazing at his daughter’s photo; love and longing written all over his face. You were so loved, my dear. I’m so sorry.

  With her voice husky with emotion, she breathed, “I know she is irreplaceable.”

  What? Astonished, he stared at her and asked, “Nathalie?”

  “Yes. But I wish—I hope you could accept Gabriela as your adopted child, your real daughter.”

  Christ. He felt so lightheaded that he closed his eyes tightly. A painful lump formed in his throat and he swallowed it audibly. Jesus Christ.

  She touched his cheek with the tip of her fingers and he leaned his face on her hand. “If—You don’t have—”

  He took a deep breath and her sweet smell invaded his body. White roses and orange blossoms should be called Loving Sophia. He opened his eyes and with his hands on her waist and nape, he pulled her onto his chest.

  “I love you, I love you, I love you,” he whispered on her lips before crushing them in a desperate kiss.

  Thank God! Under her hand, his heart was beating as quickly as hers.

  “I’m so honored, Sophia, so honored.” Say something with meaning. But the words didn’t come, only love filled his mind. “I do not deser—”

  “Shhh,” she put her fingers over his mouth. “Alistair Connor. I’d already given her to you. I’m just formalizing it. It’s just symbolic.”

  Just? “Mo chridhe…” He was floored by such a present. “There’s no such thing as just in this gift of yours. It’s more than symbolic; it’s so full of love, warmth, and light that it left me speechless. You gave me—” He shook his head, moved. “Gabriela was supposed to be only yours and Gabriel’s. I promise one thing, I’ll never let her forget her father.”

  She smiled, with tears in her eyes. “For someone that was speechless, you made the sweetest promise you could ever make.”

  He smiled at her. “I do wish to make a speech, to thank you. But, this is so immense, I really don’t know what to say.”

  “Are words necessary?” she whispered.

  He shook his head. Bringing her to lean into him, he breathed, “I love you.”

  She grinned up at him, answering, “Eu também te amo.”

  Sitting her on the edge of his desk, Alistair looked into her yellow-diamond eyes and she stared right back into his forest-greens. His mouth found hers in a hungry, hot kiss; exceedingly demanding all of her as he was utterly giving all of himself back.

  Neither Alistair, nor Sophia said anything. They just felt. It was a special moment when words lost their meaning.

  They pressed their bodies together, making fierce, passionate love to one another, in a rough, yet sensual rhythm until she arched upward and he pressed down heavier and deeper. Their world crashed around them, dissolving the two of them in the pure essence of love.

  Chapter 6

  Friday, October 15, 2010

  12:21 p.m.

  Alistair couldn’t believe it when, after the film ended, Sophia ordered him around wearing only his black boxers and an apron she teasingly put on him, while she washed the dishes wrapped up in a blanket from the TV room. She finished before him, smiling as she watched her hunk of a man roaming their kitchen with ease.

  They took a shower together, then snuggled under the covers, sharing the things that happened during the days they were away from each other.

  Eventually, they fell silent with Alistair’s fingers toying with her hair.

  She yawed and asked, “So, what was the real excuse behind that alleged homework?”

  Excuse? “What?”

  “You said that you were supposed to see the film as therapy homework. I can see why now. It’s quite hot for a film,” she said, “but for a relationship it’s so debased and sick that it should never be filmed as it was and the story should stay in Pandora’s box buried in some ancient Greek temple, never to be unleashed on mankind. Or womankind. These stimuli just churn the collective imaginati
on without pointing out the consequences.”

  I don’t understand you. “Sex is like eating. They are both necessary to live. She was bored with her life and wanted something different. It got out of hand.”

  “I didn’t know we were going to see 9 and ½ Weeks. To say it got out of hand is the understatement of the century.”

  “It shows how a casual sexual relationship with someone you don’t know can get complicated. In the end, he was the one hurt.”

  “What? That’s not the true story. The film doesn’t cover the forbidden territory.”

  “True story?” Forbidden territory?

  She sat on the bed. “Liz, or Elizabeth, is the pseudonym used by a well-known New York executive and writer. She tells her story with a man, referred to in the book only as he. He pushes all her boundaries, psychologically manipulates, and sexually abuses her. He places and takes out her tampons. He washes and feeds her. He beats her with a belt. He has her anally. He never cared for her comfort, pleasure, or pain.”

  As she continued to tell him the story, she opened her drawer and took out a very thin gray-blueish book.

  He sat too, astonished to see the book in her hands. “Are you saying that she didn’t like—”

  “No, I’m not saying that she didn’t like it. She wrote that she loved it, and never explained why. But she shows us the intensifying debasement of her individuality, of her identity and her self, as it’s overwhelmed by her own desire and his increasingly abusive and pathological whims.” She waved the book in the air and put it on his lap. “What I’m saying is that it was much more abusive and it didn’t end the way the film shows. She had such a brutal emotional breakdown that she cried for more than a day, uninterrupted, supposedly without reason, until he dropped her off at a hospital and he never contacted her again. And, Alistair Connor, after more than six months in a psychiatric ward, she ends the book saying that even though she managed to establish other relationships, she was never again the same sane woman. She couldn’t even understand her own state of mind, and thought it unthinkable it was she who lived through all that.”