by Stacia Stone
I backed away from him, my heart squeezing in fear and dread. “You can’t do this.”
“I have no choice. Unless you have some other solution.”
“I do.” Julian spoke for the first time. I turned to him in a relief that would turn out to be short-lived. “What about a new contract?”
“Exactly,” I said, until his words sunk in. “Wait — what?”
“We sign a new contract,” Julian continued as if he hadn’t heard me or was simply ignoring me, which was more likely. “And I take full responsibility for any…violations.”
“New contract.” The Procurer raised an eyebrow. “An exclusive one?”
“Obviously.”
“What would be the terms?”
“Complete ownership, of course.”
I looked between them, my confusion slowly turning to horror. “What are you talking about?”
The Procurer turned to me with a gentle smile, one that I would have called fatherly under any other circumstances. “In exchange for accepting any future financial responsibility, Mr. Berkmore-Hathaway is offering you an exclusive contract.”
My voice was small. “What does that mean?”
Julian turned to me for the first time, his eyes dark and swirling with emotions that I didn’t understand. “It means you would be mine.”
I tried to ignore the quiver of awareness that shot through me at his words. “Last I heard, slavery is illegal.”
“You’d be free to go at anytime,” the Procurer said, in a voice that he obviously thought was reassuring. “If you’re willing to accept the consequences.”
I glared at them both. “There’s a pretty thin line between consent and coercion.”
“Indeed.”
“And if I say yes.” I balled my fists to keep my voice from quavering. “What about my family? What would I tell them?”
“You’ve been awarded a fantastic opportunity abroad with Berkmore and are unable to return for some time — but it’s the job of your dreams.” Julian’s voice was mild. I couldn’t fight the feeling that he should be more upset by all of this. “They will want for nothing, of course.”
“If we cannot come to terms,” the Procurer said, his voice careful. “The two of you will never see each other again.”
Julian turned to me, moving closer but carefully not touching. “The choice is yours.”
“It’s not really much of a choice, is it?”
“There’s a metaphor for life in there somewhere.” His fingers grazed my cheek. I wanted to pull away but couldn’t. “Tell me you want to be mine, Dalea. Say yes.”
Everything inside of me resisted the idea of being owned — of being property. But the dark voice in my head, the one that whispered Julian’s name on an endless loop, was desperate to be his.
The money didn’t matter. There was nothing the Dollhouse could do to me that life hadn’t already done. If it wasn’t the Dollhouse, it would be my mother’s medical bills or my brother’s legal fees or whatever new pile of shit that the universe decided to dump onto my life.
But there was only one Julian.
I wanted to scream, or run. I wanted to go back to being the girl who didn’t have to make these kinds of decisions — the girl who’d never stepped foot inside of the Dollhouse.
“Say yes,” Julian whispered. It wasn’t an order, but more of a plea.
No! I screamed inside of my own head, bucking at the loss of freedom. I was a person, not a possession. My lips formed the negative, tongue moving to tell them both exactly where their offer could go. Instead, I found myself saying the words that would seal my fate.
“Yes.”
* * *
Continue for an excerpt from the next installment of The Dollhouse Series:
Mastered
Mastered
The Procurer slid a new contract across the desk. The stack of paper was as thick as my wrist and I had no doubt that trying to read it would send my head spinning off into outer space.
“This contract is significantly more…restrictive, than our normal boilerplate.” The Procurer produced a pen from the pocket of his coat and laid it gently on the table next to the contract. “Would you like to review the terms again before you sign?”
“Yes,” I said, even though we had already gone over each clause in exhausting detail, at least a dozen times.
I was stalling and we all knew it.
“You will remain with Mr. Berkmore-Hathaway in a place of his choosing. The non-disclosure agreement remains in force, much as it always has. The majority of the additional clauses are in regards to the nature of your sexual relationship — and the restrictions on your freedom.”
I sucked in a harsh breath. “That’s a fancy way of putting it.”
“We’ve taken into account your sexual boundaries — hard limits, as they’re termed here — the acts in which you are unwilling to engage. Would you like me to list those again for you?”
“No,” I said, still embarrassed that I was going to be putting my name on a contract with the word scat in it. “That’s okay.”
“We have also stipulated that no permanent damage may be done to you. Play is limited to injuries that will heal — scratches, bruises, the like.”
I shivered at his words, fighting the curl of desire that settled in my belly. “How very kind of you.”
The Procurer ignored my sarcastic tone. “The initial contract length has been designated at sixty days, at which time terms may be renegotiated.”
“And what about my family?”
“Financial arrangements are outlined here in sub-clause five, paragraph two.” The Procurer flipped to the appropriate page and indicated the place with a sweep of his hand. “Your family is to be awarded bimonthly payments through wire transfer, equivalent to the current salary that you receive at Berkmore Global.”
“So it looks like I’m cashing my paychecks,” I sighed. “Clever.”
“Payments will continue for the duration of contract length on the condition that you abide by the clause dictating limited contact — no more than one phone call per week, to be supervised by Mr. Berkmore-Hathaway. And absolutely no in-person interactions.”
I turned to Julian, who had not spoken since the Procurer had presented the final version of the contract. He sat in the corner, a glass of wine hanging loosely from his hand, and sunken the shadows.
“Why does it matter to you if I see my family?”
Julian didn’t answer. I couldn’t make out his face in the darkness, but I felt his gaze on me.
“The time for negotiation has passed,” the Procurer said, breaking the silence. “Now is the time to sign.”
Julian rose from the chair and moved up beside me, still silent. He bent over my shoulder where I sat at the desk. The feel of him so close to me caused my heart to speed up with stuttering beats.
He didn’t touch me, merely picked up the pen and signed his name with looping strokes at the bottom of the contract.
The Procurer slid the contract over to me. “Ms. Moreno, your turn.”
I waited for the crash of lightning and thunder — something to indicate the grave importance of what I was about to do. But the only sound in the room was the steady tick of the grandfather clock in the corner and my harsh breathing.
My fingers trembled as I picked up the pen.
I had a sudden flashback to the first time that I sat at this same desk, pen poised to sign a contract that I didn’t really understand. That impulsive decision had brought me to a place where I was trapped between coercion and consent.
Was I really stupid enough to make the same mistake twice?
Julian did touch me then, the back of his hand stroking lightly down my cheek. Even that slight contact was enough to set a fire burning inside of me that only he could extinguish.
I signed, scratching the pen quickly across the paper before I had chance to talk myself out of it.
“What now?” I asked, cursing the breathy quality of my voice.
Julian finally spoke and his voice was hard and smooth, like steel dipped in dark chocolate.
“Now, you’re mine.”
From the Author
I hope you’ve enjoyed reading Controlled, The Dollhouse Part Two.
Part Three will be available soon.
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