by Celia Aaron
“You didn’t. Really. I just, I just need to rest is all.”
Another, lighter thump. “Okay. You’re right. I’ll go. See you in the morning. I’ll be there for you.”
I breathed a silent sigh of relief. “Thank you, Dylan.”
His footsteps retreated and I sank down, my legs no longer willing to hold up the weight that grew heavier by the moment. I still clutched the contract to my chest. The infernal sheets of paper threatened to burn me down to nothing more than cold cinders.
I flipped the pages open and stared at the swirls and curves of ink. They had no meaning in the semi-darkness of my room. They were only drawings on a cave wall that told a story of violence and degradation. The elegant curlicues hid nothing from me. The words were stark, cruel—just like the man who’d written them.
I dropped the pages as if they scorched my fingers. The agreement fluttered to the floor and lay there as if it were just harmless paper. I knew better. I pulled my knees up and rested my head on them. How could I sign over my life to a man who I knew would hurt me? I had no doubt of it. The way he’d watched me in the car, as if I was a plaything, still haunted me. I’d been fearful of him before, of something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I still couldn’t explain it, but now I was terrified.
Tears welled and leaked down my nose before landing on my knee and rolling down my leg. I sat like that for a long time. Minutes, hours. However long it took for me to go through my memories of my father. How strong he’d been when my mother had checked out of this life. How much stronger he had to be when I’d tried to do the same thing. Could I let him go to his death, all the while knowing I could have saved him?
One year. It wasn’t so long. I’d wasted a year recovering from my suicide attempt. Would it be such a loss for me to disappear for one year? I’d never graduated college. My mother took her life the summer before I was to attend NYU. My life was put on hold indefinitely. Then Dad had decided to move us here so we could get on with our lives. Dylan’s mother helped ease my father’s pain for a time, though I withered away, locked in my room, painting dark scenes of even darker thoughts until it all became too much.
I shuddered at the memory of what I’d done. I’d vowed to never be weak again, to never let myself get to the point of wanting the oblivion badly enough to run headlong into it. I couldn’t go to that place again. And just as I refused to rush to a dark fate, I refused to send my father to one equally grim.
I stood, my back stiff from resting against the unforgiving door. My decision made, I dragged a carry-on bag from my closet and began packing clothes, not caring whether they were fashionable. The basics would do—shirts, shorts, jeans, bras, socks, panties. I scooped up some toiletries from my bathroom and snagged the photo of my mother and me from my nightstand. I changed into a pair of jeans, a dark t-shirt, and a navy cardigan to protect against the chill in the fall air. After making quick work of my belongings, I pondered whether I should leave a note.
It tore at my heart not to say any goodbyes. I pulled out my stationery with the swirling ‘S’ along the top. I stood for a while with the pen poised over the page. My hand shook. There was so much to say. Or maybe there was nothing. The pen clattered from my fingertips.
I didn’t trust myself. If I put what I felt down on paper, my resolve could waver. My father would know where I went, anyway. He wasn’t a fool on any count. I only hoped he wouldn’t do anything stupid to try and save me. He had no chance. The look on Vinemont’s face when he’d proffered his bargain was one of certainty. If what I’d read about him was true—his family owning the largest sugar factories in America and some of the most expansive sugar cane plantations in a number of other countries—he had ways to keep my father at a distance. He and that snake Judge Montagnet would no doubt see to it.
I opened my bottom drawer and reached up for the knife I’d stashed there. I’d taped it to the bottom of the second drawer so that I was the only one who’d ever know where it was. It was the same blade I’d used on myself. My blood no longer stained the metal, but I knew parts of me were still there, ingrained in the steel. I shoved it into a side pocket of my bag, hiding it among some toiletries and underwear.
I gave one last glance around my room, saying a quiet goodbye, before creeping down the stairs and out to the garage.
I threw my few belongings into my trunk and started the car. It didn’t take long to find Vinemont’s address on my phone. It was an hour from town, out in the more rural area of the parish. Once satisfied I knew my way, I lay my phone on the small table next to the garage door. I couldn’t risk anyone calling me and changing my mind. A plea from my father could break my resolve, and I was determined to see this through. For his sake.
I reversed down the driveway and settled in for the trip, watching the retreating façade of the house instead of the lane behind me. One year, and I would be back. One year, and my father would be safe.
What was one year to someone who should already be dead?
The drive was somber and dark. Though the moon was high, it was only a sliver in the vast expanse of inky black and scattered stars. The farther I drove from town, the more opaque my surroundings became. Night covered the fields of cotton, the groves of trees, and the brambles cloistering the dark waterways.
Soon the road withered down to two narrow lanes with woods encroaching on either side. I continued onward, though no cars passed anymore. It was just me, alone, being drawn ever forward into Vinemont’s trap. I chewed at my lip, the taste of copper the only thing that stopped me from worrying away my flesh.
The road curved around to the left and the GPS told me the turn was up ahead on the right. All I saw were trees and thick underbrush, no sign of a house. I drove a little farther until I saw an opening. There was a drive of no more than a hundred feet that ended at a massive gate. I turned and idled up to it. It was wider than four cars sitting side by side and high. It was black wrought iron with metal vines twining and ensnaring the bars. In the center was a ‘V’, the vines slithering around the letter and creating an impenetrable barrier.
My breath caught in my chest. I looked around each side and saw the same high wrought iron fence flowing away from the gate and disappearing into the shadowy woods. I stopped and tried to calm my heart, to slow the hammering sensation of blood pounding through my veins.
Fear. There was no other word for it. The cold sweat along my temples, the sinking sensation pulling me down into despair. The deepest sort of dread overtook me, and I reached down to the gear shift, ready to put it in reverse and leave. Maybe there was some other way? Something I could do to save my father that didn’t involve Vinemont, didn’t involve whatever lurked beyond the sinister gate?
The metal shifted, swinging silently inward. There was no guard tower, no obvious camera anywhere along the unyielding metal fence. Still, he must have been watching me. I knew it just as sure as I knew I would be here, with him, for the next year.
I pulled my hand away from the shifter and rubbed a damp palm along my jeans. With a deep breath, I hit the gas and passed through the gate, lurching unsteadily forward into an unknown and uncertain future.
The driveway was initially hemmed in by the same forest and thick brush as the roadway. It was claustrophobic, even with the moon still high and clear in the sky. Slowly, the woods began to recede, leaving well-trimmed grass at the sides of the smooth drive. I’d gone what felt like a mile along the road, seeing nothing other than Louisiana landscape. Here and there would be a bridge crossing over dark waters as I flew past.
Ahead, the grass became expansive, a wide river of rippling emerald in the night breeze. Far in the distance, I finally saw lights glowing through the night. It must have been a house. His house.
I let off the accelerator, no longer fearing what dwelled in the dense woods and bayou inlets. Vinemont was a real, tangible danger, not one from my imagination.
Even as the grass expanded, more trees loomed ahead, forming an arch over the drive. These we
re the classic Southern oaks, moss hanging low from their limbs. Beyond the graceful trees was the home, a structure so tall that I couldn’t see its roof for the blocking boughs. Three, possibly four stories of antebellum splendor—large columns anchored the palatial home, and it gleamed a ghostly white in the moonlight.
The windows were wide and tall, warm light spilling onto the porches. I could imagine rocking chairs and children playing tag, running through the grass, or having a picnic. But not here, not while Vinemont ruled over this estate. Despite the home’s charm, its occupant lacked even basic human warmth. The magnificent façade was just that—charming camouflage for the depraved soul within.
I slowed and pulled up near the front door. The drive continued off to the right, further into the estate grounds. I took my keys from the ignition and was about to drop them into my purse. I stopped. Why? Would this car be sitting out here waiting for me for the year?
The thought made me laugh. My beat up American-made sedan sitting out in front of this mansion for a year, its battery going dead, parts rusting. It was absurd, just like everything that had happened over the past few months. I let the laughter pour from me. Some turn of the century medical pamphlet would say I had a case of ‘hysteria’ and advise that I be shipped off to the sanitarium. The giggles tapered off, as if I were sobering up. I didn’t know if I’d have the chance to smile or laugh at anything again. Not for a year, at least, and something told me this year would leave scars to last a lifetime.
I dropped the keys in the cup holder and looped my purse over my shoulder before stepping out. I grabbed my bag from the trunk and rolled it to the steps. Mums, perfectly full of fall blooms, lined the flower beds next to the porch. I lifted my bag and rolled over the wide plank floor to the double front doors.
I didn’t have to knock. A door swung inward to reveal an elderly butler. He looked stuffy and proper, though he had a smile for me. He was tall and wiry with white hair and light blue eyes. He seemed friendly, if reserved. The only odd thing was that he was getting the door for me at well past midnight.
“Miss.” He gave me a small nod.
“Um, hi.” I didn’t expect this. I expected Vinemont to drag me in and beat me, hurt me, and throw me into a dungeon.
“Would you like to come in?” He smiled the slightest bit, as if amused by my hesitancy on the doorstep.
“I-I thought—”
“You thought what?” Vinemont stalked into the foyer. He wore a pair of dark jeans and a gray t-shirt. I’d never seen him in anything other than a perfectly-tailored suit. He seemed almost human. His chest was somehow broader than I remembered, tapering down to narrow hips and long legs. A five o’clock shadow covered the hard lines of his jaw and fluttered down his neck. His eyes were still cold, though, and as calculating as ever.
And there was something else about him I never thought possible—dark vines of ink snaked from under his sleeves and down to his forearms. He was like the wrought iron gate—cold, hard, and choked with equally unyielding greenery. His unexpected tattoos shocked me more than the surreal nature of my situation.
I closed my mouth, determined not to answer any of his questions.
“Do come in, Stella. We won’t bite.” He smiled.
I wanted to slap the look right off his face.
“Farns, this is our newest Acquisition.”
The butler blanched and swayed. Vinemont put a hand on the old man’s elbow to steady him. That one tiny act of kindness made me feel like I’d fallen into some alternate dimension. I didn’t think ‘kind’ was something ever attributable to the spider standing before me.
Farns turned his head from Vinemont then back to me, his friendly smile faltering. “I see.” He sighed. “This year? I see. May I?”
He held a shaking hand to take my luggage. I passed it to him.
“Thank you, Miss—?”
“It’s Stella Rousseau,” Vinemont said. “Go ahead and get the quilt room ready for her. I would have told you earlier, but I wasn’t sure if she’d accept.” The cold smile crept back into place as Vinemont continued assessing me.
I bristled. “I think you were sure. You knew all along, you bastard.”
Farns coughed delicately. “Oh, well, I’ll just go get everything straightened out for you, Miss Rousseau.” Farns gave Vinemont a strange look, almost pitying, before taking my bag and heading toward the sweeping stairs.
I peered around, ignoring Vinemont. The house was just as beautiful inside as out. Antique wood and plaster work graced every surface I could see. The floors were a warm honey color, reflecting the light of chandeliers and sconces that bathed the rooms in warmth. The furniture was dark, providing a contrast and making everything look even more luxurious.
The room to the right had couches and an elegant writing desk. The one to the left appeared to be a music room. A piano, guitars, and a few other instruments were displayed. I realized the wall paper was actual sheet music, pieces pasted over other pieces until the room was a paper mache made of melody and harmony.
The Rousseau home back in town was large. This house would have swallowed it whole and come back for seconds.
“When you’re finished gawking, we can get down to business.” Vinemont was still sizing me up, maybe deciding how badly he intended to treat me. I didn’t know. Everything was so foreign, so overwhelming. Even so, I forced my spine to straighten. I wouldn’t let him intimidate me.
“Fine.” I glared back at him.
He turned and walked past the staircase, leading me deeper into the house. The grandeur didn’t end. Paintings and rich tapestries lined the halls. Some of the artists I recognized, others were a mystery, but I wanted to stop and inspect each one. Instead, I followed my captor. He drew me into a dining room with two bright crystal chandeliers overhead. The table sat at least two dozen people.
He went to a sideboard with a decanter and glasses atop it. “Have a seat. Want a drink?”
I was confused before. Now I was utterly lost. “A drink?”
He looked at me over his shoulder as he poured perfectly. “Yes, Stella. In everyday parlance it means a liquid refreshment. In this context, I’m suggesting an alcoholic beverage.”
Asshole. “Yes.”
“What’s your poison?”
“Whatever you have.”
“We’ll have to work on your tastes.”
I winced at the thought of Vinemont working on anything of mine.
I sank down into the nearest chair and lay my head on the back of my hands.
“What is this?” I mumbled. I wasn’t sure if I was asking him or me.
“This is you and I having a drink as we discuss the contract. I assume you brought it?” He put a glass next to me, setting it down with a slight clunk.
He took the seat across from me.
I dug in my purse and pulled the pages out. “Yes.”
“Good. Have you signed?” He took a drink from his glass, appearing nonchalant. He didn’t fool me. There was eagerness in his eyes, the spider hungry for its next meal.
“No.”
“But you’re here, so I assume you intend to sign it?”
I leaned back and returned his direct stare. “Why won’t you just let my father go?”
“Because he’s a criminal.”
“So are you.”
He drained his drink. “No, I’m not.”
“So slavery is legal all of a sudden? No one told me we’d revoked the Emancipation Proclamation.”
The corner of his mouth twitched the slightest bit, as if his cruel smile wanted to surface. It didn’t. “The real question, the one you keep avoiding, is whether you believe your father is a criminal.” He stood and poured himself another drink before returning to the table.
I took my glass and turned it between my palms, the condensation wetting my fingers. Back and forth. “He’s not.”
“Then you really are as dumb as I think you are.”
“That’s fair, given I already know you’re as evil a
s I think you are.”
He smirked. “Evil? You haven’t seen anything yet, Stella.”
“Funny, I feel like I’ve already seen more than enough.” I gave him a pointed look.
He pushed back from the table and walked around to my side before picking up the contract. His scent enveloped me. I could feel him, his eyes on me, as he stood at my back. He bent over and smoothed the paper with his large hand. I noticed a series of scars along the back of his wrist. They were faint, barely noticeable, but there all the same. A crisscross of damage marking his otherwise perfect hand. I had the wild instinct to run my fingertip along the scratches, to see if he really was made of flesh and blood. I didn’t. I wouldn’t.
“Just so happens I have a pen right here, Stella.” He slapped down a fountain pen next to the signature page.
He leaned in closer, his mouth at my ear though he never touched me. “Sign it.”
I closed my eyes, hoping I would open them and the nightmare would be over. It didn’t work. The paper with my signature line was still in front of me, held in place by his strong hand.
I picked up the pen and poised it over the page. “Are you going to hurt me?” I hated the weakness in my voice, the weakness of the question, but I had to ask.
His warm breath tickled my ear. “Definitely.”
My hand began to shake, my resolve faltering.
“But that doesn’t mean you won’t like it.” He reached around me, his hard chest pressing into my back, as he steadied my hand with his own. “Sign it, Stella.”
His voice was somehow hypnotic, seductive. Instead of loathing, something else bloomed inside me. It was sick, wrong. Even so, I leaned back into him the slightest bit, searching for some sort of comfort. He didn’t withdraw.
His hand was warm, unlike his heart. He pressed down until pen met paper, the ink spreading like blood from a wound.
I should have tried to fight him, to burn the house down and run. But the wall of muscle at my back told me just how futile such thinking truly was. I would have to use other tools at my disposal if I wanted to make it through this ordeal.
