by Nicole Baart
Fully dressed, Harper stood for a moment in front of the closet and considered the jagged pieces of her life. There wasn’t an article of clothing that Sawyer hadn’t bought for her, and each item felt like a bribe. She should have said no. All those years ago, when she was still fierce and alive and just enough crazy to be stunningly, truly beautiful, she should have thrown it all in his face and walked away. How had she let this all happen? How had she become the woman that she was?
There wasn’t a single thing she wanted to take with her.
Spinning on her heel, Harper walked out of the bedroom. She didn’t look back.
In the living room, she waltzed up to Sawyer as he sat hunched over his computer. His back was rounded through his shoulders, and it crossed Harper’s mind that he looked like an old man. A dirty old man.
She wanted to hit him, but she didn’t. Instead, Harper sucked in a silent, steadying breath. And then she draped herself over his arm and took the lobe of his ear between her teeth. “I’m not wearing a bra,” she whispered.
Sawyer never asked her about the yellow dress.
They went to La Belle Vie, and the irony of the restaurant’s name was not lost on Harper. Sawyer was treating a table of friends, men who appreciated his hateful brand of professed art, but like Sawyer, had legitimate, respectable jobs. They were admirers and investors who sometimes commissioned pieces, curators eager to add to their collections. But as far as Harper could tell, they kept their hands clean while Sawyer did the dirty work.
Harper was, as usual, the only woman. There were four men at the table, all wearing Armani suits and devouring poached sturgeon with morcilla, beets, and toasted buckwheat as if they were eating burgers accompanied by Big Grab bags of Doritos. Aside from the occasional, unwelcome ogle from across the table, they more or less ignored her.
“Do you like the morcilla?” one of the men asked, leaning toward Harper. He was trying to catch a glimpse down the front of her dress and she chose that exact moment to lift a napkin to her lips. She patted her mouth delicately as the cloth serviette draped down the bodice of her dress.
Harper was eager to discourage his unmistakable advances, but it took a strong measure of her patience to be what Sawyer wanted her to be. Sexy, available, coy. “And what, exactly, is the morcilla?” she asked, trying to keep her tone neutral, her expression mild.
“Blood sausage.” He speared a thin disk of the dark meat and lifted it to his mouth, enjoying what he apparently believed was a seductive act.
Harper tried not to gag.
They knew who she was. How he used her. All of Sawyer’s friends did. It was both a point of pride for him and a way to mark his territory. Harper’s mother had been known to deride men who felt the need to engage in a pissing contest with their peers, and sometimes it struck Harper as ironic that she had ended up with a man who loved nothing more than to show the world just what a big, important boy he was. Sawyer loved it that his friends paid for a glimpse of his girlfriend, and he put a big, fat tally mark on some invisible scorecard every time they flirted with Harper. He knew that it couldn’t go anywhere unless he wanted it to. And that’s what scared Harper the most. That one day Sawyer would let it happen. No, that someday he would orchestrate it. He had already betrayed her in so many ways, it was just a matter of time until he sold her.
Sold her.
Harper felt as if someone had struck a match in her belly, and the fire that began to glow there was white-flame hot. He had no right. No right. And though she had let it happen for years—had welcomed it, even, because she believed heart and soul that she was getting exactly what she always deserved—if Adri could write those words, Wish you were here, maybe there was hope for her after all. Not redemption, never that. But something at least a little better than this.
Better than slavery.
The tables at La Belle Vie were perfectly apportioned so that conversation from neighboring tables was nothing but a low buzz against the soft, creamy walls of the award-winning restaurant. Harper’s gaze flicked around the room, lighting on couples and small parties, groups of people lifting wineglasses to their lips and spearing bites of tiny portions of food from the tasting menu. Everyone seemed to order the tasting menu, and everyone left hungry. But it wasn’t the food, or lack thereof, that made Harper suddenly sick to her stomach. It was the fact that she was sitting among them, beautifully dressed and smiling at all the right times, and no one knew that she was as trapped as a bird in a cage.
Or maybe they did, and they just didn’t care.
And maybe tonight was the night. The man with the blood sausage was practically drooling on her, and Sawyer weighed every glance. Harper could tell by the way that her so-called boyfriend watched her, proprietary and cool. But there was something else in his eyes, too. Something calculating.
The dark dress, the dream of running, they were really just a warm-up. A little exercise to stretch her independent muscles, her resolve. But all at once Harper was leveled by the knowledge that not now could very easily become not ever. What if she waited too long? Sawyer’s grip strangled tighter every day, and Harper finally knew that she was suffocating.
The slimeball beside her was still openly staring at her all but bare chest, and Harper stifled a gasp when she felt his hand snake onto her thigh. The tablecloth was long, nearly touching the floor, and it was easy enough for him to hide what he was doing. But when Harper shot a desperate look at Sawyer, she realized that he knew exactly what was happening. He gave the man a half-smile. Looked away.
“Excuse me,” Harper said, pushing back her chair to stand. The man’s hand was still grasping at her slinky dress, causing a strap to slip off her shoulder. Harper righted it, heart pounding.
Sawyer was mid-sentence, but he stopped and gave her a black look. She was to be seen and not heard at these sorts of functions. And she was certainly not supposed to interrupt him in the middle of a monologue.
“I’ll be right back.” She could feel the blood surging through her veins, but there was a heavy dose of fear mixed in with her fury. The men at the table were all staring at her, watching the subtle exchange between Harper and Sawyer with the interest of compulsive gamblers steeply invested in an underground dogfight. Harper knew without even looking at them that they were keen to see how Sawyer would handle his girl. And because she couldn’t risk his fighting her, because she was shaking so hard that it was nearly impossible to keep her voice steady, she bent over and kissed him on the mouth. He tasted of wine and foie gras. “I’ll be right back,” she said again.
This time, he settled back into his seat and flicked his fingers at her as if he had directed her to go.
The bathroom was beyond the main dining room and down a small hallway, and as Harper walked away she felt every eye on her. Not just the men at Sawyer’s table, but every eye in the place. She didn’t want the attention, in fact, she longed to escape it, so she wrapped her arms across her chest and hurried the last few steps on heels that clicked loudly against the tile floor.
Harper shouldn’t have rushed and she knew it the minute she pushed through the bathroom door. It attracted too much attention. But she couldn’t change that now. Fortunately, there was no attendant in the bathroom, and Harper didn’t have to go through the motions of entering a stall and flushing the toilet. Instead, she thrust her wrists under a stream of cold water in the sink and let the shock of it numb her nerves. Drinking in fast little sips of air, Harper studied her own face in the mirror. The woman that looked back at her was clearly petrified, an emotion that she didn’t recognize in herself. And yet, hadn’t she been scared for years? Fearful of Sawyer and her imprisonment, yes, but also of herself and the stranger she had become?
But Harper didn’t have time for such thoughts. She only had a few seconds, maybe a minute, before she had to slip past the doors to the dining room and down the steps to the street. Any longer than that and Sawyer would
wonder where she was and come looking.
Grabbing a towel from the stack next to the sink, Harper abruptly dried her hands. Then she bent down and pulled off her shoes, looping her finger through the straps of both heels so that she could carry them one-handed. She looked ridiculous, she knew. The cocktail dress, the red shoes clutched like a talisman. Her eyes were wild, and there were goose bumps on her naked arms. She had forgotten her wrap on the back of the chair where she had been sandwiched between Sawyer and the man with the blood sausage.
Harper tried to take a deep breath, but there was a boulder on her chest and she only managed a small mouthful. Hardly enough to get her out the door, much less away from Sawyer.
But she couldn’t worry about that.
Harper slipped out of the bathroom like a ghost, her tiny footsteps swallowed up by the immense, icy floor. The stairs looked like they were a mile away, and the broad entrance to the dining room loomed between her and freedom. For a moment, Harper couldn’t decide if she should tiptoe or run, but before she could worry about her choice, she felt something settle lightly over her shoulders.
Stifling a scream, Harper spun and found herself crushed against Sawyer’s chest. His expression was inscrutable, but he wore a hard, thin smile. “I thought you seemed cold,” he said. “You were trembling. I brought you your wrap.”
Harper almost vomited on him. Terror and something that felt a lot like rage whirled inside her chest like quicksilver. But she couldn’t indulge such emotions now. Not with Sawyer above her, his hands holding her up so that she wouldn’t collapse on the floor in a heap.
“I am cold,” she stuttered, and the tremor in her voice substantiated her claim.
“But apparently your feet aren’t?” Sawyer stuck a finger through the peep toe of one red shoe and lifted it slightly.
“My feet are sore,” Harper managed. “I told you I can’t walk in these shoes.”
“You said you can’t walk in the gladiator shoes.”
“These, too.” It was weak and Harper knew it, but her nerves were too frayed from her pathetic attempt at escape.
Sawyer considered her, his gaze glacial and shrewd. “Put your shoes on, Harper.”
She didn’t think. She just crouched down and did as he said, and when she stood up again, he took her jaw in his hand.
“I don’t know what you think you’re playing at.” He leaned so close their foreheads touched. Anyone watching them would think that they were in love, enjoying an intimate moment. But Harper could feel the hate coming off him in waves as he said, “If you cross me, I’ll kill you.”
She didn’t think he meant it. Not really.
But she didn’t ever want to find out.
They walked back to the table with Sawyer’s arm around her waist, and before they approached his party, they both clipped smiles to their faces like ornaments. Harper’s felt lopsided and funny on her mouth, but Sawyer looked just like he always did: gorgeous. And dangerous.
The rest of the supper was a blur to Harper, and though the wrath she felt toward Sawyer threatened to bubble up and over, she tamped down such hazardous emotions. Kept her face blank. Her hands folded in her lap.
There was something off about Sawyer, something broken and fierce. Harper hadn’t noticed it before, or if she had, she had done her best to ignore it. But watching him after her first and only attempt at escape, she could see it as clearly as the perfect nose on his face. That same nose that had struck her as so masculine, so faultless in the beginning, now reminded her of a pig. Nothing was as it seemed, and in a rush Harper could see that the so-called home she had allowed Sawyer to create for her was about to reveal itself for the madhouse it really was. She had no idea what he would do with her now that she had broken his trust.
The night was crisp and clear when Sawyer’s small group descended the stairs from La Belle Vie and stood on the sidewalk beneath the streetlights. The bill had been nearly $900 for five people, but Harper knew that the outrageous expense didn’t affect Sawyer. It was her perceived betrayal, the understanding that she had tried to do something—even if he didn’t know what that something was—that made him clench and unclench his fists like he wanted to hit someone.
But as Harper watched Sawyer say his goodbyes, she realized that his outrage also made him erratic. He stood next to her, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip, but his eyes hopped around. He couldn’t focus on anything for more than a split second at a time. He shifted on his feet, unable to stand still. Harper could tell that Sawyer was distracted and overeager, ready to be alone with her but too arrogant to let his anger dictate the evening he had planned.
It was her only chance.
Ducking down, Harper put her hand casually on Sawyer’s wrist as if she needed to hang on to him for balance. She made a show of fussing with her shoes, slipping her heels out of the backs as if the straps were giving her a blister. For a moment she could feel Sawyer’s attention, and then just as quickly he relaxed a little. Her hand was on his arm. What could she possibly do?
Stealing a peek to her right, Harper assessed the street. She couldn’t go left, past Sawyer, so her only option was the small parking lot. Thankfully, it was filled with dark corners, and old trees cast shadows that quivered on the pavement in the autumn breeze. She didn’t have a choice. Not really. She could run. She could hide. It was the most she could ask for. And if he caught her . . . Well, she’d have to deal with that if it happened. Harper couldn’t think past the next minute of her life.
Heart thumping wildly in her throat, Harper took her hand off Sawyer’s arm and straightened up. He still wasn’t paying attention; he was lost in conversation with the blood sausage man. It was now or never.
Harper stepped out of her shoes and bolted.
She wasn’t a fast runner, but adrenaline made her careen down the sidewalk and leap off the curb into the parking lot before Sawyer and his companions even realized what was happening. Unfortunately, when they did catch on, Sawyer didn’t have to tell them to chase her. They just did. All four of them, racing toward Harper with the intensity of a pack of wolves. She saw their eyes reflected in the lamplight when she chanced one furtive glance over her shoulder.
Harper didn’t dare to look back again.
She had a head start, but she was barefoot and they were wearing shoes. Sharp pavement. A bitter wind. The knowledge that Sawyer probably meant what he said. That he would kill her. Or at least, make her wish that she was dead.
Weaving between parked cars, Harper thought to head toward the road, but it was too far away. She could hide, but they would find her. The parking lot was small and they would take their time. Leave no stone unturned.
Panic hit Harper when she realized that there was nowhere to go. A building loomed before her, but Harper couldn’t tell what it was in the dark. The men were behind her. She was stuck.
But Harper wasn’t the sort to give up.
A small, iron fence cordoned off the vast building, and Harper leaped over it before she could think about how she was cornering herself. They had lost her momentarily, but the fence gave a metal creak when she vaulted it, and it was enough to alert them to her general vicinity. Harper didn’t have much time.
The building was sprawling and taller than Harper had first perceived. It towered over her, but there were unexpected corners and small alleyways that belied its massive size. With a start, Harper realized that she knew exactly where she was. She had seen the building a hundred times, maybe more, but in the dark and in her confusion she hadn’t remembered.
The cathedral.
Harper had never attended a service at the church—she didn’t even know what kind of church it was—though she had often admired its elegant spire and unique architecture. But she didn’t have time to ponder the design now.
She could think of only one thing.
For all she knew, the doors were locked tight and n
o one was around and she would be left in the darkness and the cold to wait for the moment when Sawyer found her. But that didn’t stop her from twisting through the paths of the small garden she discovered. It didn’t stop her from trying every door she stumbled across. From tucking herself in each alcove and grasping at the handles with hope so high in her chest she feared it would suffocate her.
Harper’s entire being wished for it with a longing like nothing she had ever known.
Sanctuary.
15
ADRIENNE
Friday night, the night before Victoria’s memorial, it froze. Adri wasn’t sure how the weather forecasters could have missed such a sudden, devastating frost, but miss it they did. When she woke on Saturday morning, the world outside her bedroom window glinted like crystal in the cold, late-September sun. It would have been lovely, except that she knew exactly what it would do to the baskets of pumpkins and squashes she had strategically placed beneath the arches of the loggia. The mums would be fine, they could withstand a dip in temperature, but the gourds would be mush. Adri hadn’t planned on returning to the estate until an hour before the afternoon service, but she would have to now. She was on cleanup duty.
“I’ll go with you,” Sam said after breakfast.
“Thanks, Dad, but it won’t take me long. Everything else is ready to go.”
“Chairs set up?”
“Check. One hundred fifty of them in the main living space. I had to push the rest of the furniture against the walls, but it looks okay.”
“I don’t think a hundred fifty chairs will be enough.” Sam shook his head, a thin line in his forehead betraying the fact that he was mentally calculating how to fit more in.
“It’s fine, Dad. People can stand if more show up.”
He nodded. “What about afterwards?”
“The buffet will be in the library, and people will have to file there after the service.”
