by Brianna Hale
I watch Lacey’s face surreptitiously as we buy our tickets and head inside the aquarium. I’m looking for her lurking behind her eyes, and wondering if that nasty voice is hounding her because of the crowds, the unfamiliar place and people eating ice-creams and drinking coffees. But there’s only Lacey, the dappled water flickering over her face as she gazes up at the fish.
Around a bend, we come upon a vista of coral. Stingrays drift majestically overhead, and schools of bright tropical fish dart this way and that. We pause and watch them moving, their colorful bodies rippling. The water flows around them, soft currents making them sway and dip.
I move behind her and wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her against me. “What do you hear, älskling?”
“I hear the water. I can hear the children laughing up ahead. And I can hear you.” She takes a deep breath and lets it out in a happy sigh. “It’s so beautiful.”
I look down at her, and there’s not a trace of darkness in her face. She’s smiling as she watches the fish, their delicate colors reflected in her eyes.
Epilogue
Lacey
“Kneel. On your heels. Hands on your knees.”
I sink down before Stian on the carpet, naked except for the choker around my neck. From here I can see him sitting in his armchair, reading. A little to the left is the glass door to the greenhouse, filled with bonsai plants. He always makes sure I can see them and him when I’m on my knees.
I sit quietly on the carpet, knowing I have no expectations of me when I’m down here. Nothing I need to be afraid of. Nothing I have to do or think about. Stian turns a page of his journal. He’s smiling faintly as he does, and I know it’s because of me.
We do this several times a week, and it’s as good as the mindfulness exercises that Doctor Loftin finally has me practicing, only far more pleasurable. I’ve stopped fighting the anorexic voice, and she’s become easier to ignore. Struggling to keep her in that box gave her power over me and she was able to wield my fears like weapons. Now that I don’t have to be afraid that I’ll never be enough for Stian and the things I want, she’s diminished, almost pathetic.
I am loveable. I do deserve to eat. To feel. To love and be loved. They’re not just affirmations anymore. I’ve slowly managed to stitch these beliefs into my psyche, into the places that she once occupied. There’s less and less room for her with every day that passes.
We take road trips, and I sit in the back of the car and eat my lunch while Stian drives. We’ve never eaten in a restaurant, but we have sat in a pub together several times, me with a glass of wine and him with a pint of beer. I still hear her whispering to me, but she’s quieter now, as if she’s drawn very far off or her heart’s no longer in it. Every day she grows a little fainter.
At his home, we sometimes sit in the greenhouse with his bonsai trees and eat together. I can’t do it all the time. Some days are harder than others, but I’m getting there. I’m remembering that food has a taste, and I like to eat slowly still, but so I can savor it. I’m amazed how much sensory detail I can get out of a slice of apple or a bite of roast potato.
Sometimes I think of the boys and girls and men and women back at the Dawnstead Inpatient Clinic, and I wonder how they’re doing. I used to remember that place with fear, but now I feel mostly sad about it. The statistics for recovery from anorexia are grim, and I know a third of the people I met there will learn to live with their anorexia, though it will always be lurking at the edges. Another third will relapse again and again, their relationships suffering, their lives depleted. Or they’ll die. Only a third will recover.
I’m determined to be one of the third who get over this disease. Then I’m going to keep going, my life expanding outwards like a deep, generous breath.
Over the winter, Stian grows a beard, and I find a few red and brown bristles among the blond as I’m nestled in his lap. “You don’t look nearly so scary and severe with a beard, daddy. You’re all cuddly.”
He moves to stand up. “I’ll go and shave it off, then.”
“Nooo!” I protest, laughing and wrapping my arms around his shoulders. “I like you all cuddly.”
He shoots me an amused look. “Well, all right. But only because you like it, and just for the winter. By May I’ll be scary and severe again.” He rubs the bristles against my cheek, making me squeal with laughter.
I continue with my Masters, though I take it very slowly. The university board has told me not to worry about the gaps due to my psychiatric treatment. They’re happy that I’m persisting with my studies. I take a part-time maternity contract assisting one of the collections managers at the Albright Collection, which means I get to see Stian most days. I even eat lunch in his office.
In the early summer we take a train out to the countryside and go hiking. Beneath the trees on the edge of a field, we spread our lunch on a picnic blanket and eat quietly, watching the cows who are watching us. My sandwich tastes of sharp cheese and watercress and the bread is slightly squashed. It’s delicious. Maybe in a few months’ time I can think about having a picnic in a city park, or even going to a restaurant with Stian. It will be a big step, but one that I feel is getting closer and closer.
As we’re packing up the sandwich wrappers and brushing crumbs from the blanket, I look around wonderingly. “A year ago I never thought I’d be able to have a picnic.”
He reaches out and strokes his forefinger across my cheek. “A year ago is when we met. Did you realize it’s today?”
I think back carefully, and then a smile spreads over my face. “So it is.”
“How is she?” he asks, meaning the anorexic part of me.
I can’t even call her my anorexic half anymore, because she’s become so small that she’s barely a tenth of my mind, or even a twentieth. I gaze around at the blue sky. “I can barely hear her over all this birdsong.”
We’re about to set off when Stian swears and crouches down. “Åh, helvete. I’ve broken a shoelace. Hang on.”
I take out my water bottle and have a drink, and watch a flock of small birds flying from tree to tree. “My Swedish is coming along all right, but my Swedish swearing is excellent, thanks to you.”
From somewhere down near my feet, he laughs. I put the bottle away. A few minutes later, he’s finished with his shoelace, but he hasn’t stood up.
“What are you still doing down there?” I ask, glancing at him.
He’s calmly looking up at me, and he’s holding a ring. A silver ring with a diamond, and it’s shimmering in the sunlight.
I clap my hands over my face.
“I told you I always want everything,” he says in his deep, gravelly voice.
He did say that, right from the start. I’ve given him all of me, which is more than he bargained for, probably. But he’s accepted me with open arms every time.
“Can I have everything, älskling? You know how badly I need it.”
I nod.
“Is that a yes to marrying me?”
I nod again.
His mouth quirks in a smile. “Then are you going to take your hands away from your face and kiss me?”
I do, and instead of standing up he pulls me onto his knee. His lips are warm and possessive as he kisses me, and I wrap my arms around his neck, tears blurring behind my eyelids. While I’m perched on his thigh, he takes my left hand and slips the ring onto my finger. It sparkles in the dappled sunshine, bright and clear and beautiful.
I’ve let the world in, and I’m no longer afraid of it. I’m more afraid of shutting it out. There are too many wonderful things that I’d be closing the door on. I made a mistake when I shut that box, because like Pandora I sealed up hope as well. I shut away all possibilities for happiness along with that cruel voice, and she doesn’t deserve any of those things.
But I do. From now on I’m going to live, and that means loving Stian with all my heart.
Stian wraps his arms around me. “I’ll always want all of you, Lacey.”
I kiss h
im softly. “I’m all yours, daddy.”
My love. My control freak. My everything.
A free bonus epilogue is available! Click here to download: http://bit.ly/31OcLTt
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Author’s Note
I’ve always been fascinated by and appreciative of the calming effects of BDSM activities, and the different ideas each of us have about being “in control.” My question when setting out to write this book was, What would a relationship look like between two people obsessed with control, but in two very different ways?
In writing Control Freak, I wanted to show how BDSM supported Lacey on her road to recovery, in conjunction with her therapy. Despite her setbacks, she was able to grow toward the life she wanted but thought she could never have. It was important to me to show that while Stian supported Lacey, he wasn’t what “fixed” her.
I made every effort while researching anorexia treatment to portray it in realistic manner, but please remember that this is a work of fiction. Every journey toward recovery is different and requires professional treatment. If you or someone you love is struggling with an eating disorder, please reach out for help, either to a loved one, your GP, or one of the eating disorder charities or information centers in your country, some of which are listed below.
The National Eating Disorders Association (United States)
Beat Eating Disorders Charity (United Kingdom)
National Eating Disorder Information Center (Canada)
ReachOut Australia (Australia)
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my girls Kirsten Blacketer, Abby Gale and Lylah James for all your support, positivity and energy while writing this book! While writing all my books. You guys are so beautiful and I’m so lucky to know you.
Thank you to my Swedish readers Angelica, Patricia and Sandra, for correcting my Swedish. Any mistakes still in the book are mine. Extra special shout-out to Angelica for fangirling over Micke with me, the very best daddy inspo a girl could ask for.
Thank you to April for raving about Sex Education with me and putting up with my “the plumber is so hot, right? Let’s talk about the hot plumber” chatter.
And thank you to Mr. Hale for connecting with and appreciating Stian, and putting up with the two dozen or so Mikael Persbrandt movies that were suddenly and inexplicably playing on our television throughout the months of February and March.
Read on to discover more Brianna Hale books…
COME TO DADDY
Rules for the New Sugar Baby
1. Are you worth it? Hell yes you are, ten times over
2. Hustle big, hustle hard and get out fast
3. Never, ever fall for your sugar daddy
I’ve always believed “I’m not that sort of girl,” but with my father’s debt to a bloodthirsty crime lord to pay off I have no choice but to dip into the sugar bowl.
Misha, a handsome older billionaire, is willing to pay top price for me. Something about my daddy doesn’t add up but with a debt to pay I don’t have the luxury of being picky. I’m the luxury in his life, his fantasy to fulfil, and I’m going to play my part to the fullest.
My name is Ciara, and when daddy calls, I come.
“Five OMG THIS WAS FABULOUS stars!” – K Webster, USA Today Bestselling Author
“A roller coaster of sexy fun that will leave you on the very edge...before plummeting you once more. It will definitely have you biting your lips and turning those pages. Misha is f*cking hot, the daddy of my dreams. Do yourself a favor and BUY THIS BOOK!” – Vivian Wood, USA Today Bestselling Author
“Brianna Hale knows how to write a kinky romance filled with instant attraction towards your opposite partner... She's converted me to Daddy romance novels.” – CriistinaReads
Misha
Eighteen years later
It’s her parents’ funeral, but she isn’t crying.
The girl in the footage is a petite, pretty blonde of around twenty in a black dress and blazer and a broad-brimmed hat. She’s standing next to the priest while a stream of people shake her hand. I search their faces, trying to pick out any lawyers or investment managers among the mourners.
She’s got money somewhere and we’re going to fucking find it, says the email from my brother, Damir. You know all the money people in this city. Look at their faces. Who’s helping the little bitch? Once we know who they are we can sort them out.
The mourners dwindle to nothing and the priest goes into the church. I didn’t see anyone we need to “sort out”. I go to close and delete the video but see that Miss Alders hasn’t followed the priest inside. She takes a long, pensive look around the churchyard, and I notice her fingers are fiddling nervously with her bracelet. My mother used to do the same thing shortly before my father was due to arrive home.
“Are you all right, Mama?”
“What? Oh, I’m fine, Misha. Go and play, and keep out of your father’s way.”
I sit back in my chair. It’s a gray, still day in London and I glance at the Ravnikar Enterprises skyscraper a few blocks away where Damir works. I’m part of the company but I like my space, so I’ve rented my own office on the thirty-ninth floor of a different building. The less I have to do with Damir—with anyone—the happier I am.
In the footage, Miss Alders firms her lips, ready to go into the church. Then she freezes, her eyes going wide like a startled fawn’s. A man steps into the shot and she presses her back against the church in fear.
I lean forward to get a better look at the screen. It’s Damir, his broad back and tall figure almost obliterating my view of this small young woman. What the hell is he doing there? Her gaze flickers past him, as if she’s yearning to escape.
Intent on the footage, I don’t notice that my PA is peering over my shoulder.
“Hey, look. It’s the dead girl.”
I slam my thumb on the spacebar to pause the video and glare up at Bethany. “What is it?”
She tosses a file onto my desk and shrugs. “Here’s the report thing you need for that meeting or whatever.”
My eyes sweep disapprovingly over her unprofessional attire. Today it’s an off-the-shoulder blouse showing a great deal of creamy cleavage and a tight lace pencil skirt. Her wild black curls are swept to one side and tumble down her arm.
“Thank you. That will be all,” I say tightly, keen to get back to the footage. Damir is frozen in the act of looming over Miss Alders and my every nerve is on edge.
But Bethany folds her arms and nods at the screen. “I know Ciara.”
“Oh?”
“We took classes together until I quit last semester.” Bethany gives me a fake sycophantic smile. “In order to devote more time to you, sir.”
“You’d be better off getting an education,” I mutter, checking the messages on my phone in an effort to quell the desire to shout at Bethany to get out. What’s Damir playing at? Why is he so hung up on this girl? Why do I want to reach into the screen and pull him away from her?
Bethany casts her eyes to the heavens. “Education? Please. I’m going to date a series of rich men, find the most corrupt one to marry, and then when he’s sent to prison for fifteen to twenty-five years I’ll console myself by spending all his money.” She shrugs a bare shoulder. “The ideal life.”
People aren’t sent to prison around here; we’re far too wealthy for that. But if she wants to marry a corrupt man then she certainly has her pick at Ravnikar Enterprises, assuming she can turn a blind eye to the things that go on around here. It gets easier. The trick is to think of the money.
I put down my phone and look at the screen. At Miss Alders’ terrified eyes. A memory comes to me, of seeing my father standing over my mother in the same manner. Damir looks so much like him these days.
Anger surges through me. Why did he make me look at her face? He knows I don’t like to get personally involved. Numbers. Databases. Spreadsheets. The only people I like are theoretical ones on the other side
of a business portfolio.
The words slip out of my mouth before I can stop myself. “What’s she like?” I suppose I’m hoping she’s a nasty, greedy little thing like her father so I don’t feel guilty when I wash my hands of her in thirty seconds’ time.
Bethany considers this. “Smart. People like her. I think she was top in both the classes we had together.”
Of course she’s smart and likeable and gets good grades. Of course she is.
I tap my fingers on my desk, trying to think. “Three years ago, I introduced Miss Alders’ father to Damir and persuaded him that taking on our Diamond Property Developments scheme was an excellent opportunity for him. He then stole money from us, and when he realized he’d been caught he fled with his wife rather than face Damir. Their plane went down in the Ukraine two weeks ago.”
I remember how Damir had laughed when we got the news, like it was the best joke he’d heard in his whole life. Then the laughter had stopped, and cold steel returned to his eyes. “They shouldn’t have left their daughter behind. She’ll wish she’d died with her parents by the time I’m finished with her.”
Damir has managed to recover nearly all of the seventeen million pounds that Mr. Alders embezzled from us via our lawyers, all but four hundred and fifty thousand of it. Maybe Mr. Alders used it for bribes. Maybe he had a debt to pay off. Maybe he liked high-class hookers. Who knows. But I’ve been through the accounts and the money’s gone. I want to leave it at that but Damir isn’t satisfied.
