A Debt Owed(19)

Approaching her from behind, I grab her shoulders when she doesn't stop and swiftly spin her on her heels and shove her against the doors.

“No one is going to let you out. Do you hear me? No one. No one will listen to you. No one … except me.” Her chest rises with each breath, and beads of sweat glisten on her exposed skin right above her top. “You’re … a vixen. You think you can spin me around your finger, but I won’t dance to your tune.” I tip her chin up with my index finger and force her to look at me. “Not anymore, Charlotte. You’re mine now, and the only one who’s going to dance is you.”

She grinds her teeth. “Over my dead body.”

We face off for a few seconds, staring each other down. I want her to feel intimidated, but I won’t force myself on her. I want her to do it on her own terms so she’ll remember the moment forever.

For now, I back off and let her stomp up the stairs.

“Your room’s on the left!” I yell after her.

But she’s already found it and slammed the door shut.

Such a feisty girl … I’ll definitely have my hands full.



Charlotte



My bedding was velvety black linen. Lined with gold, the walls surround me like a beautiful cage for a trapped princess. The burgundy red drapes match the color of my father’s blood if I ever were to escape. Staring at the windows, I see they’re locked with a key I don’t have access to. I wonder where he keeps it or if I should even go look for it.

I’m plagued by thoughts of fleeing, but then I see my father’s dead eyes staring right back at me, and I stop. I can’t. Besides, I don’t know anyone in this country. I wouldn’t know where to run if I even had the chance.

I sit down on the bed and stare ahead at the boudoir at the other end of the room. The person in the mirror gazes back at me, but I don’t recognize her. All I see are two broken eyes filled with tears.

But I don’t want to cry.

I don’t want to see the girl in the mirror, who had her whole life ahead of her, stolen away from her world just to be put into a beautiful prison.

Instead, I walk toward the potted plant next to the boudoir, and I pick it up and chuck it at the mirror. A loud, visceral shriek emanates from my lungs. Even though it’s only a fraction of the pain I feel, I had to get it out of my system. Nothing I do will still this rage in my veins.

I want to scream and pound on the door until my fists bleed, scratch the wood until the splinters bury underneath my nails, until nothing’s left but emptiness.

Just like me.

I feel hollow inside. As though I’ve been stripped of all that it means to be alive. As if I’m imprisoned with my worst enemy.

I caused this. Easton fell for me, and my father hated him for it. And because of my inability to stand up to my father, he ran all over Easton and his family … and it killed his father.

I made Easton hate me, made him want me so badly he’d trick my father into giving him me just for revenge. It’s stupid I ever thought and felt anything good for this man, and that I ever listened to my father and came to that diner.

My mind is plagued with what-ifs and guilt, and it’s consuming me.

A sudden knock on the door pulls me from my anguish.

“Excuse me. Mr. Van Buren requires you downstairs for dinner,” a voice speaks out.

I don’t respond. I don’t even know what to say to that … person. Whoever it is. Do they honestly expect me to come out and eat with that monster? No. I’d rather starve than sit next to him and pretend everything’s fine when it’s not.

“Will you come and eat dinner with him?” the voice asks again.

“No,” I growl back. “Leave me alone.”

Footsteps fade away, so I guess they’ve gone downstairs. I wonder who it was … and who’d ever choose to work for such an asshole. Just like the driver who brought us to the restaurant and picked us up from the airstrip, or the pilot who flew the airplane, or any of the other people who work for him. Do they do it willingly, or are they forced into it by debt as well?

It wouldn’t surprise me. He’s such an asshole … ugh, I can’t believe I ever liked this guy. That I ever felt anything but hostility toward him is mind-blowing. At my father’s wedding, he was such a nice young guy. Did he change that drastically just from me ignoring him that one time? That can’t possibly be it; no way did I have that much effect on someone’s personality. Right? But he said it did.

I sigh and lie down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Guess there’s nothing else to do but sit around and wait … Maybe I’ll go on the prowl when things go quiet and everyone’s gone to bed. At least then I won’t have to talk to him.



A few hours later, I pry open the door and softly tread down the stairs. It’s dark all around me as the sun has already set, and no one seems to be around. I waited long enough to make sure everyone would’ve gone to bed or be at home right now. I don’t know whether his workers sleep in his mansion, but I didn’t wanna risk running into any of them.

My growling stomach reminds me I haven’t eaten in a while, so I go straight to the kitchen on the left of the stairs to see if I can find something. It’s huge with marble tiles everywhere, oak walls and cabinets on the sides, and a huge cooking island complete with expensive pottery and pans hanging from a ceiling rack. If I wasn’t a prisoner here, I’d say the place was like a dream. Except this is more like a worst-nightmare scenario.