Exposed (Madame X, #2)(85)

What is going on?

Have I dreamed everything?

I am near tears. No. No. I didn’t dream Logan. That was real. He is real. It wasn’t a dream.

It wasn’t.

Was it?

I still have the fragments of memory floating in my head, you in my room, the aching, the exhaustion, the numbness. The near-sleep fantasy of a Caleb who experiences real emotions, for someone named Isabel.

Isabel.

I sit up. You crouch at my bedside, and when I sit up, you rise to your feet. You are imperious, cold, distant. Tan suit, dark blue button-down, top button undone. You fasten the middle button of the suit coat.

“Time to get up, X. You have a client in thirty minutes. I’ve prepared your breakfast.”

“Wha—um. What? Caleb? What am I doing here? What’s going on?”

You turn. “What do you mean, what’s going on? You have a client. Travis Mitchell, son of Michael Mitchell, founder and CEO of Mitchell Medical Enterprises.”

I shake my head. It aches. Feels thick. Memories jog and tumble with fragments of dream.

It wasn’t real? Logan, his town house on the quiet street. Cocoa. Naked in bed with Logan, savoring every touch, every kiss. I remember every moment. I can picture every scar, every tattoo.

“No.” My voice is raspy, hoarse. “No. Stop, Caleb.”

“Stop what?” You seem honestly confused.

“You’re f*cking with my head. It won’t work.” I slide my feet out of bed and stand up. I am naked.

“Get in the shower, X.” A step toward me. “Now.”

I back up. “Stop. Just . . . stop.”

I run my hands through my hair, and that’s what shakes everything loose. My hair is short.

Mei.

Logan. Oh god, Logan. “You shot him!” I lunge forward, smash my fist into your cheekbone as hard as I can, suddenly full of fiery rage. “You f*cking shot him!” I swing again, my other hand, connect with your jaw.

You rock backward, stunned, and then you catch my wrists and easily overpower me. A moment then, as I resist you. But you are far too powerful. You grunt, and throw me aside.

I land on the floor between the bed and the wall, and in a blur you are there, kneeling in front of me. Your hand latches onto my chin, gripping my jaw in a crushing vise grip.

“You . . . belong . . . to me.” Your voice is the venomous hiss of a viper. “You are mine. You are Madame X, and you are mine.”

I lash out with my heel, catch you off guard, and my foot impacts your chest, sends you toppling backward. I lurch to my feet. Back up. Catch against the corner of the bed.

“Fuck you, Caleb!” I spit. “Fuck . . . you. My name is Isabel Maria de la Vega Navarro. I am not Madame X, and I am not a possession. I do not belong to you. I will never belong to you again.”

You collapse backward against the wall, lying where you landed after I kicked you, as if you meant all along to lie there. “You are mine. You will always be mine. You’ve been mine since you were sixteen.”

“What? What does that mean?” I think of what Logan told me.

“I thought you had all the answers. I thought your precious Logan knew everything.”

“Don’t be petulant, Caleb.” I hunt in the darkness for some way to cover myself without having to pass you, since you are between me and the closet.

I end up tugging the sheet off the bed and wrapping it around me, letting the end drape behind me like the train of a wedding dress. After a moment, you stand up, brush off your suit. Glance at me. The cold hard mask is in place.

“You might as well have breakfast.” You exit my bedroom without a backward glance.

I follow. Everything is as it was. My books. Empty mantel, no TV, no radio, no computer. My library, the case with my antique books and signed first editions. The paintings—Portrait of Madame X; Starry Night. The breakfast nook. A single simple white porcelain plate, half a grapefruit, vanilla-flavored Greek yogurt, a mug of Earl Grey tea imported from England, a single square of organic wheat bread toast with a thin scrim of farm-to-table butter. I stare at the food, and my stomach rumbles. I want scrambled eggs with cheese, a Belgian waffle piled high with whipped cream and strawberries drowning in processed syrup, crispy brown bacon, white toast slathered thick with jelly.

I ignore the breakfast you’ve provided. Put four pieces of bread in the toaster. Find a container of cage-free eggs and an unopened rectangle of Dublin cheddar cheese. I set about making scrambled eggs, and I’m not sure how I know how to make them. But I do.

I crack four eggs into a bowl and whip them while the pan heats.

I’m struck by a memory:

? ? ?

Mama is at the counter, a white bowl in one hand, a fork in the other, whipping eggs in a smooth circular motion of the fork. Music fills the kitchen from a small radio on the counter near the stove, guitar and a man singing in Spanish. Mama’s hips sway and bob to the rhythm. The morning is bright. Waves crash. I sit at a table, running my thumbnail in a crack in the aged wood, watching Mama beat the eggs. I wait for my favorite part: the liquid bubbling hiss when she pours them into the pan.

A seagull caws, and a boat horn goes BWAAAAAAAANNNNHHHH! in the distance.

Mama smiles at me as she scrapes the fluffy, cheesy eggs onto my plate, and then kisses me on the temple. Her eyes twinkle. “Coma, mi amor.” Her voice is music.