“Please, Dorian,” I whisper. “Trust me. I'll go quietly. I'll do whatever you want.”
“It'll be better this way, my love,” he drops his voice to match mine. “I only want what's best for you.”
“You want what's best for you,” I reply, watching Irina filling a the syringe with the liquid from the clear vial. I jerk my hips but the stranger holds my legs and Dorian holds my shoulders and I can't fight them both. I'm still weaker than them; even my adrenaline won't make me that strong.
“What's best for me is what's best for you,” he says and I know he believes that with every ounce of his being. Too bad it isn't true. We're autonomous beings whether he believes it or not. I'm his slave but I'm not his other half, no matter how much I play dress-up. I hate him. I hate him for doing this to me. I hate him for hurting Jessica. I hate him for everything he's done and everything he will ever do.
I scream when Irina touches my arm. She hasn't even touched me with the needle yet but I dread it. Irina looks sorry, but she's weak. She would never fight his will. But I try to reason with her anyway.
“Please,” I beg. “I don't want it. I don't need it.”
“It'll make you sleep,” she tells me. Her voice is shaking. “It'll calm you down.”
“I don't want to be calm. I want to be conscious.”
“Adrienne,” Dorian murmurs.
“Don't talk to me!” I scream and I know I sound hysterical, but I don't care. He's planning something, plotting, and he doesn't want to share. He's confided in me before. Whispered things in my ear in bed. Things that were troubling him. Things at the office he wanted my opinion about. Memories of his parents. I've given him some of my own memories and thoughts in return. When it comes to important things, though, he doesn't want me to know. He wants to keep me separate from his life. He'd rather keep me drugged and pliant. I wonder if he tells his wife the things he doesn't tell me. I wonder if his wife knows him better than I do.
That's the last thought I get before Irina shoves the needle in my vein.
The morphine takes effect almost instantly. The room gets soft around the edges and my brain starts to get cloudy. All my pain ebbs away and it's so difficult to stay angry when I feel that good. But I try to hold on to it. I want to remember how much I hate him. I want to still be angry. The pressure on my limbs go away but I can still feel Irina's warm hand on my arm.
“Out,” he says to Irina. “Have your things ready to go in fifteen minutes.” She ducks her head and then she turns away.
“Irina...” I mumble but it's hard to say the word. I try to lift my hand to grab her but she's gone before I can. “I hate...” I say but then I can't remember the rest. It's too hard to talk. It's too hard to keep my eyes open. Vibrations of warmth and pleasure ripple through me. I hate being on morphine, but I also love it. I can't help it. It feels good to feel good. It reminds me of the months after my father died when I let myself go. I did so many things to get rid of the pain. Nothing ever worked. Not for long anyway. I promised myself I would never do that again but now I don't have a choice.
“Adrienne,” he whispers and the way he says my name snakes through my brain. ““Rest,” he says. “Don't worry. It'll all be over soon.”
I want to ask him what he means by that but I can't.
I can't remember anything else.
*****
Hamina Manor is exactly as I remember it.
The rooms are still dark and quiet and it still makes the same sounds late at night. It creaks and shifts and reminds me of my childhood. The wallpaper my mother imported from France is still on the walls in her bedroom. It's faded and peeling in sections now. The room smells different, too, like earth and mold. Ivy covers the window in the bathroom and it's started to force itself under the swirled glass panes. Everyday when Irina helps me into the bathtub, I can't help but notice the little green buds against the cracked white paint. The water runs orange with rust at first but then it runs clear and hot. The old pipes clank in the walls as the tub fills with bathwater. I sit on the edge as Irina drops some essential oils in and the room immediately fills with the soft scent of lavender. She wants me to relax but it's difficult. Being back in my childhood home does not make me happy.
I cried and raged for three days after he left me here, but he didn't return. As far as I can tell, there's no cameras watching me around the clock. There's no one here but me and Irina, most of the time. Occasionally I can hear voices below, in the depths of the house, but I never see anyone else. I don't bother to wander, either. Leaving my bedroom and exploring the decay of the house is not something I'm interested in. I stay in bed all day, exhausted by the boring hours and slipping in and out of sleep. The morphine helps. Irina seems to have an endless supply of that as well as wine. She brings it to me before the sun goes down and then we watch the sunset over the Hudson from the window.
The days have started to run together.
It's my worst nightmare, come to life, being stuck in this house again.
He hasn't been to see me, not once. He's left me in this big old decaying tomb to rot. I shouldn't be surprised; I didn't ever really believe that he cared for me. He played with me until he got bored, just like I knew he would. As I slip into the hot bathwater, I hiss in a mix of pain and pleasure. My body always aches now, ever since I've been here, and it's been so much harder to deal with the pain. The hot water feels like pins and needles in my muscles at first but then it gets better. Then I can feel myself relax. I press my back against the cool porcelain of the tub and slip down so that the water covers my tits. Irina stands beside the tub like she's been put on suicide watch, like he's afraid I'm going to try to drown myself. Like I can't be trusted. But there's something else about her eyes. Her pupils are dilated and she doesn't seem to be able to completely focus. She keeps blinking and swaying a bit, like she's going to fall asleep any minute.
She's been into the morphine again.
“The soap,” I say, not bothering with niceties. I'm annoyed with her for being high. She rolls her head on her shoulders then slowly reaches over and grabs the bar of soap from the side of the tub. She sinks to her knees and moves closer to me. She hands the expensive bar he's had imported from France to me and I dig my fingernails into it, making little crescent moon shapes in the soft surface. He thinks that by giving me little gifts like this that I'll forget what he's doing to me. He's kept me buried and he'll want to unearth me at some point. He thinks I'll welcome him with open arms when he chooses to return, but I don't care how many expensive things he gives me. I'll never forgive him.
“Why are you in this mood?” she asks, her accent thicker and slurred from the opiate in her system.
“You know why,” I say. She crawls around behind me and slides her hands down to my shoulders.
“You think of him?” She pokes at my skin gently and I push myself up so that she can massage me.
“No,” I say, even though it's a lie. I bite my lip against the moan that's trying to force it's way out of my throat. She kneads my underused muscles, pushing blood back into them and forcing them awake. It feels as good and as bad as the hot water felt.
“Then what do you think of?”
“The morphine. I don't like how much you've been using.”
“Do not worry,” she says, a laugh at the back of her throat. “There is enough. There is always enough.”
“That's not the point.” I pull away from her hands and dip the soap in the water. I wash myself quickly, although I don't know why I'm in a rush. I don't have anywhere to be. She dips her hand in the water and splashes me, quickly, before I can stop her. I'm surprised at her reflexes. Maybe she's not as high as I thought. I turn my head to look at her, my annoyance slightly fading. I suppose there's no use being cross with the only friend in the world I've got. If we're not friends, I don't know what else we are. “I don't want any tonight. And you shouldn't have any either.” She giggles and splashes me again. She's not taking me seriously. I suppose it's hard for s
omeone in my position to be taken seriously. No one else seems to, either.
“Where do you want to eat? Bed or by the window?” She pushes herself to standing. She steadies herself on the towel rack and then grabs a one of the limp towels that hangs there. She hasn't done laundry in over a week. The thick towels he bought me to luxuriate in are getting limper and mustier by the day. I lean forward and strain my muscles until my fingers brush the rubber stopper. I unplug the drain and watch the water swirl around it.
Back in the bedroom, she dresses me, unfolding the last clean nightgown I have in the drawer and pulling it over my head. Then I lay back in the bed against the soft pillows. I'm exhausted again. My skin is still warm and fragrant from the bath and my stomach is empty but, at that moment, nothing is worth staying awake for. The sky was gray and cloudy today and rain fell all day. There was no gorgeous sunset over the river to look forward to. There was nothing that made this day worth living. I wonder if the next day will be different. I wonder if there will be any point in living tomorrow, either.
“Fresh bread today. From your favorite bakery in the city. And chicken roasted with lemon.” Irina is still giggling to herself, I can hear her. She's still not taking me seriously. She thinks tonight will be like all the other nights. Dinner, wine, morphine, bed. And she's probably right.
“Who was it I heard you talking to earlier?” I ask, not bothering to open my eyes. “Who brings the food?”
“Not him,” she says.
“One of his people? Someone he pays to be discrete and nameless and faceless?”
“Someone with good taste,” she says with a laugh. “They brought chocolate cake tonight. That was a surprise.”
“I don't care about chocolate cake,” I whisper, rolling over onto my side and burying my face in the pillow. The pillowcase smells like my hair and my soap. I remember when my bedsheets used to smell like him and me. Us.
Then, for the first time in weeks, something truly interesting happens.
The phone rings.
My eyes snap open and I push myself up on my elbows. Irina stands by the door, frozen. We both turn to stare at the phone in open-mouthed surprise. It sits on the bedside table and it's been about as useful as a paperweight in all the time that we've been here. I first picked up and pressed the receiver to my ear the fifth day of my imprisonment, after the initial hysteria had passed. Not even a dial tone. And now the dinosaur of a device is ringing, like it's worked the whole time.
“Should I answer?” Irina whispers, her eyes wide as saucers. She looks thoroughly freaked out. Again, I wonder how much of that is due to the drugs and how much is due to the circumstances.
“Yes!” I say holding out my hand.
“What about him?” she says, shaking her head. “He would not like that.”
“Answer the fucking phone!” I yell. I can't help it. I want to talk to someone, anyone. I want to scream and cry and beg to be let out of this nightmare. I need it. I roll over and grab at the sheets, pulling myself across the mattress and toward the phone. She jolts into action and reaches the phone before I can, slapping her hand over the receiver.
“I will do it,” she says. I drop my eyes to the phone, impatient to know who's on the other end. Before I can yell at her to move faster, she closes her hand around the receiver and lifts it slowly to her ear. “Hello?” she says. I can hear the fear in her voice. I'm sure she's thinking of how Dorian will punish her if he finds out she disobeyed him. Answering phones is not in her job description. Talking to people outside of the circle he's drawn is forbidden.
I bet this whole business has killed her buzz.
Her eyes widen again as someone speaks into her ear and then she tosses the phone onto the bed, inches away from my hand. “It's for you,” she says. Warmth starts to spread through my chest, black and thick, like a puddle of spilled motor oil. I know it's him. I know I should be angry but annoyingly, I only feel relief. He hasn't forgotten about me. He hasn't left me here to rot.
I lift the phone and press it to my ear. At first, I don't say a thing. I want to hear what I can. I can hear a car horn honk. I can hear the rumble of city traffic. I can hear his breathing.
“Hello?” I say, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “Who is this?”
I hear him sigh deeply on the other end and I feel a shiver of pure electricity ride up my spine. I want to punish him for treating me so cruelly. I want to make him suffer. I should hang up on him and make him call again. I should make him prove it to me. But it's difficult.
I'm so lonely without him.
“Adrienne,” he says and I close my eyes at the deep tone of his voice. He sounds just as affected as I am, somehow. Maybe I'm just imagining that or he's faking it, but it seems real. “Are you in pain, pet?” he asks. “Is the little mouse taking good care of you?”
“I'm not well,” I say, my eyes darting up to meet Irina's. She's still standing beside the bed, like she's waiting for someone to tell her what to do. “I can't stay here.”
“What do you mean you're not well?”
“I can't breathe here. I feel sick. I feel like my skin is going to start peeling off and my heart is going to burst out of my chest,” I say, because it's true. It's dramatic and theatrical, but it's true.
“You'll live,” he says with a dismissive tone. “Are you being good?” he drawls. “Or are you still causing trouble?”
“Wouldn't you like to know,” I say, shooing Irina out of the room. She doesn't move though, just stays put. I grab a pillow and toss it her way, weakly. She blinks, but doesn't move as the pillow hits her hip and then slumps to the floor.
“Are you hungry? Did you eat yet?” he asks.
“No.” I roll over onto my side to face the windows. “I don't want to eat. I don't want to do anything but sleep.”
“I sent something good,” he says and I can hear the hint of something, probably annoyance, in his voice. If he's annoyed with me now, good. “I made sure the meal was freshly prepared and still hot when it got to you. And this is how you repay me? By acting childish?”
“Did you go from restaurant to restaurant to collect them? Did you deliver them yourself?” I pick at a wrinkle in the sheets. “Did you bring them up to me on a jeweled platter and feed them to me with a golden spoon?” He snorts out a laugh and I can almost see him shaking his head at my words through the phone.
“You want me to spoil you?” His voice sounds closer, more intimate. “I would if I could,” he says, softly. “This isn't easy for me, either.”
“Tell me, then. Tell me why you've left me here. Tell me what's going on.” I glance over my shoulder as I hear the desperation in my voice. I don't want Irina to know just how much it hurts. But she's not there. I'm alone in the room.
“You'll know soon enough.”
“I want to know now!”
“Adrienne,” he says, his tone sharper. “You will do as I say. You'll eat and take care of yourself. You'll let Irina tend to you. You will not cause problems. Do you hear me?”
“Come to me,” I say, not bothering to hide my desperation anymore. “I can't be here anymore. Don't you understand? I can't be here.”
“You'll be fine there for a little while longer.” His voice is so deep and smooth. I love it and hate it at the same time. He thinks he knows everything. He thinks he has all the answers. But he doesn't know me at all. He doesn't know anything about me or he wouldn't leave me here.
I toss the phone away and call for Irina. I call until she comes. She wasn't far away because it doesn't take long. She hangs up the phone without asking, like she already knew it was what I wanted.
“Do you want to eat?” she asks. I shake my head. I couldn't eat now. My stomach has shrunken into a knot. “Do not worry. I know just what you need,” she says, soothingly. I don't bother to argue with her. I know I shouldn't want it but I do anyway.
I'd rather be asleep than awake. I'd rather be drugged and out of it than living this life.
I don't argue as
she presses the needle to my vein.
*****
I stare down at my phone for a long minute before tucking it back into my jacket. I don't like the battling emotions that the conversation has left in my chest. I don't know what I expected when I dialed the number but I didn't expect this. I shouldn't have called, I know that now. Hearing her voice has made me even more impatient. I'm tempted to go to her, just like she begged for me to do. More tempted than I'd like to admit.
I can't.
It would be a mistake. My plans are so close to completion.
Adrienne isn't the only reason I'm doing what I'm doing. She's a big part of it, but I also have myself to consider. If I can stay strong for just a short while longer, I'll get everything I want. I can feel it practically within my grasp. I can feel its warmth, but I can't quite touch it. It troubles me to know that she's in pain, but she's always been in pain. I'll make things better for her as soon as I can. Better for both of us.
The car pulls to a stop in front of the building I've called home since my marriage. It won't be my home for much longer, though. The doorman appears from inside the building and opens my door. I glance at the driver in the rearview mirror. I'm used to Bryan being there, or being beside me, but I've sent him off to take care of my business. I don't like strangers, but Bryan hired him. I don't like a lot of things, lately, but I have to deal with it. It won't be much longer now, though. I'm confident that I'll be hearing the news I want to hear soon.
The apartment is dark and cool as I step inside and shut the door. I can smell Selene's perfume in the air. It seems to permeate the walls when she's not here. I light a cigarette, knowing that the smoke will fill my nostrils and make me think of Adrienne instead. I suck in a drag of the smoke, letting the nicotine making it's way through my bloodstream. It calms me down almost immediately. Well, as calm as I can be at this moment. Everything seems so close. I can almost imagine Adrienne's voice echoing in the empty hallways. I can almost hear her laugh or her soft sighs. I'll sell this apartment, once it's all said and done. I'll find a new home for Adrienne and I. Multiple homes, in fact. One in the city and one in Europe. A flat in Hong Kong or Dubai as well, perhaps, to satisfy her wanderlust. When I can do that for her, do everything to please her, that's when she'll be mine, really and truly.
Mansions Page 23