Contract Broken (Contracted #2)

by Aya DeAniege

  “I want to press charges against Albert Edwards. If there isn’t a police officer here to take my statement, I’m going to sue you all!”

  Everyone went deathly still.

  “Yeah, that’s right, I’ve been watching television, I know I can do that now,” I spat out at them.

  I left the review room, slamming the door behind me. Furious, I paced outside the door. When they left the room, I snarled at them all. Mr. Wrightworth left last and cocked an eyebrow at me.

  “They probably aren’t taking money from Albert, but likely are afraid of the man, as most sane people are,” Mr. Wrightworth said. “But your accusations also means that there will be a full audit. Which also means someone is going to find out how much I spend on sex toys and my tithing to the church.”

  “That’s a problem?” I asked.

  “My sexual preferences are not up for public consumption.”

  “Neither are mine, but I’m going to have to stand trial alongside Nathaniel’s father,” I said. “It’s going to come out. It’s all going to come out. And you are going to be more than just audited for what’s happened. They’ll ask how many others you’ve taken on, who you’ve slept with, the whole nine yards.”

  “What in the name of hell have the controllers been showing you?” Mr. Wrightworth asked.

  “I got bored when you weren’t available, okay? They kept me entertained.”

  “With what?” he asked.

  “A few shows from just before the collapse that involved politicians and dirty cops,” I said with a shrug.

  “That’s more than just a wee bit frightening,” he responded with a sudden accent.

  “Did you just—”

  “Ah, Officers Randal and Janine,” he said, looking past me with a broad smile. “Good of your captain to send you. Do you understand your purpose?”

  I turned as the two police officers came to a stop. Not Program guards, they were dressed in full black uniforms. Both of them looked bulky because of the bullet proof vests they wore and all the equipment they carried with them wherever they went.

  “We were checking on my sister during a break,” the woman, Janine, said, then glanced at me. “We weren’t told why you requested at least one female officer.”

  “This is Isabella Martin,” Mr. Wrightworth said gently, reaching out to set a hand on my shoulder. “Concerning an event that I have a case number for in my office. Miss. Martin wishes to press criminal charges against Albert Edwards.”

  “Albert Edwards?” the man, Randal, asked, his eyebrows almost meeting his hairline. “With all due respect, it’d be easier to kill the man than press charges against him. He’s got more money than most rich folk, and a team of lawyers to back him.”

  “I want to press charges, not have people try to talk me out of it!” I snapped at Randal.

  “Easy, Miss. Martin,” Janine said, raising her hand to stop me from protesting more. “We would never suggest that you let an assailant go. Why don’t we go to Mr. Wrightworth’s office, bring up the case file, and go from there, okay?”

  I went through hours of interviewing. Their main question was why I hadn’t pressed charges earlier. The Program heads had nearly screwed me over. While I could not have taken Albert to court for criminal charges while he was attempting a civil suit to have my contract—and me—turned over to him, I could have made my wishes known.

  Fucking men, they nearly let him walk!

  Mr. Wrightworth saved me by admitting that the Program had obviously made a huge mistake. He threw the entire contract system under the bus, himself included.

  In reality, I don’t doubt that Mr. Wrightworth had always intended for me to press charges. I fully believe that he put off telling me that I had to press charges until he was certain that I was his. Yes, his actions had brought me out of my shell, it had saved me in so many ways,

  but at its core, Mr. Wrightworth took me on to put an end to Albert Edwards.

  I don’t blame him, who could? He had waited years, patiently biding his time, for Albert to make a mistake. In me, he had made the mistake. Not because I survived, not because Mr. Wrightworth had it on record that Albert had broken the law, but because Albert had failed to break me.

  He had come close. He had done terrible things, things that I still dream about, things that aligned with that fucked up first contract I had been offered. But at the end of it all, Albert had been unable to break me. If he had managed to do that, I would have been dead and disappeared like so many others.

  After establishing the reason why I hadn’t sought to press charges earlier, I was then questioned about everything. That was when it came out, just how much I remembered. I told them what I did remember, I was honest about the foggy parts. At the end of it all, I heard the most horrifying words I have ever heard:

  “The building she was held in had working surveillance, it’s all on record and was used during the civil suit,” Mr. Wrightworth said. “As part of the review of the contract between Miss. Martin and Nathaniel Edwards, Albert Edwards’ son and heir, I was required to watch the videos to determine if the contract was breached.”

  I shut down after that.

  It’s easier to function when you don’t know that others witnessed your every folly. Coming to terms with the fact that Mr. Wrightworth saw everything was difficult. Despite hearing it then, once we left his office, I just sort of blocked it all out. Like it didn’t happen.

  The police officers questioned me for several hours then left with their reports. They filed their reports, everything went through the processes and then two detectives were sent out the next day.

  They wanted pictures taken. Pictures had been taken before but now was different. What they wanted were pictures of the scars, the lasting damage of Albert’s actions.

  It was the first bump in the road.

  Mr. Wrightworth and I had to explain our relationship, to which the detectives scoffed and left.

  Yes, I was left because it was believed that because I was a sub because I enjoyed impact play, I had wanted Albert to do what he had done to me. They not only thought I deserved what I got, but that I liked it and now, months later, I was pressing charges like a lover scorned.

  Mr. Wrightworth made a call, and the same two detectives came back, only with a third in tow. The lone detective listened to what the detectives said, then he listened to what I said.

  Little did I know, the detective was one of Oberon’s ‘victims.’ The man was seducing anyone he could at the capital, introducing them to the life, no matter how vanilla their interactions were within the community. He was trying to spread understanding as quickly as possible, then transferring those of certain positions to other cities where he knew the community existed.

  The detective listened to us all and then requested the pictures. He asked Mr. Wrightworth to step out of the room and then began questioning me with the other two detectives.

  My behaviour changed almost immediately.

  I was nervous and fidgety. One of the first detectives asked me a question in such a tone that I started crying. The detective called Mr. Wrightworth back into the room, and the interview continued.

  His concern wasn’t whether I had enjoyed what Albert had done to me. He had separated us to try to find out if Mr. Wrightworth was taking advantage of a victim. Upon putting us back together, I became more stable. I trusted Mr. Wrightworth to protect me.

  I trust my Master.

  Unknown to me at that time, this detective would question everyone about us and subpoena Mr. Wrightworth’s records. A thing that had never been done before. Mr. Wrightworth was quite upset when it happened, but he didn’t explain what had upset him.

  He didn’t just investigate my claims against Albert.

  He investigated Mr. Wrightworth and then Nathaniel.

  He protected me, the victim. That’s not something that someone from the community could say about themselves. Nicole defended victims. Mr. Wrightworth would do what he could to discipline members,
but at the end of the day, a victim was still left to their own.

  This man spent his time making certain that I wasn’t being taken advantage of. He did it in a way that was out of sight of me, and it only came to light when he was testifying later on. He never asked for anything in return. He never joined the community, and we did not become good friends afterward.

  But I watched his career and his life. A man like that doesn’t come along every day. I wasn’t the only one he helped, but I was probably the first.

  Pictures were taken. I had to do a special session with a court-appointed therapist, to gauge whether or not I’d be able to take the stand.

  Charges, they said, would be laid. Warrants and the like had to be found. It might be another week before Albert was taken into custody. He would stand at a bail hearing almost immediately—most rich folks do—and then be released.

  Except. One of the first warrants issued was one to search the grounds of the estate he took me to.

  Oops.

  They say karma’s a bitch.

  On Wednesday I was taken from the Program building, with Mr. Wrightworth in tow, and down to the building thing. It was the place where the prosecution worked out of or something. I don’t know. I wasn’t paying that close of attention because I was all but keening in the backseat of the town car that picked us up. Mr. Wrightworth looked uncomfortable and drew me into his arms the moment we stepped out of the car.

  It was nothing like the other times I had been upset. Sure, I think he enjoyed himself, he enjoyed seeing me upset. But there was a limit to even his tolerance. I had gone from strong woman submitting to his whim to a broken toy that was about to collapse at any moment.

  He had to pull me into the room because I had set my feet and didn’t want to go.

  Mr. Wrightworth sat me down as the prosecutors stared at me. They questioned my stability, and Mr. Wrightworth delivered a blistering lecture. His tone of voice was very much the strong Master. My confidence returned because he stood up for me.

  I apologized and asked them what they needed.

  And then I had to reiterate everything I had said to everyone else. They asked all the difficult questions, but it all boiled down to:

  “Did you enjoy what Albert Edwards did to you?”

  “No.”

  “Are you confident that is your answer? Given your lifestyle—”

  “Based on your face, you’re a fucking idiot.”

  “Darling!” Mr. Wrightworth barked out quickly.

  I lowered my head and gritted my teeth, struggling with my emotions.

  Finally, I looked up at the prosecutor, who sighed.

  “They’re going to ask this question. We aren’t allowed to tell you what exactly to say, but we strongly suggest that you don’t respond with sarcasm or hostility. I would recommend allowing them to finish what they are asking. It shows respect.”

  “But it also shows submission,” Mr. Wrightworth said. “The point of this all is that Isabella doesn’t just submit to anyone. She didn’t agree to submit to Albert. That edge to her is what kept her alive, what got her out.”

  I sat through their little debate, turning it over in my head.

  “My chosen lifestyle is one which results in physical pain at times,” I said, interrupting their debate without warning. “But it is also about consent and submission. I have only ever agreed to submit to two men. Nathaniel Edwards, my original contract holder, and Mr. Wrightworth, someone who Nathaniel told me I could trust and should submit to if something were to happen. I never submitted to Albert Edwards. I definitely did not consent. The important part of my lifestyle is being safe and giving consent. I think the medical reports will tell you that it was not safe, and I am telling you that there was no consent given.”

  The prosecutors gawked at me for a very long time before one of them jabbed the other one.

  “Good,” he said quickly. “That’s a good start.”

  And their questions continued. They hounded me the way they expected the defense lawyers would, to prepare me as best they could.

  It helped, in some ways. In others, it just made things worse.

  Their job, they said, was to get me through the trial.

  In reality, their job was to put on a good show for the citizens. Whether win or lose—because against Albert Edwards they fully expected to lose—they had to make it appear as if they stood for the victims no matter the Goliath they stood against.

  They didn’t talk about the videos.

  In all the old police dramas there might be photos, but video surveillance in the early twenty-first century was nothing like it was while I was growing up. People fought against being taped at all times, not realizing that even as they struggled against Big Brother, they were already being watched and controlled in frightening ways.

  We have video and audio of everything.

  Rich people pay to keep their stuff private, as long as they don’t get caught. Poor people are always watched, and the government kept an eye on big time criminals, taking out who they could when they could. Slum justice still had to prevail, so many were born and then died never knowing that every second of their lives was recorded and then stored in the national archives.

  You can watch those videos, though, and not truly know the people behind them. You can’t get into their minds. You don’t know what they’re thinking of when they sigh, or when they walk off by themselves and start crying. You can’t pinpoint the exact thoughts going through their minds.

  Watching my videos, I can see it and remember it like it’s all tagged inside my mind. I can pinpoint the moment I decided to kill myself, a sort of calm came over me. I can see it on my face when my brother dragged me into the contract room. I saw the rage in me when I was raped, and the longing when I saw Nathaniel for the first time.

  But others, looking in, can still only speculate.

  The human creature is predictable, but at the same time, the fact that we are all human and separate keeps our minds to ourselves. Some of us are more shallow than others. Some cannot be understood at all.

  Video data proved that I was raped and tortured, but the difficult task was to prove whether or not I truly believed that I had been raped. Or if—because I was a sub and in no small part a masochist—I enjoyed what had been done to me and asked for, or wanted, it.

  The other charges filed against Albert Edwards by the prosecution were mainly just dressing. They could prove all that easily enough, but if they could prove that I had wanted what was done to me, then all was lost. The debate would then change over to death contracts, and those people choose to be hurt, so obviously Albert had done nothing wrong because everyone he interacted with wanted it.

  They also didn’t tell me that at the time, though in their defense, they were afraid the pressure would ruin me.

  By Thursday I was worn out, and I think everyone but me knew it. I was still learning my boundaries at the time, so waking to find my door locked almost pushed me over the edge. Mr. Wrightworth arrived at ten and apologized, taking me to his rooms.

  There he tucked me into bed and watched over me until I fell asleep once more. I woke sometime around one to an empty apartment and tried to make myself breakfast. I knew the basics, but cooking was something I was never good at. Mr. Wrightworth arrived at about two to find me crying over burned eggs.

  Not because I had discovered something I wasn’t good at, but because I had wasted food. He made me lunch, and we ate in silence before he sat me down in the living room and began dictating.

  “Tomorrow night Nate will come here—you can still back out at any time, even afterward. You need to be here because as far as anyone knows, he’s coming to spend the night to figure out some sort of what’s going on.”

  “Will that be decided?” I asked, unable to meet his eyes.

  “The decision has already been made,” Mr. Wrightworth said.

  “And?” I asked.

  “Not right now, Isabella.”

  “Izzy,” I co
rrected for the millionth time.

  “Tomorrow night Nate will come,” Mr. Wrightworth repeated. “You will be here. We will all eat, under my rules. You have been obeying those rules right off, so I hope you will continue to follow them tomorrow night.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said glumly, picking at the leg of my pyjama bottoms.

  “Don’t get petulant with me, or I will give you orders for tomorrow night,” Mr. Wrightworth growled out.

  Hope flared, I dared to glance up at him, but didn’t voice my question.

  “After dinner, you will come in here, and I will put something on the television. Nate and I will go to the playroom. Do you remember what I said before?”

  “Uh, I wasn’t punished for spying?” I asked.

  Mr. Wrightworth sighed loudly.

  “Watching can teach us much about our cravings. The important thing is that the sub never catches you unless you are given permission beforehand. Nate is not a sub who enjoys public displays. He was lent out once by his Master and did not enjoy it. It was punishment. If you see anything, you will never say anything to Nate about watching him.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “You will sit on this couch. You will watch the video I put on for you,” Mr. Wrightworth said sternly, pointing first at me, then at the screen. “Once the video is done, you will be free to go to bed or take a bath. Masturbate if you please, but you cannot leave this apartment.”

  “Can I put what I want on the television?” I asked.

  “As long as it’s not a police procedural,” Mr. Wrightworth muttered dryly. “I think you’ve had enough of that for the rest of your life.”

  “Fine, no police procedural shows,” I said.

  “Tomorrow night is not the time to be a domme,” Mr. Wrightworth said.

  “I wasn’t planning on it,” I said with a shake of my head and a frown.

  Mr. Wrightworth frowned as well. It was only then that I realized that he could read me like most could read a book. Whatever he had read on my face said that I wanted to see Nathaniel tied and beaten.

  Maybe that was true. Maybe I wanted Nathaniel underfoot even then. For fucking me over and jerking me about, for kneeling before Mayfair instead of hanging on for me. Maybe, just maybe, I wanted to see him suffer for what I considered the slights against me.