Contract Renewed (Contracted Book 3)

by Aya DeAniege

  “Because you didn't gain consent.”

  “They all consented.”

  “The Program has the video consent of Isabella Martin for not one, but two contracts with your son. You, Mr. Edwards, have a contract in which your son and his friend consented to an obscene farce. There is unequivocal evidence from every contract that the Program takes, documenting and backing up that documentation of consent given. Where is your consent?”

  “I didn't make them sign a contract, that typically means money needs to pass hands.”

  “You were giving them a service, near as I can tell from your words. Call it, assisted suicide, shall we? So that would be the trade-off. Why no documentation? Even a video of consenting to what you were about to do to them? A comment on safe words, a look at them, anything at all that we've heard through witness testimony, a dominant or Master is supposed to do for their submissive. Why was that not recorded?"

  What was he going to say next? That he had shown me the video as the previous girl as a type of foreplay for me, instead of him?

  “It was recorded, it must have been deleted during a sweep. As I told the officers.”

  “You kept their hair, though."

  “And?”

  “Why keep their hair, which must need special care to keep from moving all over, and not a backup file of their consent?”

  “It never occurred to me. Data files are easy to keep safe and easier to copy. A token of their love is not.”

  I shuddered in my seat, hands clenching in my lap. The tone of his voice was too much. There wasn't a doubt in my mind that Albert would be watching me while he was on the stand, trying to push my buttons. With that in mind, I steeled my resolve and looked up, meeting his eyes.

  “Never occurred to you? Shall we play the videos then? Of you making Isabella Martin watch her fate on a television screen? Where we have full view of the screen, of your previous victim, one Rachel Smith from the west coast?

  “Taken from a street near her home, in the middle of the night, Rachel Smith was eighteen years old and was about to go to the Program to apply for an apprenticeship as a nanny. A new type of contract the Program is testing in her slum. She had her whole life ahead of her, was a bright and cheerful thing. How did she go from happy to begging for death?”

  “I do not pretend to know the inner workings of the human mind.”

  “Nor do I, but I am willing to wager that her begging for death, which the jury will be able to see for themselves, probably had something to do with the three days of torture and sleep deprivation that you put her through, wouldn't you agree?”

  “I wouldn't agree. She had consented to it all before we began."

  “But not on your property. She consented in your vehicle, as you're claiming that Miss Martin consented in your vehicle. Only you and she heard this consent, ending in a he-said-she-said. Not even your driver would have heard the consent because you conveniently sound proof the back portion of your vehicles."

  Something tugged at me. I looked down as Mr. Wrightworth jabbed a finger towards the floor.

  I had stood without thinking. Getting my body to work was difficult. Mr. Wrightworth had to pull me back to my seat, he took my hand in his own and held it tight. His other hand moved to my leg for just a moment, then withdrew.

  “They can't show those. They can't," I said.

  Yes, I knew that the videos had been entered into evidence, but some evidence the jury viewed behind closed doors. Anything that was shown in the courtroom would be viewable by the public once the trial concluded. There was no way that I wanted that out there. I don't think anyone wants video of them suffering made available for public consumption.

  “Hush, quiet,” Mr. Wrightworth said quietly. “You won't have to watch them.”

  “You can't let them show the videos.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because then it happened.”

  “Calm down. Are you panicking? Izzy? Izzy?” His voice got more demanding, yet seemed to be from very far away.

  I remember hearing a thump.

  And I passed out for the second, and last, time in my life.

  When I came to, I was on the floor of the courtroom, between the two rows of seats.

  I had heard Mr. Wrightworth's words, but it was as if my body did not exist. Mr. Wrightworth picked me up, despite the protests of the medics, and carried me out of the courtroom. Only once we were outside, did he give in to their demands and set me in a wheelchair, though he insisted on pushing it himself.

  They took me to the first aid room, pushing out several reporters who tried to claim sudden illness to get into a room alone with me.

  “On the bed,” Mr. Wrightworth demanded of me as he drew the curtain.

  “I just fainted.”

  “And I don't recall giving you a choice,” Mr. Wrightworth said as a doctor came into the little area.

  The doctor stared at Mr. Wrightworth for a moment then looked at me.

  “Is this man bothering you?”

  “No,” I said, climbing onto the bed. “I fainted in the courtroom.”

  He went through a list of standard questions about how much I had eaten and was I dizzy often. After answering all of his questions, I was told to rest for a bit. Mr. Wrightworth was pulled out of the curtained area, and there was a hushed conversation. I didn't catch it all. I hardly caught enough to say that I was even eavesdropping.

  After a time, Mr. Wrightworth returned.

  “They had called a recess, Nathaniel came to check on you,” he said, offering me a hand up. “We had a nice little chat.”

  “What's that mean?” I asked. “You two talk nearly every day after court.”

  “You will find out, but for now I'm to take you home and make you as comfortable as possible. So that you can recover. Plenty of water and something to eat.”

  “That's what you always say...”

  Mr. Wrightworth said nothing else to me. Not for the entire ride there, or the hours that dragged on. We sat in the wicker room, waiting for Nathaniel. Mr. Wrightworth wasn't even on his phone the entire time. Some of it, he engaged in a dry conversation with Patrick, then simply stared at a wall for the rest.

  Patrick had, at least, brought me a book from my room. I read a bit, ate the food that was brought to me and sipped the water that was placed before me.

  When Nathaniel finally returned, I stood, eager for someone else to talk to.

  I met the icy green eyes, I sunk back to the couch slowly.

  Nathaniel moved to Mr. Wrightworth's side and sat, watching me silently for several minutes before he turned to Mr. Wrightworth. The sadist arched an eyebrow in response to the look but didn't so much as turn towards Nathaniel.

  “I spoke not a word of it,” Mr. Wrightworth said in response to that look.

  “Is it the trial, did something go wrong with the trial?" I asked. "I never gave consent. He must have altered the tapes."

  “I watched those tapes,” Mr. Wrightworth said. “It is my belief that once the jury sees them, the trial will be open and shut. After all, we've been quite honest about how many ways a submissive can say no. Did you speak with them, about that, Nathaniel?”

  “Yes, they agreed that having Isabella attend court while the videos were playing would be harmful to her stability. She's not permitted to enter the courtroom for the next few days, as they are reviewing the tapes. They're seriously considering shutting down the courtroom, to keep it from the public eye. They aren't willing to keep it from the public entirely, but this part of the trial would be classified for five years, then released once all has calmed down a bit."

  “And the news outlets?” Mr. Wrightworth asked.

  “Already have a copy and are passing it around. If the court is shut down, it will be broadcast, and it's out of my hands. I tried to stop them, and they blathered something about freedom of the press. I made a fuss, and they stared at me. Then they asked if I had fulfilled the terms of the contract."

  Mr. Wrightworth
laughed. “Because they thought you were only protesting to protect him thanks to the contract?”

  “Oh, I think anything involving my father will, from this point forward, be viewed as seeing to the contract. Not much longer now, though, thank God. They have a countdown started. All kinds of questions too.”

  “Like Mayfair?” Mr. Wrightworth purred out.

  “Like Mayfair,” Nathaniel growled.

  “If this isn't about the trial, why are you upset with me?” I asked.

  “I think we are well beyond ... what's the word?”

  “Accommodating works,” Mr. Wrightworth said.

  “Accommodating?” I asked. “I didn't realize I was taking advantage of your hospitality.”

  “Tomorrow morning every drop of alcohol will be removed from this estate,” Nathaniel said.

  A cold tingled through me. Even at the mention of removing the wine, I began to panic.

  This wasn't like when you threaten to take a woman's wine on her night off, either. I felt as if the world were getting smaller very quickly.

  “Ah, when you take away alcohol they turn to other things,” Mr. Wrightworth said. “You'll want to remove any substance she could get high off of.”

  “I'm not an addict!”

  “You are using alcohol to numb the pain of what was done to you,” Nathaniel said. “I'd say it's gone on long enough, considering the fact that you fainted in court today.”

  “I've fainted before,” I said. “People faint all the time for all sorts of reasons, including being stressed because the man who assaulted me is on trial and might get away with it.”

  “I think you're the only one in this room who believes he'll get off,” Nathaniel said. “He's already admitted to rape and murder. The community is already petitioning for release of the laws because any of them can be tried for the same crimes unless they have a contract through the Program. You cannot, by law give consent to another person hurting you. Let alone give them permission to kill you.”

  “Not since the founding of the Program, anyhow,” Mr. Wrightworth muttered dryly.

  Every step Mr. Wrightworth took in the Program was a practical reflection of the insanity that was the contract which Albert had forced him to sign. By law, Albert could do such a thing. All old contracts were grandfathered in. Mr. Wrighworth spent years trying to even overturn that particular part of the law, to void all contracts created before the Program's foundation.

  I was a little surprised that he wasn't bouncing with the possibility of using that particular trial as an example of why the contracts needed to be voided, no matter what magnanimous member of society held the rich side of the contract.

  “The Program is a fabulous loophole for all sorts of things.”

  “How many bastards have you legitimized by claiming the mother was a surrogate?” Nathaniel asked.

  “About ten so far," Mr. Wrightworth said idly. The man leaned forward. "Law demands that those who sign death contracts go through rigorous tests. Those tests are the only reason we can sell those sorts of contracts. You missed that day in court because you were hungover."

  “To take on a sub, one must also go through rigorous testing. The Program needs to know with absolute certainty that lines will not be crossed. At the end of the day, the entire trial is a very long puppet show on the part of my father. You are the only person who still believes he'll get off on all charges."

  “I'm sorry, that I don't hold your unwavering belief that the conniving piece of shit that is your father will ever see time behind bars.”

  “Even if he gets off, you are protected,” Nathaniel said. “That's what this contract was about.”

  “What this contract was about?”

  Mr. Wrightworth muttered something under his breath and shifted away from Nathaniel.

  “You know what I mean, Isabella,” Nathaniel said quickly. “The emancipation, the rulings, the special wording, was all so that you would be protected if he won. Which is still, and always has been, a one in a million chance. There's no denying the evidence that is stacked against him.”

  “We've already argued that we wouldn't have granted him a death contract,” Mr. Wrightworth said. “Something else you missed.”

  “And at the end of the contract, what happens to me?” I asked. “I can't go home, no one in the slums will grant me a job.”

  “You can't work in the slums as someone without debt,” Nathaniel said.

  “And we don't have an answer for you as to what will happen at the end of your contract. That depends entirely on you. We can't make that decision for you. If you're asking, would we be able to help you find a job, should you desire to go that route, then yes. I can have a job for you within the hour, back in the archives, auditing the contracts. That at least would tide you over until you found something more to your tastes.”

  “You are protected, we made certain of it,” Nathaniel said. “He can't ever hurt you again.”

  “Having to be there every day, watching him be smug with his nose in the air like he's better than everyone else? That hurts."

  “Her pain is still an open wound, Nathaniel,” Mr. Wrightworth murmured quietly.

  “I know, patience is required," Nathaniel growled out. "You tell me at every turn that I need to show her patience, but you didn't exactly stay patient, now did you?"

  “No, but I liked the way you screamed.”

  Something in Mr. Wrightworth's voice gave Nathaniel pause. It almost seemed that Mr. Wrightworth was daring Nathaniel to speak out against him. The two shared a look and in that look were a hundred things unspoken.

  Nathaniel looked to me, his irritation all but gone.

  “No alcohol. If you attempt to move on to another substance, I will beat you to within an inch of your life. I don't give a shit what anyone says about you being a victim, either. Obey, or suffer the consequences. Do you understand?"

  “I understand.”

  Nathaniel smiled.

  “What's so funny?” I snapped.

  “It's been a long time since I've heard that tone of voice come from you," Nathaniel said, his smile growing. "I dare say, this time, I can do something about that snarl."

  “No,” I said. “I don't want to play right now.”

  “And I suppose it would be prudent of me to let you off with little more than a warning,” Nathaniel said, his smile turning devilish. “After all, I want you to speak like that, so I can spank you until you cry for mercy, then fuck you until you beg for release.”

  “I'm not allowed to drink, and you're being a smart ass?"

  “The problem with a natural switch,” Mr. Wrightworth said as he stood and tugged at his sleeves, smoothing out invisible wrinkles, “is that without notice you can flick the switch. Nathaniel, meet Isabella, Isabella, meet Nathaniel. Now the two of you need to find a way to be nice to one another because you're both going to be dominant at the same time. That simply happens.

  “Nathaniel and I fought like dogs when he was first let off the leash. He nearly put my head through the wall more than once. Just—the both of you—do everyone a favour and avoid the face. Striking that would be fine, if not for the fact that we are in the public eye at the moment. And after the first fight, please do recall it's almost like a sort of play.”

  “I'm not playing with him,” I snarled.

  “No, of course not, though I'm fairly certain the two of you will come to blows. I really should show myself out, Nathaniel. I'll see you tomorrow at the trial. Isabella, we will talk tomorrow after the trial. Do try to rest up, you'll need it."

  I stood because it was expected of me. I walked with Nathaniel to the greeting hall and shook Mr. Wrightworth's hand, giving him a proper goodbye before seeing him out the door. We even stood and watched as Mr. Wrightworth's vehicle went off down the drive.

  As the door closed, I swore I heard a chuckle. I turned to Nathaniel, finding the man silently watching me. I, however, was in no mood for his jokes or even conversation. While I couldn't quite say
what he had done to upset me, I did know that I was upset.

  Nathaniel slid his hands into his pockets, still watching me.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, Isabella.”

  “For the last fucking time, my name is Izzy, not Isabella.”

  “My apologies, I thought I was dealing with the Domme,” Nathaniel purred out.

  “Really? Then should I call you Nate and demand you kneel?” I asked. “Because I don't think Nathaniel should be snarling at me in such a tone if he thought I was being all Domme!”

  The smile returned.

  He was baiting me.

  Why? Even knowing that as I stood there, watching Nathaniel, I could no better stop myself than I could stop a runaway train.

  “Don't you be smiling at me, as if that would make things better. I'm tired of you not answering, or only answering when it pleases you, damn it.”

  “I just have a quandary, is all.”

  “Quandary? Another word I don't know, and I suppose you aren't going to explain this one either.”

  “No. I'm not.”

  Quandary (according to an old world dictionary that was well renowned at the time of the fall) is a situation in which one is confused as to what to do.

  I learned that when I looked up the word after all was said and done. I then found myself a vocabulary tutoring game and learned a great deal about the English language. Learning which helped me understand the classic books a little better because I knew what the big words they used meant without having to stop and look them up.

  “God, you're such an asshole!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “An asshole, that is what you are.”

  “Come over here and say that.”

  I marched up to Nathaniel, placing the tips of my shoes on his shoes, and glared up at him as he watched me placidly. I should have realized that something was up, beyond just baiting me.

  “You, sir, are an asshole.”

  That was when he hit me.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Nathaniel struck me across the face with an open hand. It wasn't hard in the least, though it did sting something awful and turn my face to the side. The main shock of it was in the fact that he had struck me. The strike wasn't even meant to bruise. My cheek was red afterward, and a little tender the next day, but no lasting mark was seen.