by Aya DeAniege
And could I keep to myself, to not press for those answers?
While Mr. Wrightworth had been there all those months during the trial, he hadn't made his desires clear in the least. It wasn't anything like any romance I had ever read. There were two men, but it wasn't obvious throughout that they would make me choose. I even questioned Nathaniel's interest, but I was questioning whether any man was interested in me or just showing me pity.
Mr. Wrightworth had never made it plain, how was I supposed to know that he had been interested? Just because he sat through the entire trial, which I assumed he had to attend because of the Program.
I certainly didn't think he had attended the trial just for me.
He showed support, but it was the kind of support that friends would show one another. I never felt like after I left the Program building that he had missed me in that fashion.
Perhaps he only wanted me back because Nathaniel had me. Or because Nathaniel loved me and, in his words, he was afraid Nathaniel loved me more than him. Perhaps that fear was what was driving Mr. Wrightworth to make the offer.
If he couldn't have Nathaniel, he would have the next best thing, a sub he could beat into submission.
Not that there was anything wrong with Mr. Wrightworth's treatment of me. I quite enjoyed his ministrations and right then? Right then I wanted him to bend me over the chair and beat me with his belt until I used my safe word. Even the idea of sitting and waiting for the verdict to be called out was too much for me. I could feel the prickling under my skin, and I needed relief in some fashion.
Nathaniel's methods worked most of the time, but I still found myself craving the rougher treatment once in a while. I had also not approached Nathaniel about having him do to me what Mr. Wrightworth had done—which was push me to my limits.
Therein lay the problem.
I was leaning towards Nathaniel, but there was a nagging at the back of my mind, a wonder of what things would be like with Mr. Wrightworth. I didn't know how it would turn out with Mr. Wrightworth and that was fascinating to me. It was a gamble to choose Mr. Wrightworth, and that excited me.
What if I chose Nathaniel and it was the wrong choice?
What if Mr. Wrightworth was right?
What if I couldn't make up my mind?
“Darling?” Mr. Wrightworth whispered quickly.
I gave myself a shake and stared at him. The man frowned at me, concern evident on his face as the hand around my shoulders tightened. His other hand found my own, gripping the fabric of my skirts tightly. I released my skirts and took his hand, squeezing tight, holding on for dear life.
A cold had come over me as I struggled internally with the question of choice. I didn't know who to choose because I was afraid of making the wrong decision. I was second guessing every thought inside my mind.
Why couldn't I make up my mind?
Mr. Wrightworth's arm tightened once more. He leaned towards me, down near my ear so that no one else would hear.
“It's all right, just breathe before you pass out. Are you cold? You feel cold. Don't pass out on me, Darling. Don't you dare pass out on me.”
“I'm not going to,” I responded weakly.
“Then pay attention.”
I dragged in a breath through gritted teeth and forced myself to look ahead, to the judge sitting at his place. He was focused on the jury, a deep frown creasing his brow.
It was then that I realized a deathly silence had come over the entire courtroom. Not a whisper was heard as all eyes focused forward. There was a tension in the air that made it hard to draw the next breath. My chest seemed to tighten around my lungs, and the dress wasn't helping matters in the least. The tight bodice made me feel like someone was squeezing the life out of me.
My heart pounded in my chest as I struggled to grasp the situation.
How far into the reading had they gotten?
How many verdicts had I missed?
“And on seven counts of first-degree murder, how do you find?"
All, I had missed all the verdicts. I had been so caught up inside my head that I hadn't heard what had happened in the courtroom.
I didn't know if he'd been found guilty.
Tears welled up in my eyes as I realized that I would have to ask someone for the verdict, I would have to ask if he had been found guilty. I couldn't even ask until we were in private, because if a reporter overheard me asking Mr. Wrightworth what the verdict was, it would be held against me. They'd say that I was shameless and unphased by what had been done to me. Albert might even use that to get a retrial because I felt so comfortable during the deliberation that I didn't even pay attention to what was being said.
What had been said while I was caught up in thought, trying to make up my damned mind? Was he guilty or innocent of the other charges?
And why couldn't I tell by looking over the courtroom?
“We the jury,” the man speaking paused just slightly.
He looked down at the paper in his hands, and I wanted to wring his fucking neck.
You don't pause when reading a verdict, damn it. You read it out, don't hold everyone in suspense, wondering what was going to happen, what he was going to find.
“Uh, sorry,” the man mumbled and cleared his throat, then straightened. “We the jury, find the defendant, Albert Edwards, guilty.”
“This court thanks the jury for it's time and relieves it of its duty. A hearing will be held one week from today for sentencing."
As the gavel fell, I swear, I blacked out for a second. The only thing holding me up was Mr. Wrightworth's arm around me. The second fall of the gavel, dismissing everyone, brought me back out of the darkness. I leaned towards Mr. Wrightworth. I latched onto him, hands clutching his torso, face pressed against his shoulder.
And I burst into tears as he pulled me close.
A kerchief was pushed into my hands, and I used it to try to dry my eyes, but the tears wouldn't stop coming. The thing was, I wasn't sad at all, I was relieved. The trial was over. It was over. I was finally free.
But I couldn't stop crying.
People moved around me. Another body sat to my other side, and an arm slipped around my shoulders, sitting just above Mr. Wrightworth's arm. Lips pressed against my temple, and all I could do was shake my head in response as a fresh bout of tears wracked my body.
A hand wrapped around my throat, steady as my face was lifted up. Cold green eyes locked with mine. I hiccoughed and went deathly still. With his hand around my throat and his eyes on my face, all I saw, all I thought about was Nathaniel. Everything else melted into the background.
“What did I tell you when we first met?” Nathaniel asked.
“Trust Sir?” I asked.
He had said so many things. Those two words meant a great deal to me and held a lot of weight. No matter what happened in life, no matter how rough it got, I was to trust Sir, because he would always come through. I might be hurt, I might be trampled under foot, but at the end of the day, I could always trust Sir to know right from wrong, and to seek out justice when I had been hurt.
“Trust Sir,” he murmured. “And what did I tell you would happen at this trial?”
“He'd be found guilty.”
The jury hadn't made comment on Albert being guilty based on the fact that giving consent was illegal, though I didn't know that fact right then. They had specifically said otherwise, that he had obviously not obtained consent and was a dangerous, unapologetic criminal.
That wording, that trial, opened the door for Oberon to talk his supporters into introducing a bill which allowed a person to consent to be beaten. For the protection of victims such as myself. To help bring justice to those who lived in the lifestyle and were raped or assaulted, but afraid to come forward because of their lifestyle, because they might out others in the community and send their friends and lovers to jail if they stood up and said that they were a victim.
“Do you trust me?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said with a sni
ffle.
My eyes were almost dry, but not quite. I sniffled again as Nathaniel pulled away and offered me a hand up.
I took the hand, looking around with a frown. The courtroom was empty besides a guard standing by the door. My frown deepened as I looked to Nathaniel for an answer.
“You cried quite a bit, they said we could have a minute,” Nathaniel said.
“What were the other verdicts, I didn't even...”
“Guilty on all charges,” Mr. Wrightworth said, checking his watch. “Should we go outside?”
“Bathroom first, she looks like she just stepped out of a horror movie,” Nathaniel said. “Mascara runs, Darling.”
Trust Sir.
Therein lay my answer.
Chapter Twenty-One
After a stop in the bathroom—which required the help of both Nathaniel and Mr. Wrightworth—I managed to fix my makeup. I was used to taking it off with specialized wipes at home, not trying to clean trails of black off of my cheeks with paper towel and hand soap. Nathaniel had at one point offered to replace the makeup I had purchased while at the Program building, but I had been too proud to accept his rich woman's makeup.
Their mascara only runs when they want it to.
Mr. Wrightworth had started out guarding the door but had come to my rescue when Nathaniel had started growling about my refusing the better quality makeup.
All that had done was made me want to cry more, so instead and turned and all but shouted, “now look here, you imbecile.”
At which point Mr. Wrightworth rushed away from the door. He was between us in a heartbeat, offering murmured advice on what had worked for him for removing makeup in truck stop bathrooms.
I never had the courage to ask how he had such intimate knowledge of such a thing.
It was as he was dabbing my face with a piece of wet paper towel that the door creaked open. We all stiffened as one, then turned to the door. A woman stood there, her mouth falling open.
Then her eyes fell on me, and she reached for her purse.
“I was crying, I'm just trying to clean it off,” I said.
“I have something for that too,” she seemed to mutter as she looked into her purse, rooting around for something.
She produced a little package of cleaning wipes. With a little time and patience, she helped me clean the mascara from my face. I hadn't brought any more, so all I could do was apply some lipstick as Mr. Wrightworth and Nathaniel left the bathroom.
I relieved myself, then washed my hands and looked at myself in the mirror.
I looked like I had been crying.
With a sniffle, I slapped my cheeks gently, trying to bring colour back to them. There was no helping the redness around my eyes. Not without makeup and a great deal more skill than I had. Let alone time. As I stared at myself in the mirror, there was a knock on the door. Likely Nathaniel getting uppity.
He wanted to get to the restaurant and start celebrating. It would take time to make our way through the reporters.
Leaving the bathroom, I linked arms with Nathaniel. Together we left the courthouse.
Just outside, on the steps of the courthouse, the reports waited with microphones and cameras. The number was absurd. It seemed each broadcasting station had sent out multiple teams. Or perhaps every team had arrived at the courthouse in the hopes of being the one who got that piece of critical information.
Mr. Wrightworth checked his watch, grumbled, and gave a soundbite to a waiting reporter. Halfway through, there was a beeping from his watch, from his pocket, and from Nathaniel's pocket. Three different alarms going at once caused the reporters to all hesitate and then pull back as one. They seemed to be wondering what was going on, what the alarms signified.
Nicole rushed up the courthouse steps in a rather fancy dress, having agreed to meet us for dinner. It was known that she was my friend, but she still tried to hide as much as possible. The reporters hadn't linked her to the community, nicknaming her the Vanilla Virgin.
Which Nicole found amusing because she had never had sex, but the reporters had chosen it because upon speaking with her ex-husband, he claimed she was frigid and would die a virgin. Only to attempt to tarnish her name, of course.
As soon as the beeping started, Mr. Wrightworth stopped mid-sentence and shut it off both alarms. Then he just walked away, as if there wasn't a stunned reporter in his wake.
From his inner pocket, he pulled out the plastic case that Nathaniel had given him before we attended court, opened it and withdrew a cigarette. The cigarette went into his mouth, he lit it and took in a long drag. With the smoke in his lungs, Mr. Wrightworth paused, seemingly holding his breath. Then the smoke curled out of his mouth and around his head as he began letting it out slowly.
“Oh, sweet blessed, baby fucking Jesus,” he said as he breathed out.
With smoke in hand, dressed in his fine suit, the slim, thin Mr. Wrightworth looked very much like the modern day image of the devil that the slums held as true. One hand in his pocket, the other brought the smoke back to his mouth as Mr. Wrightworth arched an eyebrow at the reporters who were edging closer to him.
As if daring them to come closer.
I hope they don't show his smoking to the slums.
The Program's reputation was recovering, but slowly. For the Program head to be seen, smoking and looking a little like the devil, was not a good thing. At least, I didn't think it would be a good thing then.
“The contract with my father ran out an hour ago," Nathaniel said to the stunned reporter. "We agreed to wait an extra hour, just in case."
“He couldn't smoke while on contract?”
“No, couldn't swear unnecessar—hey, leave him alone.”
Nathaniel jabbed a finger at a reporter who had dared to venture closer to Mr. Wrightworth. The reporter had a microphone outward, almost within arm's reach of the sadist.
Who was eyeing him as a cat did the mouse who had just attempted to bite him. Smoke was spilling slowly from his mouth at first, then suddenly faster as Mr. Wrightworth looked at the microphone, then past it to the idiot holding the microphone.
“Think this is a fucking charity? Take your fucking questions and fuck the fuck off already. Fuck, can't you see I'm having a moment? Fuck off! I'll answer your questions after I finish my goddamned, fucking smoke.”
“Yeah, don't do that,” Nathaniel said with a shake of his head as a reporter edged away from Mr. Wrightworth warily.
“Nathaniel, now that you're off contract, what do you think of your father?” another reporter asked, directing the microphone towards Nathaniel.
“I think that what I think about Albert Edwards is that he's a very sick man, and I hope he gets the help he needs to keep him from killing again. I think that his actions are regrettable, but don't reflect on the hard workers of the corporation that he ran before he passed it on to me. And I hope that this is a wake-up call for any victim out there, anyone who has been abused by anyone else. Justice will prevail if only they have the courage to step forward with their stories."
“But what do you think about your father?”
“Please, I'm a very private man,” Nathaniel said. “If I have anything that needs to be said about my father, I'd rather say it to my father. Thank you.”
“Hey," Nicole said cheerily, linking arms with me. "You're upright, and that's good. We're going to dinner to celebrate the contract, though. Is that going to look weird, what with the verdict also being read today?"
“I don't know, but I sure look stupid in a bright floral dress,” I muttered.
Nathaniel concluded saying something else to a reporter, then turned. He herded Nicole and me towards Mr. Wrightworth. Nicole dug in her heels when she saw the look on his face. The man wasn't exactly irritable, but when his eyes locked with mine for a moment, I almost turned and ran the other way. It was the look of a predator looking for prey.
Nicole and I? We were the closest thing to prey that Mr. Wrightworth had at that moment. Nicole would play
the prey to distract him, but in the end, just as months before, I would fall under his ministrations.
Unless we could distract him with something else entirely.
Mr. Wrightworth finished his smoke and placed it in the proper receptacle before he walked around Nathaniel. He approached the reporter he had been talking to when the alarms went off. All the reporters seemed to edge away until Mr. Wrightworth motioned the man forward. Then he simply continued the soundbite as if he had never stopped. He answered several reporter questions—including one asking if his behaviour as head of the Program was going to change now that he was off contract—and he answered them all before politely excusing himself and walking back to Nathaniel.
Reporters would approach, but not swarm. It was so nice then. If the reporters did get too close, one could charge them with assault. The rich folk would simply blacklist anyone who disturbed their private lives for the sake of a news story.
“Well?” Mr. Wrightworth said to no one in general.
I turned to Nathaniel and opened my mouth to ask if I could speak to him in private. There hadn't been a chance to before. Mr. Wrightworth had been there.
Trust Sir.
That had been my answer. I knew who I chose, and I wanted to tell him in private. I didn't think that that sort of thing should be spoken about in public. I wanted to speak to Nathaniel, then to Mr. Wrightworth.
Possibly with Nathaniel there to support me.
As I turned, Nathaniel went down on one knee.
My mind stumbled over the meaning of the motion. It was different from anything I had ever seen. The only reason that my mind made the connection was because out came the ring box. And then I remembered that in my romance books, men got down on one knee when they were proposing.
Tears welled up in my eyes as the ring box was lifted slightly and opened.
“Isabella Martin, will you marry me?” he asked.
“I hate you," I said through tears.
He smiled and nodded. “I know. Uh, but they,” he motioned with his head towards Mr. Wrightworth and Nicole, “probably need a traditional answer.”