by Linnea May
Alena looks confused for a moment, her pretty face painted in a blank expression as she subtly shakes her head. “I… I did not know that.”
“Fine, you do now. During the hunt, I only narrow it down to prospective candidates. As you may understand, I can’t test drive a couple dozen girls who all want to hang from my strings. But I know what I want, and I know how to find it.”
I pause, watching her process my words. There’s no reaction on her face that would tell me what she’s thinking, no emotion, no nonverbal clues. She just fixates on me intensely, her lips pressed together in a thin line and a subtle crease etched between her eyebrows as she waits for me to continue.
“That being said,” I go on, “I always have the same procedure, always ask my prospective girls to do the same thing if they are serious about becoming my puppets. It’s just one simple task, and whoever completes it to my satisfaction will become my next puppet. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” she replies instantly, grounded by determination. “And what task is that?”
Her lips are pressed together and her eyes glued to me as she listens intently, nodding along while I reveal what I expect of her.
Chapter 13
Alena
One thing is for certain: my life hasn’t been this nerve-racking in a very long time. It almost feels as if there were a cloak covering every aspect of my life, a cloak that protected me, that made me feel safe and sane—but it also covered the fire burning deep inside me.
I didn’t even realize it until now, as I breathe in the same air I’ve been breathing in for the past three years. A stuffy atmosphere, mixed with the occasional waft of perfume when one of the secretaries walks by or a whiff of Mr. Hammond’s overpowering aftershave.
It’s not noticeable out here in front of his office. I’m sitting with the written notice of my resignation resting in my lap as I wait for him to call me in, my tired eyes focused on the floor. I never noticed the odd pattern of the PVC floor coating in these hallways. It’s a symmetric pattern, colorful lines and shapes intertwining in a seemingly random order on top of a gray base. The pattern appears random and different on every square foot at first, but if one looks closely—and for long enough—it’s easy to tell that the pattern repeats itself, clearly showing where one floor panel ends and another begins.
I wonder what would have happened if someone didn’t pay attention to how the pattern evolves and connects at the border when they were installing the floor. Would it have gone unnoticed? Because, you know, there are people who wouldn’t see such a thing, and if they did, maybe they wouldn’t care and just leave it, hoping that their superiors wouldn’t say anything about it. There are people like that.
And then those of us who work here would have had to live with that irregularity on the floor, a blemish that was not easily fixable, so no one would do anything about it.
It would drive me nuts.
Thank God I don’t notice any such flaw within my vicinity. Soon I won’t have to care about these halls anyway because I will no longer work here. That reality is still hard to grasp.
Ever since I started working for Mr. Hammond, my life had turned into an unexciting routine, a clearly defined goal without being overly ambitious. Maybe I’d be somewhere else at this point if I had been more ambitious, if my purpose wasn’t simply to climb up the chain to the next position in this company, but to run a company of my own? Or something like that.
Would I want that? Is that something I should strive for after...?
After what? After this job? After my time as the Puppetmaster’s little toy? If he even decides to choose me. I still don’t know what his decision will be, and even if he chooses me, there’s no way of knowing how long I’ll be his and away from the world as I know it. How would I handle my disappearance? How long can I swing paying for my rent with just my savings? Puppets don’t get paid, even though they get to live in his house for free and won’t have to worry about any expenses while they are with him.
Maybe I should sublet my place? But what if he gets tired of me after just a couple of weeks? How can I sublet my apartment if I don’t have the slightest idea how long I’ll be gone?
I let out a deep sigh, sinking lower in my chair as I check the time again on my phone. Mr. Hammond is taking a phone call, or so he said, which is why he asked me to wait outside his office even though I showed up at the exact time of our appointment. I’m not even sure what to expect once he calls me in. Will he try to convince me to stay? What would it take for that to happen?
Would I be willing to give up the chance of becoming the Puppetmaster’s puppet if Mr. Hammond offered me a generous raise? Or better yet, a promotion?
I grimace at the thought of it, praying that I won’t be faced with having to make that decision. I know it should be easy. Any sane person would take the raise or promotion and not even consider giving herself to a stranger and trusting him to do whatever he pleases with her.
He doesn’t feel like a stranger, though. He feels familiar, comfortable even, despite the hint of peril that laces every syllable when he speaks to me. The pull is even stronger now, making it almost unbearable to be in the same room without touching him.
That’s why I dared to tease him, that’s why I tickled the bratty side within me—because I wanted him to come closer to me, to handle me. I was hoping for more than being grasped around my throat, but as it turned out, even that was more than he was willing to give. He made sure to keep his distance after that, always staying an arm’s length from me when he told me about the task he expects me to complete.
I still have about thirty-six hours to finish that task—and to make a decision that could possibly impact the rest of my life.
“Alena?”
Mr. Hammond’s voice is stern and demanding, feeling like a punch that tears me back to the here and now. He’s standing right next to me, holding the door open and gesturing for me to come inside.
I jump up from the chair, clutching the written notice against my body as I follow him into the interior of his office.
He looks exhausted and terribly annoyed, and a part of me hopes that it has little to do with me and the fact that I quit my job in such a dramatic fashion. A part of me still wishes he feels the stress of losing one of his best employees because, let’s face it, that’s what I was to this firm.
The confidence that comes with that thought helps me to march into Mr. Hammond’s office with my head held high, my back straight, shoulders pulled back, and a smile on my face.
Yet my heart is beating rapidly as I sit down opposite of him, trying to read the expression on his face when he sinks his heavy body into the wide chair on the other side of the desk.
“Alena, dear,” he begins, already tingling a bit of fury within my chest. I hate it when he calls me dear. It makes me feel like a dumb little girl.
“I must say, your resignation came as quite a surprise to me, and I’m sorry to see you go,” he continues, his voice a monotone, as if he’s giving a recital or a speech that he doesn’t care about. “But if this is your wish, then I won’t stand in your way. I know you will stand by your decision, even if the way you voiced it wasn’t… ideal to say the least.”
He raises an eyebrow at me, supporting himself on his elbows as he leans forward to pin me down with a reproachful look. “I won’t hold you back, and we can also talk about the two weeks’ notice clause in your contract. As I see it, you still have some vacation days left that you could use to shorten the time you have left here.”
I stare at him, confused and—to be totally honest—a little disappointed. It almost sounds as if he’s happy to get rid of me.
“You’re… just going to let me go?”
Mr. Hammond shrugs, throwing me a friendly but somewhat distant smile.
“You’re a smart young woman, Alena, and I’m sure you know what’s best for you.”
We sit in silence for a few awkward moments, and I’m sure he must see the shock on my face, t
he disappointment.
Why is he not fighting for me? How can he just let me go like this? And why is he suggesting I use up some of my remaining vacation days so I can leave even sooner?
I swallow dryly, trying to make sense of his words. Maybe I wasn’t as much of an asset to this company as I thought I was? Maybe my ideas really were stupid.
I lower my eyes in defeat, studying the written resignation in my hands while I let that saddening realization sink in. I feel like an idiot. An idiot who thought a little too highly of herself.
“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Mr. Hammond pokes, now with a hint of irritation in his voice. “You told me you wanted to quit, and as I can see, you even brought official notice of it in writing to make things final today. Why that face?”
He nods toward the paper in my hand, reaching a hand out for it. I hesitate for a second before I give it to him. As soon as the page transfers from my hands to his, the finality of my decision hits me like a goddamn train—and I burst into tears.
Chapter 14
Raad
I never leave Manhattan for long. This place, this neighborhood, this bustling center of power, money and, yes, life—nothing embodies life itself as much as Manhattan. The variety, the insanity, the busy hustle, and the constant transition all while never changing its true character, nowhere compares to it in the world. And I’ve been around enough to judge.
In a way, I’m a product of the pull that this melting pot has had on people from all over the world. My mother was not born a US citizen, but when she built a life for herself here, she found it easiest to adjust in this very city because it’s used to the variety of faces and provides a home for all of them.
Yet I like the fact that my hunting grounds—The Velvet Rooms—are not located here but in the Boston suburbs. It’s a good enough reason for me to leave the city to find some new and fresh faces.
I know Alena grew up in New York, albeit in a rough area of Brooklyn. I wonder if it would feel like coming home to her, even though she’ll be heading to Manhattan, a very different environment from the one that shaped her.
My housemaid Dorota greets me with her usual warm smile when she opens the door of my Upper East Side townhouse. I try to mirror the expression. I’m not in the mood for smiling; I almost never am. If there’s a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, it rarely has anything to do with friendliness. It is usually there because of a dark thoughts taking up residence in my soul.
But Dorota deserves the effort. She has worked for my family for decades, even when my mother was still alive. She’s caring, loyal, discreet, and—most importantly—trustworthy. I know that both my brother and I have given her more trouble than a woman like her should ever be forced to bear, but she always had our back, even when we broke the law. She refused to testify against either of us and risked going to prison herself, even though she had nothing to do with our misdeeds and knew nothing about it.
She also doesn’t know what my semi-regular Boston trips are all about. And she also doesn’t know why I gift her with long, paid vacations on a regular basis, during which time she is asked to stay away from the house. She just accepts it and never asks questions.
“Welcome back,” she greets me warmly as I walk through the door. “Did you have a decent trip? Can I make you some coffee?”
It’s like those words are programmed into her. She always asks me those two exact questions, always accompanied by the same polite smile, the same tilt of the head, and the same readiness to immediately head into the kitchen to make me a fresh cup of coffee.
But today there’s something dancing in that smile. Her face looks brighter than usual, and her step has an extra bounce to it that is not typically evident.
“Yes, coffee would be nice,” I reply. I study her movements in an effort to figure out if I am imagining her glow or if there is something different about her.
“Coming up right away.” Dorota beams up at me, making a move to take the luggage out of my hand, but I don’t let her.
“That’s fine, I’ll carry it upstairs myself,” I tell her, holding the large bag closer to my body. It’s heavy and I see no need for this sweet sixty-something woman to carry it up two flights of stairs. Besides, there are some things in this bag that I would rather not put into another person’s hands, not even Dorota’s.
“Very well,” she responds, still smiling. “Where would you like to take your coffee?”
“Outside in the backyard. I need some fresh air.”
She nods, and for whatever reason, the smile on her face has grown even wider, despite our mundane exchange.
“What’s going on, Dorota?” I ask then, studying her joyous look. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
The expression on her face turns into an outright grin now, and she nods before she starts shaking her head wildly, as if to forbid herself from speaking.
“Oooh, I mustn’t!” she insists. “It’s not my story to tell, but... your brother called and…”
She pauses, leaving me clueless for a moment while she tries to figure out what she can share with me. Eventually, she waves me off, giggling like a young girl, which I don’t hear her do often.
“Oh, you should just call him yourself,” she says. “I’m sure he’d prefer to tell you in person.”
I raise an eyebrow at her. “Is everything okay with him?”
The question is unnecessary, as it’s apparent from the way she behaves that nothing bad has happened. Still I’m curious why my brother Nate would call me.
There was a time in our lives when we didn’t have any contact at all, due to an array of incidents, his life choices, my mistakes—and ultimately the combination of the two, which led to him taking the blame for a crime I committed. For years I thought I’d never see his face again, not after what happened. Not after what I did, and then what he did in return. He disappeared into thin air, assuming all the blame, while I was left fighting to clear his name without knowing where he was.
It wasn’t until recently that we reconnected and tried to build a normal relationship between two brothers, which, frankly, we’ve never had. We’re only half-brothers, and the fact that our father treated both of us so completely differently has shaped and damaged our relationship from the day my younger brother was born.
I don’t hate him or even dislike him, but I harbor very little emotional attachment to him.
However, I know that we share a trait that’s best kept hidden from the outside world. That dark need to possess, to control, and to be served by a cute little doll who can’t help herself. We never openly discussed it, and up to this day he has no idea that the essence of my life is to make those little puppets dance. It’s a sinister secret I’ve managed to keep to myself—just like I have so many other secrets.
Nate may think that he’s the rotten seed in our family that could never bear sweet fruit, but recent developments have proven otherwise.
“Is it urgent?” I ask Dorota, before I make a move to bring my luggage upstairs.
She winks at me. “Raad, just call him. If only for my sake.”
With that, she turns around and trails off to the kitchen, her black dress swirling noisily around her legs as she walks. It’s the sound of my childhood, really. The stiff, thick material of Dorota’s dress swirling around her motherly figure as she scurries through the house, running the household of a very demanding man and his two troublemaking sons.
I wait to make the call until I’m sitting outside on the terrace, the steaming hot coffee next to me on a side table as I brave the chilly air of an early fall evening. Dorota was shivering when she brought me the coffee, insistent on bringing me a coat to drape around my shoulders while I’m sitting out here. I let it happen, even though I don’t necessarily appreciate this kind of excessive concern.
“Wow, I didn’t think you’d actually call back,” Nate answers my call in his usual cynical manner.
“Dorota insisted,” I tell him. “And you know how she i
s.”
He lets out a quick laugh on the other end of the line.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m sorry you have to put up with her. I know it must be terrible,” he mocks me.
I roll my eyes, even though I know he can’t see me. “What’s up?”
My question is met with silence, but I can hear him taking a deep breath. It is followed by a subtle groan as he appears to gather the right words to convey his news.
“I’m just gonna make this quick and painful for you, brother,” he says eventually. “I’m getting married.”
This time, my eyes almost roll out of my head. It’s a good thing that I’m sitting down.
For fuck’s sake, not him, too.
My response isn’t what most people would be expecting under the circumstances, but I know that Nate can take it because he knows what I think of this imbecility.
“I see. To that girl?”
“To Malia, yes. You’ve met her; don’t act like you don’t know her name,” he reprimands me. “And for once try not to be an asshole about this, because believe it or not, I’d like you to be my best man.”
I can’t suppress an annoyed growl, despite my best effort.
“Nate, you know what I think of this. Are you sure—”
“Yes, I am,” he interrupts. “Don’t worry. I don’t expect a big speech or anything. Just… be there for me, okay?”
I bring the coffee mug up to my lips, the warm liquid counteracting the chilly breeze. I feel the beginning of a tension headache forming at my temples as I consider my brother’s words. “When is it?”
“You’ll have some time to prepare, mentally, that is. We’re not getting married before next March,” he tells me. “We want a spring wedding.”
We. I don’t think my brother ever thought about what kind of wedding he wanted to have, let alone what time of year.
But he is a we now. A slushy blend of hormones, creating a two-headed monster that acts as one. It’s pathetic.