Unraveled by Him

by Wendy Leigh

  Afterward, I take a walk along the lake, but the beauty of the scenery, the crisp, clean air, and the sparkling, snow-covered mountains just make me sad. Then Mary Ellen turns up at the hotel out of the blue and we have lunch together, just the two of us.

  I’m tempted, of course, to pump her about Robert, but I can tell how loyal she is to him. I know that if I resort to my interviewing skills, I’ll be able to get her to tell me much more about him than she should. And I like her far too much to make her say something that she will ultimately regret.

  Back in the suite, Robert has left a note for me: Dinner at 8. R. And nothing else. I try to distract myself from worrying about the evening by visiting the Geneva Museum of Art and History, and I am so enthralled by the exhibits that I succeed. That is, until I see the Monets, which make me think of Robert again . . .

  When I go down to dinner wearing the red Valentino he bought me, his eyes light up for one split second, but then I decide that I must have imagined it. And when we have dinner, he says very little except to make a few polite comments about the weather, plus ask me one or two questions about how I have spent my day, whether I like Geneva.

  After our night on the plane, after everything he did to me during the flight, everything he was during the most romantic night of my life, I had expected to love Geneva when we arrived.

  But the Robert Hartwell of the plane, the Robert Hartwell of our first night together, has morphed into a cold, polite stranger.

  So the answer to the question of whether I like Geneva is very simple: I hate it more than I have hated anywhere else in my life.

  Again that night, we sleep in the same bed. But the bed is vast, so it is easy for him to stay on one side and far away from me, which he does. Only once do I wake up to find his arm wrapped around me. As I do, he gives a start, then yanks his arm away from me so sharply that it is as if he has been bitten by a tarantula.

  Hell would probably be preferable. Or even Hartwell Castle, where Robert intends to subject me to five days of tests so that he can find out whether I am truly submissive or a conniving, lying little fake.

  If only he had wanted to test my submission just for the excitement of it, I would have adored the challenge. But not like this, not this way. And so, although I’ve agreed to the tests, have given him my word and would never dream of breaking it, I am starting to feel a mortal dread at the thought of being back at Hartwell Castle and subjecting myself to Robert’s tests.

  Meanwhile, I have to go through these lonely, miserable few days in Geneva. Only the fact that Mary Ellen is sweet and charming and, when she can get away from her aunt, spends as much time with me as possible has kept me from throwing in the towel and flying back to America on my own ahead of Robert.

  During my brief spell in Geneva, I wear my beautiful clothes, my glamorous underwear, my sexy shoes, and carry my priceless Hermès bags, but much as I love all those things, what I really long for is Robert as he was on the flight here, the man he was when he took me in hand so harshly, yet then slept the night with me so tenderly, the man he was before the wreath arrived and he accused me of faking my submission. The man he was before he rejected me so heartlessly.

  To be with a man who is alternately loving and harsh, and who is everything I love and crave, before inexplicably becoming cold and remote, is the ultimate nightmare for me.

  I never fully trust men. No doubt a therapist would say it’s because of my philandering father, and my experience with Warren Courtney. But I’ve also got the sneaking feeling that my fear of losing control, my lack of trust in men, somehow stems from my nightmare. But because I can never remember what happens in it, I am not sure how or why.

  Whatever the reason, it’s almost impossible for me to lose control with a man and put my trust in him. After all, why should I, when I know that men can turn into another person at the drop of a hat?

  And on my last night in Geneva, when I am sleeping in bed with Robert, but he is staying as far away from me as humanly possible, I have my nightmare once again and wake up screaming in terror.

  He takes me in his arms, comforts me, and for a few minutes he is the same man with whom I flew to Geneva, the same man who spanked me with such passion, the same man for whom I long but who seems to have disappeared, and may even have been a figment of my imagination.

  For now, at least, I can sleep.

  But when I wake up the following morning, he is already in the shower. And when he comes out and is fully dressed, he nods at me coldly, then snaps, “We’re leaving in forty-five minutes, so you’d better have breakfast,” and strides out of the suite, banging the door behind him.

  Mary Ellen and I are now in the VIP lounge at Geneva Airport, having champagne while Robert deals with the necessary formalities.

  “Looking forward to staying at Hartwell Castle?” Mary Ellen says to me suddenly.

  Staying at Hartwell Castle. That sounds so polite. So elegant. Spending time in the castle dungeon, having my submission tested to the utmost, is hardly staying there, is it?

  “Not really, Mary Ellen.”

  She raises an eyebrow while I search for a plausible reason.

  The image of a dry, hard face swims in front of me.

  “Not if Mrs. Hatch is there,” I say, quickly.

  “But she lives in a suite of rooms in the East Turret, so I’m afraid she will be,” Mary Ellen says.

  Then, seeing my dismay, she takes pity on me and says, “Miranda, I totally understand how you feel. The entire staff hates Mrs. Hatch.”

  “Then why does he . . . ?”

  “Georgiana,” Mary Ellen says.

  She’s said the sacred name out loud. The genie is out of the bottle. And now I can really let rip and find out everything I’ve been longing to know.

  Everything? I’ve only got a few minutes before Robert gets back and we board the plane together.

  No time to be subtle.

  “What was she like, Mary Ellen?” I say.

  “Was? She’s still very much alive, unfortunately,” Mary Ellen says.

  Lady Georgiana alive?

  A wave of nausea hits me.

  Then I wise up.

  “Not Mrs. Hatch, Mary Ellen. I mean Lady Georgiana!” I say.

  Mary Ellen lights up like a butterfly around a Christmas tree.

  “Oh, Miranda, you can’t imagine how beautiful Georgiana was. And sweet. And generous. And kind. I still can’t believe . . .” She trails off, her eyes filling with tears.

  Jealousy slices through me like a razor blade.

  Calm down, Miranda. Robert will be back any second and your chance to probe Mary Ellen will be gone.

  As I don’t want Mary Ellen to sense my emotions, I divert the conversation away from Lady Georgiana and instead say, “Why is Mrs. Hatch such a wicked witch?”

  “Because she’s made that way,” Mary Ellen says. Then, with a sidelong glance at the door of the customs office, where we both know Robert is, she adds, “She gives all of us hell whenever she can. But she’s sure to want to torment you even more.”

  “Why me, Mary Ellen?”

  “Because she adored Georgiana,” Mary Ellen says, and I feel as if she has slapped me right across the face.

  “I only saw Mrs. Hatch with Georgiana a few times, because I just started working for Mr. Hartwell two weeks before—before it happened . . . but all the staff told me that Mrs. Hatch worshipped the ground on which Georgiana walked,” she says.

  “But he did, as well, didn’t he?” I say, opting to voice my worst fears before Mary Ellen confirms them.

  She shakes her head.

  “Not in the same way. You see, Mrs. Hatch started out as Georgiana’s personal maid, so right from the beginning, she was with her twenty-four–seven, did everything for her, knew everything about her, and really loved her.”

  “And Mr. Hartwell?”
I say, still sticking to calling him Mr. Hartwell because I don’t want Mary Ellen to think I’m getting above myself.

  “Oh, it’s always been obvious to me that he isn’t at all crazy about Mrs. Hatch, and never was. But he is such a good, sincere and kindhearted man that he put up with her for Georgiana’s sake, and still does out of respect for her memory.”

  I see Robert coming toward us.

  This will probably be my only chance to find out the truth, to hear the worst and to confront it.

  “And when the tragedy happened, Mary Ellen, his heart must have broken, he loved her so much, didn’t he?” I say, prompted by the irrational hope that she will turn around and say, No, actually he didn’t love her much at all.

  “More than life itself,” Mary Ellen says. “We all thought he would go insane when he lost her.”

  I feel as if I’m about to throw up, so I go to the bathroom, splash my face with cold water, and try to rein in my emotions.

  When I come out, Mary Ellen has slipped away to make a last-minute call to her aunt, and Robert is pacing up and down impatiently but doesn’t say a word to me.

  After Mary Ellen comes back, the three of us go through security. Robert strides toward the plane as if I weren’t struggling to keep up with him, as if I weren’t with him, as if I didn’t exist.

  As we board, I flash back to our flight over from New York, how close Robert was to me, how ardent, how seemingly besotted with me, and I pray inwardly that when we are in our cabin once more, it will weave its seductive spell over us so that everything will be exactly the same as it was before.

  My mood lifts as Robert saunters toward the spiral staircase leading to our bedroom suite, the suite where I was so happy with him, where I thought he was so happy with me, and I start to follow him.

  At the foot of the stairs, he turns and faces me.

  “You’re down here, Miranda,” he says, “with Mary Ellen.” And with that, he climbs the spiral staircase, taking the steps two at a time, goes through the door at the top, and locks it, shutting me out.

  Luckily, Mary Ellen has already gone ahead to her compartment and hasn’t witnessed my humiliation.

  So I put on a brave face and join her there.

  I am so angry, so hurt, that I am afraid that if Mary Ellen starts chatting to me, I won’t be able to conceal how badly I feel.

  Instead, I tell her, “I really want to see the view of Lake Geneva when we take off,” so rather than chat with her, I stare out the window, when of course the last thing I want is another look at Geneva, where I was so very unhappy.

  Then I close my eyes and try to sleep as the plane flies on, carrying me ever closer to America, to JFK, to Long Island, to Hartwell Castle, and to Robert Hartwell’s dungeons.

  At JFK, I get a sudden impulse to break my resolve and call my family to tell them I’m back in the States again.

  But I can’t, because I’ve already texted them and said that I’m going to Robert’s château, high over Lake Geneva, to spend a week there working with him on his autobiography, and that there is no phone or Internet reception there.

  I tell myself that there isn’t any love or kindness for me anywhere that Robert is. Because the truth is that after Robert’s neglect of me in Geneva, I am starting to hate the man I am starting to love so much, as well.

  In the limousine I feel drowsy and disoriented, but when we pass a sign proclaiming that the exit to Hartwell Castle is just five miles away, I sit up and start thinking about what lies ahead of me.

  Five tests of my submission in Robert’s dungeons. But surely those tests won’t take up twenty-four hours of every single day?

  The wreath and the mysterious message have obviously put paid to my chances of ghosting his autobiography. So what will I do when I’m not in the dungeon submitting to Robert, when he’s not testing me?

  And where will I sleep?

  In the dungeon? I seriously hope not.

  Or will he let me sleep in bed with him?

  I catch myself hoping that he will, but after the way he’s been treating me as if I have the plague, I very much doubt that we’ll be sleeping in the same bed ever again.

  Then another thought strikes me: after we’ve dropped Mary Ellen home, Robert and I will be arriving at Hartwell Castle in the limo together, along with my new Vuitton trunk.

  Even though it will be late when we arrive at the castle, some of the staff will still see me.

  He can’t let them all witness my arrival at the castle, then relegate me to the dungeons for five days, so that I disappear from sight completely—can he?

  I look at him seated up front with the driver, as if even sitting next to me in the car repels him, and I have absolutely no idea who he really is.

  All I know is that for the next five days, Robert Hartwell will be in control of me, of my fate. Yet the truth is that I don’t truly know what he is capable of.

  All I know is that I have made a promise to myself that whatever I have to go through, whatever the cost, I shall pass his five tests; I shall prove to him that whoever sent that wreath was lying. I am not a fake. I am a true submissive, born and bred. I’ll show Robert Hartwell who I am, and what I’m made of. And after that, I shall leave him forever.

  Chapter Six

  The full moon hangs high above Hartwell Castle as the limo glides through the iron gates. The lightbulbs sparkling at the heart of each iron violet emblazoned there make them glitter and glow in such a romantic way that I want to cry.

  I just can’t reconcile the beauty and romanticism of the castle—the violets lighting up the gates, the iron dragon waterfall over the koi pond—with Robert’s icy mood.

  I guess that Lady Georgiana, not Robert, was probably responsible for designing the ornamental castle grounds. Given the cruel way in which Robert has treated me since he got that evil wreath, it’s difficult to believe that he has a romantic bone in his body.

  Then I flash back to our flight to Geneva and I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that he does. Just not now, not with me . . .

  At the moment, he is sitting in the front of the limo next to the chauffeur, his broad back and massive muscles straining his black Armani suit, while I’m relegated to the backseat like a bad child, unworthy of sitting with the grown-ups.

  Since we dropped Mary Ellen off at her condo in Huntington, he hasn’t said a word to me. In contrast, he was charming and gallant to her, helping her into the lobby with her suitcase, and then up in the elevator as if he were a regular guy, and not an all-powerful, world-famous billionaire with a chauffeur ready and willing to carry Mary Ellen’s suitcase inside the apartment for her.

  He was gone for more than a few minutes, and if it wasn’t Mary Ellen he was helping, but another woman, I might have felt threatened. But the moment I saw him striding toward the car again, I felt intensely relieved and happy. But once he was back in the car with me, the gallant Mr. Hartwell became silent, grim, and unfriendly. As if he’d been playing the hero’s part in a movie and the director just yelled, “Cut!”

  When the limo turns up the drive toward the castle, I can’t help thinking that the bends and twists of the driveway are like Robert’s nature, the corkscrew heart of the man. I hate it—and him.

  Outside the castle, the limo slows down, and knowing that I am so close to the dungeons where Robert will test me so rigorously and so harshly, I feel my stomach cramp with nerves.

  At least, I assume that his tests of my submission will be rigorous and harsh, otherwise how will he know whether I’m for real? Or whether my capacity for submission comes close to Lady Georgiana’s?

  With that last thought, I feel a surge of frustration at the idea that he is going to compare me to her, to the divine Lady Georgiana, next to whom I am bound to be found wanting.

  If my pride weren’t at stake, I’d jump out of the limo right now, hitch a lift to Jerse
y, and never set foot in Hartwell Castle ever again. But I’ve never been a quitter, and I’m not about to start now. So there isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that I am going to shirk the tests Robert has planned for me.

  The limo driver brakes as the giant wooden portal in the castle walls opens to reveal a ramp leading deep underneath the castle, and then he drives the car down it.

  Is Robert taking me directly into the dungeons? Will the tests start immediately?

  The limo skids to a halt.

  I wait for Robert to open the door for me.

  But he simply motions the limo driver to open it for me instead.

  Feeling worn-out and dispirited by a combination of jet lag and fear of the unknown, I stumble out of the car, half-asleep.

  But then a tall, strapping figure moves out of the doorway toward the limo, and all my senses go on high alert.

  Mrs. Hatch! That horrible, horrendous Amazon of a woman, the last person in the universe I want to see, right here, now?

  I cringe inwardly.

  “A worthwhile trip, Mr. Hartwell, sir?” she says to Robert in a sugary voice, fluttering her thick fake eyelashes at him.

  Even a witch like her isn’t immune to Robert’s charms!

  Robert shrugs his shoulders.

  “Somewhat,” he says, then softens and adds, “But Mrs. Hatch, it’s late and I specifically told you not to wait up for us.”

  “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Hartwell,” the witch says, simpering at him.

  I push my distaste for her out of my mind and silently repeat Robert’s last words to myself. Not to wait up for us. Us? There is no us. But hearing him say the word makes me feel good.

  Not for long, though.

  “I’d appreciate it, Mrs. Hatch, if you’d show Miss Stone to the Berkshire Suite, where she will be staying while she is spending a few days here in order to begin research on my autobiography,” he says by way of explanation.