Captured: Claimed Book 3

by M James

  “Slow down,” Dena instructs. “And don’t curse at the table. Manners, Erin.”

  I guess Vincent doesn’t want to pay for a finishing tutor for both of us. This reminds me of the online sessions I’ve already attended twice, learning about table manners and settings and how to make a fucking flower arrangement. The most boring shit in the world, in my opinion.

  “Eat as much as you want,” I say rebelliously, even as I poke at a piece of yellowfin tuna. “We can spend as much as we please today, remember?”

  Dena orders another expensive bottle of sake after that. The small plates keep coming until Dena and Erin are stuffed. I want to cry from all the delicious food that I’ve barely been able to taste in fear of Dena reporting back to Vincent that I was a pig at lunch. Instead, I just pay the bill, which is a figure that even Erin’s eyes go round at but doesn’t make Dena so much as blink, and then we’re off to the spa for our treatments.

  We’re booked for facials, hot stone massages, manicures and pedicures, and we’re swept back to a private room the moment we step inside.

  “I feel like a princess,” Erin whispers as we go back. “It feels so nice to be treated like this. Like I’m important.”

  “You are,” Dena says firmly. “You’re Vincent Jamison’s soon-to-be sister-in-law.”

  We’re given plush robes and more champagne. After a week of not drinking, it’s nice to feel the buzz of the champagne and sake blurring my thoughts and making it easier to tolerate Dena’s gushing over everything and Erin’s wide-eyed, innocent delight in it all. We’re all instructed to pick a scent for our massages—I pick lavender in a desperate attempt to get some kind of calm out of all of this, Dena picks a tropical orange and coconut, and Erin picks sweet vanilla sugar.

  Despite everything, the hot stones do melt away a good deal of my stress, and I groan with appreciation as the masseuse exfoliates me and then rubs the lavender-scented, buttery lotion into my skin. Vincent will like this, at least—he loves when I smell like lavender.

  All of us are glowing after our facials, and then we get our nails and toes done, each of us getting different colors. I choose neutral for my hands and red for my toes, knowing that Vincent thinks colored polish is tacky on fingers, but Dena goes for red on both, and Erin chooses black for both with a trendy white half-moon at the base of each of her nails. By the time it’s all over and it’s late afternoon and time to head back, I feel soft and pliable as melted wax and more relaxed than I have in a long time despite everything going on. It’s hard to fight against the calming effects of facials and massages. I should convince Vincent that I need spa treatments more often, I think wryly to myself. After all, he does want me to look my best.

  ---

  When we get back, it’s time to get ready. Dena is off to work, and she takes her clothes and jewelry with her, saying she’ll lock them up in Vincent’s office until it’s time for her to get ready for the afterparty. She does her makeup in my bathroom while I shower, and Erin shaves her legs in the tub, and I catch a glimpse of it as I step out. Dena has done her eyes in gorgeous smokey blacks and greys with a thick cat-eye and rich red lips, her black hair curled and cascading around her head. She’s more beautiful than ever, and even Erin sighs with jealousy as she dries off and wraps a towel around herself.

  “You’re gorgeous,” she says, and Dena smiles.

  “You’re just as beautiful,” she promises. “And you’re going to have everything you want. See you later, girls,” she adds, wiggling her fingers in farewell as she heads out of the bathroom and off to work.

  Erin and I get ready together. As she blow-dries her hair, I can’t help but glance over at her, marveling all over again at how grown up she looks compared to the last time I saw her in Indiana. It makes my stomach sink a little, too.

  I slip into a black g-string and black satin push-up bra as Vincent requested. I feel that shiver of anxiety again as I see what Erin has on as she curls her hair—a black lace bralette and matching panties. It’s way too sexy for her, and it makes me wonder what she’s hoping to accomplish—and also where she got it at all.

  But I can’t ask. I can’t risk ruining the night or angering Vincent. So I just walk into the bathroom next to her, putting thickening mousse in my hair and pinning the curlers to my head while I do my makeup.

  I do a smokey eye, less bold than Dena’s but still strong, blending it out so that my eyes look even bigger than usual and bright underneath the smokey greys. I add a thin cat eye and several coats of mascara to my already thick lashes, which are supplemented monthly with extensions. My lipstick is neutral, putting all of the focus on my eyes. Erin has done the opposite, leaving her eyelids bare except for a swipe of iridescent shimmer and a thick liner, and then a bold red lip. She’s also put her hair into a high trendy ponytail again. She looks more like a pop star, especially with the diamond and onyx earrings and her rings and heels, than my little sister.

  With my stomach in knots, I step into my Louboutins and take the curlers out of my hair, letting it bounce around my face in waves. I add my jewelry, feeling nauseous as I clasp the choker around my neck. It’s so fitting that it makes me sick. Collared like a pet in jewels.

  I slip my rings and bracelet on and look in the mirror, knowing Vincent will be satisfied. I look rich and sexy, everything he could desire from his wife at a burlesque club opening, and I wish I could take pleasure in it. Together Erin and I make an incredible pair, and I wish that didn’t make me feel sick with anxiety either like something terrible is going to happen before too long. I look gorgeous, slender and shapely in the tight-fitting dress, my skin glowing, but inside I feel like a black hole, like sinking quicksand.

  April meets us in the living room. “Vincent is at the club already,” she says. “So I’ll be escorting you to the gala along with Sonya and Zach.”

  A moment later, they come down, and I have to force myself not to look at Zach for too long. He looks so incredibly handsome in his suit, which is charcoal grey and perfectly fitted, the shirt open enough to show a hint of his hard, muscled chest. Sonya is the picture of elegance next to him, in a tight gold dress similar to the style that Dena picked out. It shimmers in the light, and with the diamonds at her ears and throat and wrist and on her fingers, it’s clear that she’s the queen in this room.

  And she has Zach. All to herself.

  I have to fight back the tears at the thought.

  Erin and I sit on one side of the car in the back, Sonya and Vincent on the other, April in the front next to the driver as usual. I’m quick to take the champagne this time, sipping it as I look out the window, doing my best not to look at Sonya’s smug expression or Zach. Every day that I see him is like a fresh dagger in my heart, but somehow, this feels worse than usual. The little bit of nostalgia that we shared the other day was like salt in the wound, and seeing his hand on Sonya’s thigh feels like twisting the knife.

  I sip the champagne, and watch the city slip by, and try not to cry. This is your life, I tell myself. There’s no escaping it. So maybe you should listen to Dena and learn to enjoy it.

  When we get to the club, the line to get in is wrapped around the building, and paparazzi are swarming everywhere. Those on the list are beginning to trickle in, all dressed in designer clothes, men in suits, and elegant women on their arms. I see two of Vincent’s business partners and their girlfriends, and I feel a sick sensation in my stomach. All of these men know about Vincent and his “flowers,” about his infidelities and his secrets. They’re laughing at me behind their hands, the silly fiancée who trusted him, who didn’t know, who thought a man like him could be satisfied with someone like her.

  The driver holds open the door for me, and we all slide out. Flashbulbs go off everywhere, and I force myself to smile, not to wince at the bright lights, and to walk right to Vincent’s side as he stands in front of the ribbon. Sonya is at his other side, smiling brightly, and Zach stands next to her, looking as if he belongs here. Erin is at my side, and I know
this all looks right, but it’s all so wrong. It’s all I can do to not look as miserable as I feel as Vincent waves for everyone to quiet down.

  “Thank you all for coming!” he calls out, his arm sliding around my waist. “I’m so pleased to have you all here to celebrate my newest endeavor. As I’m sure many of you know, opium comes from the poppy flower, a drug that was once considered the choice of artists and those who wished to lose themselves in their most decadent desires. I hope that here, at Midnight Opium, Manhattan’s newest cabaret and burlesque revue, you too can allow yourselves to indulge in your sin of choice.”

  He leans forward, cutting the ribbon with a flourish, and a cheer goes up. But all I can feel is a cold, spreading numbness,

  Poppy.

  Is this some kind of cruel joke? In Vincent’s head, I know this is probably a romantic gesture, naming his club after the tincture that comes from the flower he’s nicknamed me after. But to me, it just feels like another awful reminder that that’s all I am to him, another flower, not even his favorite one, just the one that’s easiest to cultivate. And he’s like a drug to me, not the kind that makes you feel good, but the type that controls you, possesses you, that you can’t escape or quit no matter how badly you want to, how much it tears you apart, how much it hurts every time it creeps inside of you and takes over.

  I want to throw up. But I can’t. I stand there prettily, smiling alongside Vincent as he pulls me close to him, slim and gorgeous in my new dress, heels, and jewelry. Erin is glowing, practically bursting with excitement, and that hurts even more because I see so much of myself in her. I remember the first time Vincent took me to one of these club openings. The first time flashbulbs went off in my face, the first time paparazzi wanted pictures of me because I was on Vincent’s arm. It felt like the best thing in the world then, like I was finally someone, just by being in proximity to him. It had felt like all of the bad things in my life had fallen away, like I’d slipped into a dream.

  It had turned out to be a nightmare. But Erin can’t see that. All she’s seeing is exactly what I did at first, the glitz and the glamour and the glow of it all, and I can’t pull her out of it because I’m the last person on earth she wants to hear that warning from.

  As the ribbon comes down, we all turn to go in, leading the crowd of guests. There’s a red carpet that leads into the club, and once we’re inside, even I can’t help but be a little awestruck. I’m sure Vincent didn’t design this himself, that he just picked out options that designers offered him while other people put together this gorgeous vision—but it is a vision. Out of any of the clubs that Vincent has taken me to—and there’s been a lot—I haven’t seen one quite like this before.

  I haven’t seen any of it—not concepts or photos or anything else, and Vincent really did go all out with this one. The décor is all black and red and pewter, with a deep Victorian goth effect. There’s a raised stage at one end and then smaller round stages scattered throughout the main room, sort of like a strip club, but this is elevated far beyond any strip club. The seating is all long leather couches and plush chaise lounges in red and black velvet, with embossed pillows and black wood carved in deep swirls.

  The cocktail waitresses are already circulating, and there’s a mixture of old and modern-styled outfits. Some are in 1940s burlesque getup—thigh-high stockings, black or red corsets, victory rolled hair and pinup curls with pumps and little Playboy bunny style neckties, and others are in black latex corsets with the same hairstyles, but with fishnet thigh-highs and stacked stilettos. It ought to clash, but somehow it works. They’re carrying antiqued gold trays with crystal glasses. I realize as we walk in that there are already girls on the smaller stages, all of them in classic Dita Von Teese-style burlesque costumes, swaying to the beat of the jazz music floating through the club.

  Erin is looking around with wide eyes, and I take her elbow, steering her towards one of the couches a little further away from the stages, with a glossy black lacquered table in front of it. April sinks onto the couch next to us. Vincent smiles at me indulgently as Sonya hovers at his elbow, Zach looking completely disinterested in it all.

  “I’m going to take Sonya and make the rounds,” Vincent says. “You stay here with your sister and Chase, Poppy. If anyone comes by and asks you about the club, direct them to me. Order some food or something. Just don’t get in the way.”

  Zach’s face is still carefully blank, but I see a muscle in his jaw twitch, as if he’s as annoyed by Vincent’s dismissal of me as I am.

  I’m just arm candy, and this drives home that point more than ever—Vincent wants me silent and pretty, not accidentally saying something amiss, not screwing anything up for him, just quiet and obedient. Eating, drinking, and smiling—although I know better than to eat very much.

  “Isn’t this place fucking incredible?”

  I hear Dena’s voice from behind me, and I turn around to see her dressed in one of the vintage waitress outfits, her thick black hair pinned up in the huge curls. She looks stunning, her pale skin perfectly framed by all the black and red, her full lips painted a matching deep red.

  “Yeah,” I say weakly, and technically it’s true, it is incredible, over the top in the best way, but it doesn’t change my feelings about it—most of all, Erin’s reaction and the name that Vincent chose for it. But I can’t tell Dena any of those things because I can’t trust her anymore—just underscoring the hardest truth that I’ve come to realize…I have no one left. No friends, no family to lean on. Vincent has isolated me completely, and he’s done a great fucking job.

  “Do you want to order some food?” Dena grins. “The menu is wild. It’s all this crazy gourmet shit. Nothing like the wings and fries we used to serve at Funbags. We’ve really come a long way, haven’t we, Rain?”

  “Yeah,” I manage again, and I know I sound like an idiot. I can feel Erin and Zach’s eyes on me, but I don’t know what else to say. I could say that those days of serving up greasy wings while walking across sticky floors, getting my ass squeezed by frat bros and old men for meager tips sound great in hindsight, that I might have come home tired, sore and smelling like grease every day, but at least I came back to my own apartment, where I could make my own choices, dress how I wanted, eat how I wanted. I took so much of that for granted, and now here I am, trapped in a gilded prison that, in the end, I can’t deny that I chose for myself.

  But now I can’t unchoose it.

  Dena flips open her velvet-backed book, pen in hand. “What can I get you all to eat and drink?” she purrs and then winks at me. “I’m practicing,” she whispers conspiratorially. “I want Vincent to be happy. This is the best gig I’ve ever had. If he’s happy, then I can stay here with you guys, at least until I get my own place, and get out of Chicago for good.”

  The irony of it makes me want to cry. All I want to do is get back to Chicago, or better yet, my shitty little hometown in Indiana, where the grass looks super fucking green to me right now compared to how it seemed before I “escaped,” and found out what it really means to have something to escape from. And Dena is frothing at the mouth to stay here, to make Vincent happy, to put down roots in Manhattan.

  “I’ll have an old-fashioned,” Zach says, leaning back on the couch. His voice sounds deep, almost raspy, and it sends a thrill through me even though I know it shouldn’t.

  I never stopped feeling things for him, never stopped dreaming about the time we spent together. Now he’s here all grown up, and I wish that I could slide down the couch, lean into him, smell the scent of his spicy cologne and kiss him later, taste the whiskey and cherries and orange on his tongue.

  Having him so close but so far away, hurts more than any torture Vincent could have devised for me, any punishment. This hurts more than anything, and Vincent doesn’t even know it. The irony is awful.

  “I’ll have a gin and tonic,” I say quietly. “Get Erin something virgin. A Shirley Temple, maybe.”

  “I want champagne,” Erin says tersely. �
�Vincent said I can have whatever I want,” she adds, interrupting before I can argue. “It’s his club, and he doesn’t care if I drink. So whatever the best champagne is, bring me a glass of that.”

  I can see Dena’s mouth twitching with amusement, but I don’t think it’s funny at all. Erin is becoming exactly what I believe Vincent wanted to mold me into, and that scares me. She’s loving every second of this, and even if she knew the price she’ll eventually have to pay if she wanted to stay in this life, I’m not sure anymore that she’d care. Sometimes I think she’d be happy to lay down for a man like Vincent, follow his orders and take his shit, accept his infidelities, in exchange for luxury and security. I’m not sure that she’d chafe against it like I do, and that worries me.

  “Maybe just bring us a selection from the tasting menu?” I suggest as we all glance confusedly at the food. Vincent might have done his level best to turn me into a trophy wife. However, all three of us on this couch are still just small-town kids from Indiana deep down, and none of us really know what the fuck is on this menu.

  “Sure thing.” Dena flashes us all a brilliant, red-lipped, white-toothed smile. “Coming right up.”

  I watch the crowd outside trickle in a few at a time as we sip our drinks and wait on the food, trying not to look at Zach. I can see Vincent and Sonya by the bar, chatting up some men in suits with young-looking girls on their arms. It makes me shudder a little because I remember seeing girls like that back at the party back in Italy, girls who looked even younger than Erin.

  Zach catches my eye. “These stuffed shirts with their child mistresses are fucking disgusting,” he murmurs. “The longer I’m around people like this, the more I wish the ground would just open up and swallow them whole.”

  I look at him, and with a burst of uncharacteristic bravery, I ask him the question that’s been on the tip of my tongue for as long as Zach has been back in my life—or adjacent to it, anyway. “Then why are you here? Why are you with Sonya? Why don’t you just leave her and, I don’t know, go date someone normal in Chicago.”