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  Conspicuously missing were dressers or other furniture usually associated with a bedroom, yet dimly, she remembered being told that this was her new bedroom. Looking around the perimeter of the room, she saw beautiful white woodwork: built-in bookcases, shelves, and three doors. The one farthest from her bed appeared solid, firm, and unharmed after the pounding she’d delivered the night before. There was no reason to believe that it would now be unlocked. What Claire did know, with some certainty, was that it held her only avenue to freedom. She needed to find her way back through that door.

  Closing her eyes, she recalled the events of last night. As the memories started to flow from the recesses of her unconsciousness, her new goal became to stop them. She failed—seeing him behind her closed lids.

  Anthony Rawlings was so different from the man she met less than a week ago: the handsome tall man, with brown hair, and the darkest eyes she’d ever seen. He’d been polite, kind, and gentlemanly. Last night, none of those words could be used to describe him. To say he was cruel would not explain what she endured. One could say demanding, aggressive, abrasive, controlling, but above all—brutal.

  Shifting slightly, Claire realized that the slightest movement caused her muscles to ache. Her thighs throbbed, her body was tender, and her mouth felt swollen and raw. She remembered his scent, his taste, and the sound of his voice. Those thoughts instigated a revolt deep in the recesses of her stomach. At that moment, the images of him made her heart race, not in anticipation, but fear.

  This was insane. Things like this happened on crime shows and movies, not in real life and not to people like her.

  She tried to censor the memories, searching for the ones of him finally leaving the room and her futile barrage on the door. Tears fell from her swollen eyes as the visions replayed in her mind. She laid her head back on the velvety pillow and allowed herself the luxury of more sleep: an escape from this reality.

  The next time she woke, Claire knew she couldn’t put off looking behind the other doors any longer. She needed to find the entry to the bathroom. The sumptuous carpet enveloped her feet as she stepped from the bed. Despite the plush carpeting, the weight of her body made her legs cry out in pain. Sadly, she remembered crying out more than once. Her internal monologue screamed with unanswered questions: How did this happen? How did I get here? Why am I here? And how can I get out?

  The three doors she’d counted earlier were arranged with two near the bed and one by the sitting area. Claire wrapped a sheet around her aching body and slowly approached the lone door: the massive barrier of solid wood—her passage to freedom. Anxiety induced trembling, causing her hands to shake as she slowly reached for the cold metal of the door knob. If it moved, would she flee wrapped only in a sheet? Hell, yes!

  Excitement quickly turned to disappointment as the lever remained perfectly horizontal. It didn’t even wiggle, as many locked doors do. The barrier stood unyielding. Despite the expected outcome, disappointment caused the pain within Claire’s body to intensify. Turning around, she viewed her cell. One of the other two doors had the best chance of holding her desired destination. She opened the first door and revealed a closet, one the size of most bedrooms. It could more accurately be considered a dressing room given the built-in drawers, shoe racks, shelves, and hanging racks. Surprisingly, the racks and shelves were full. These clothes seemed to come straight from a Saks photo shoot, not the kind Claire would or could choose for herself. She was more the Target or Vintage type. These clothes belonged to someone who lived the life of the rich and famous. Who was that someone? Claire wondered why she was in that person’s room, and why she remembered being told it was hers.

  Opening the next door, Claire found her destination. She stepped into a bathroom like one she’d seen on television, large and very white. The coolness of the tile hit the soles of her bare feet. White marble, white porcelain, silver accents, and glass surrounded her. If it weren’t for the plush purple towels, the room would be totally devoid of color. There was a large garden tub and a full glass shower that sported large and small showerheads from every direction. The sink adjoined a dressing table with a large lighted mirror and stool.

  She turned to see the person in the mirror. The image frightened Claire as she studied the reflection. Her tangled brown hair framed an unfamiliar face. There were bruises around her lips nearly matching the color of the towels, and her left temple appeared red and swollen. Slowly, dropping the sheet, the visual evidence of the soreness she felt could be seen as red and purple bruises over her body. The vision restarted her tears. With steely determination, she gripped the lever of another door within the bathroom and found the toilet.

  A plush white bathrobe hung near the shower. Twisting the knobs to adjust the water, Claire decided a shower would make her feel better. Hot steamy water hit her skin as she stepped into the spacious stall. The prickling sensation of a thousand needles pierced her shoulders as the hot water flowed over her battered muscles. It was a sensation of both pleasure and pain. She allowed the water to continue its assault, and as time passed and the temperature remained high, her muscles relaxed. The sweet floral aroma of the shampoo and body soap replaced the odors of last night. A renewed sense of strength filled her resolve. Somehow, she would survive this nightmare.

  Claire developed a plan as she used the towel to dry her battered body. She would talk to Anthony and explain that this was a mistake. They could split ways, no questions asked, and no charges pressed. The soft robe warmed her, providing a bogus sense of security.

  The woman in the mirror looked better; however, her dark hair now fell messily in wet tangles. Without thinking, Claire began to open drawers and cabinets. Just like the closet, the bath was fully stocked. In front of her she saw thousands of dollars’ worth of name-brand cosmetics. She found everything from skin care to eyeliner. Of course, there was also an array of hair supplies. She was wearing someone else’s robe, sleeping in her bed, and showering in her bathroom. Using her hairbrush only added to the list of intrusions. Claire didn’t have many other options.

  When Claire opened the door to the bedroom, she was startled to see a tray of food waiting on the dining table. Prior to that moment, she ignored the pangs of hunger. God knows the thoughts of the previous night made her stomach turn, yet the aroma from the covered plate intrigued her. She lifted the lid to discover steaming scrambled eggs, toast, and a side of fresh fruit. On the tray, she also noticed a glass of orange juice, one of water, and a carafe of coffee.

  With her stomach full, body relaxed from the shower, and no immediate path to freedom, Claire decided she wanted more sleep. It was then that she realized the bed was made, not only made, but the sheets had been changed. The room appeared as though the horror of last night never occurred. Her body screamed otherwise. She pulled back the covers, climbed between the soft satin sheets, inhaled the fresh clean scent, and closed her eyes. It wasn’t the escape she wanted, but it was a temporary diversion.

  The knocking at the door near the sitting area woke Claire. She’d been somewhere in a dream, far away. The knock and the unfamiliar surroundings left her temporarily disoriented. How long had she been sleeping? Sunlight, though not as bright, continued to seep from the edge of the drapes. The repeated raps brought her to the present. Yes, she was a twenty-six-year-old adult, yet at that moment, Claire decided to behave as any five-year-old child would and imitate sleep. Lying still in bed, she heard the door open.

  Tentatively opening her eyes, she watched as a woman quietly entered the room. Given Claire’s perspective, it was difficult to tell, but the woman appeared taller than her by a few inches with salt-and-pepper hair. Claire assumed she was about the age of her mother, had her mother been alive. As the woman approached, Claire lifted her head and spoke, “I’m sorry if I’m in your room.”

  “No, Ms. Claire. It’s your suite, not mine. I’m here to help you get ready for dinner. My name is Catherine.”

  Claire slowly sat in amazement. What the hell did she mean
get ready for dinner? She was being held prisoner in some luxurious suite, covered in bruises, and this person was supposed to help her get ready for dinner. “I’m not trying to sound ungrateful. But what do you mean ‘ready for dinner’?”

  “Mr. Rawlings will be here precisely at 7:00 PM for dinner. He expects you to be ready and dressed accordingly. I presumed you might need some assistance.”

  At first, Claire couldn’t wrap her mind around the entire scenario. He wanted her dressed for dinner. Who the hell did he think he was? “Listen, if you want to assist me, let me out of here.” Claire did her best to keep her voice from raising another octave, yet the fear of seeing Anthony and the possibility of escape made that all but impossible.

  “Ms. Claire, that is not up to me. I’m here to assist you as I can.” It didn’t make any sense. Yet in the desperation of the situation, for some reason, Claire believed this lady. Catherine continued, “We only have an hour. Perhaps we could begin with your hair?”

  Undaunted by Claire’s appearance or even the circumstance of her presence, Catherine’s calmness eased Claire. She shook her head, remembering the resolve from her shower, spoke with a convincing authority, “Catherine, thank you for offering to help, but I don’t plan on dressing for dinner. I actually believe there has been a mistake. I will be leaving here soon.” While Claire continued, Catherine came and went from the closet with a blue cocktail dress and matching shoes. “Oh, I don’t know whom those clothes belong to.”

  “Why, miss, they belong to you. Now, we really should move along, and even if you don’t plan to eat, do you not need to wear clothes?” Claire noticed her pattern of speech seemed formal. She couldn’t place the origin. It definitely wasn’t the Georgia accent she appreciated but worked daily not to duplicate.

  Catherine gently took Claire’s hand and walked her into the bathroom. Claire obediently sat at the dressing table as Catherine began to softly brush her hair. She decided to not protest this kind woman. Instead, she would save her energy to face Anthony.

  “There are cosmetics in the drawers in front of you. Perhaps you could begin to apply some while I do your hair.” Then she added, “You’re very pretty without it, but I believe it will make you feel better after sleeping most of the day.”

  Claire looked into the mirror. Seeing her eyes, temple, and lips, she began to cry. It wasn’t the sobs of earlier, but a rush of tears quietly flowing down her cheeks.

  “Now, miss, that won’t help the situation. Mr. Rawlings appreciates punctuality. Crying will only make the cosmetics run.”

  “I don’t want to face him.” After the first desperate sentence, she hesitated. Claire didn’t know this woman. She obviously worked for Anthony. Why would she confide in her? Then Claire looked in the reflection, not at herself but at the woman behind her. Her eyes were the color of steel, gray and soft. Her expression wasn’t one of duty or pity, but of compassion. It may have been wishful thinking, but for some reason, the words continued to flow. “After last night, I feel so… dirty. You don’t know what he did, what he made me do. I’m too embarrassed.” Her words came accompanied by tears, and her nose began to run.

  Catherine’s voice held no judgment for either Claire or Anthony, instead desire for understanding, as if that could be possible from Claire. “I have known Mr. Rawlings for a long time. Did anything happen last night that he did not want to happen?”

  Claire shook her head. “No. Everything that happened he wanted to happen.”

  “Then there’s no need for you to be embarrassed. When you do something that he doesn’t want you to do, that is when you don’t want to face Mr. Rawlings.”

  Catherine went to the cabinet, removed a washcloth, and wet it in the sink. She handed it to Claire, who compliantly wiped her face and began to apply make-up. It wasn’t long until they were satisfied with the results. The bruises were concealed quite well under a covering of foundation and powder. The lipstick made the swelling less noticeable. When Catherine entered the bathroom with the dress, Claire realized she was naked under the robe.

  “Umm, I don’t have any lingerie.”

  “Yes, miss. Do you not remember Mr. Rawlings’s rules?” Without waiting for a response, Catherine continued, “No underclothes, ever.”

  Claire fought the fog of last night. She couldn’t understand why the memories were so fuzzy, yet somewhere she had some recollection of such a conversation or, more accurately, a demand. Then again, this entered the world of ridiculous. Who the hell was he, that he even thought he could make such demands, and they would be followed?

  Catherine assisted Claire with the dress, so as not to mess her hair and make-up.

  Claire vowed to herself regardless of how absurd it sounded: I’m not sure how or when, but I will leave here, get away from him, and go to a place where women wear underwear.

  Catherine smiled approvingly at her as she stepped in front of the mirror. “Mr. Rawlings will be pleased. Now, I must go; he’ll be here soon.”

  The reminder of his impending arrival sucked some of the resolve from Claire’s demeanor as well as the air from her lungs. Catherine knew him. Maybe if she stayed, he would… Claire didn’t know how to finish that thought. He would be nice? Let her leave? It just seemed safer with this woman around.

  “Perhaps you could stay until after his arrival?”

  Catherine didn’t respond, but the look of satisfaction briefly changed to sadness. Instantaneously, Claire knew that Catherine’s departure was beyond both of their control. Claire would be face-to-face with her fear: the man that abused and dominated her the night before. She also knew that he was her only means of escape. For that reason and that reason alone, she would face him. “Thank you again for your help. I really doubt I will be here tomorrow. He and I will discuss it over dinner.”

  Catherine nodded. It was an acknowledgment of Claire’s statement, not an affirmation of its accuracy. Then she left the bathroom. Claire heard a faint beep as Catherine left the suite. It reminded her of the noise made by a car fob.

  While still in the bathroom, her heart rate increased when she heard the faint beep again.

  He didn’t knock. He just opened the door and entered. Claire imagined him surveying the empty suite. If she stayed in the bathroom, would he eventually come for her? Or leave? While she debated, he waited silently in the bedroom. It took a minute or two, but slowly, Claire opened the bathroom door and entered the suite.

  She used all her strength to suppress the fears that screamed to get out, determined to meet him head-on at his mind game. The first things she saw as she entered the suite were his eyes—his dark black eyes—resembling voids or black holes. His lips were moving. He was talking, yet Claire could only hear the memories of the previous night. She walked to the bookcase at the far end of the suite, feigning strength.

  The fake resolve melted as she turned to see the eyes staring directly at her. Then almost instantaneously, he was there, right in front of her. His proximity caused her stomach to wrench, bringing back the nasty bile from earlier.

  His large hand captured her chin, pulling her eyes and face toward the dark voids. His strong voice was deep, slow, and authoritative, “Shall we try this once more.” It wasn’t a question but a statement. “It is customary for one person to respond to the greeting of another. I said good evening.”

  Claire’s knees went weak at his touch. She wanted to yell, to run, but she couldn’t let herself. If she couldn’t be strong, she could at least avoid fainting. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe I’m feeling well.” With his grip still upon her chin, she knew he could feel her body tremble.

  He repeated, “Good evening, Claire.” This time, it was more drawn-out. His eyes were so cold. Claire couldn’t distinguish what they said, only see the depth of their infinite darkness.

  “Good evening, Anthony.” She would tell herself she sounded strong, but she didn’t.

  At that moment, the door opened again, and a young man pushing a cart brought them their meal. Claire
started to walk toward the table, but Anthony’s hand seized her arm, stopping her. She looked back up at him, into those eyes. He reached with his other hand to lift her dress and place a hand on her buttocks.

  The shock of his touch quickly turned to anger. Her green eyes flashed fire, and her neck stiffened. “What the hell…?” Her impulse was to lash out, but the hand that held her arm tightened its grip, causing her to forget her words.

  “I see you can manage to follow at least one rule. Shall we eat?” His grip loosened as his voice attempted a reasonable tone.

  Anthony pulled back Claire’s chair at the intimate table. She eyed the display: It all looks so nice and is such a masquerade. The food smelled wonderful, but Claire’s stomach wouldn’t allow her to eat. All of her pep talks about standing up to him proved worthless. Instead, she sat politely, playing with her food and nodding attentively.

  Looking at the dinner, Claire felt that something was missing, besides common sense. The young man had poured water into the glasses, yet to make the masquerade complete, at such a dinner there should have been wine or champagne.

  It was almost as if he read her mind when Anthony commented, “I do not like to drink alcohol. It inhibits the senses.”

  She immediately thought how nice it would be to have a fifth of Jack Daniels.

  Anthony clearly relished her discomfort. “Don’t you like your food?”

  “I do. I guess I’m just not hungry.”

  “I heard that today you have only eaten breakfast. I suggest you eat. You will need your strength.” As he took another bite, he sent her a grin which didn’t reach his eyes.

  Claire used every ounce of energy to remain seated and not run. Besides, the door was shut, and she heard the faint beep when the waiter left.