A Debt Owed: Chapter 8

Present

“No …” She keeps shaking her head.

“You can believe whatever you want, Charlotte, but it’s the truth.”

“I don’t believe it,” she hisses. “You can’t blame that on me.”

“Doesn’t matter what you think or believe. You’re the reason your father worked mine to death. And now I will make you pay … and then your father.” A wicked grin spreads on my lips. “All that matters is that you’re here in my home now, and you will abide by my wishes like a good fucking girl.”

“Fuck. You,” she spits, and she runs toward the doors, banging on them hard. “Let me out! Let me out, please!”

Approaching her from behind, I grab her shoulders when she doesn’t stop and swiftly spin her on her heels and shove her against the doors.

“No one is going to let you out. Do you hear me? No one. No one will listen to you. No one … except me.” Her chest rises with each breath, and beads of sweat glisten on her exposed skin right above her top. “You’re … a vixen. You think you can spin me around your finger, but I won’t dance to your tune.” I tip her chin up with my index finger and force her to look at me. “Not anymore, Charlotte. You’re mine now, and the only one who’s going to dance is you.”

She grinds her teeth. “Over my dead body.”

We face off for a few seconds, staring each other down. I want her to feel intimidated, but I won’t force myself on her. I want her to do it on her own terms so she’ll remember the moment forever.

For now, I back off and let her stomp up the stairs.

“Your room’s on the left!” I yell after her.

But she’s already found it and slammed the door shut.

Such a feisty girl … I’ll definitely have my hands full.

Charlotte

My bedding was velvety black linen. Lined with gold, the walls surround me like a beautiful cage for a trapped princess. The burgundy red drapes match the color of my father’s blood if I ever were to escape. Staring at the windows, I see they’re locked with a key I don’t have access to. I wonder where he keeps it or if I should even go look for it.

I’m plagued by thoughts of fleeing, but then I see my father’s dead eyes staring right back at me, and I stop. I can’t. Besides, I don’t know anyone in this country. I wouldn’t know where to run if I even had the chance.

I sit down on the bed and stare ahead at the boudoir at the other end of the room. The person in the mirror gazes back at me, but I don’t recognize her. All I see are two broken eyes filled with tears.

But I don’t want to cry.

I don’t want to see the girl in the mirror, who had her whole life ahead of her, stolen away from her world just to be put into a beautiful prison.

Instead, I walk toward the potted plant next to the boudoir, and I pick it up and chuck it at the mirror. A loud, visceral shriek emanates from my lungs. Even though it’s only a fraction of the pain I feel, I had to get it out of my system. Nothing I do will still this rage in my veins.

I want to scream and pound on the door until my fists bleed, scratch the wood until the splinters bury underneath my nails, until nothing’s left but emptiness.

Just like me.

I feel hollow inside. As though I’ve been stripped of all that it means to be alive. As if I’m imprisoned with my worst enemy.

I caused this. Easton fell for me, and my father hated him for it. And because of my inability to stand up to my father, he ran all over Easton and his family … and it killed his father.

I made Easton hate me, made him want me so badly he’d trick my father into giving him me just for revenge. It’s stupid I ever thought and felt anything good for this man, and that I ever listened to my father and came to that diner.

My mind is plagued with what-ifs and guilt, and it’s consuming me.

A sudden knock on the door pulls me from my anguish.

“Excuse me. Mr. Van Buren requires you downstairs for dinner,” a voice speaks out.

I don’t respond. I don’t even know what to say to that … person. Whoever it is. Do they honestly expect me to come out and eat with that monster? No. I’d rather starve than sit next to him and pretend everything’s fine when it’s not.

“Will you come and eat dinner with him?” the voice asks again.

“No,” I growl back. “Leave me alone.”

Footsteps fade away, so I guess they’ve gone downstairs. I wonder who it was … and who’d ever choose to work for such an asshole. Just like the driver who brought us to the restaurant and picked us up from the airstrip, or the pilot who flew the airplane, or any of the other people who work for him. Do they do it willingly, or are they forced into it by debt as well?

It wouldn’t surprise me. He’s such an asshole … ugh, I can’t believe I ever liked this guy. That I ever felt anything but hostility toward him is mind-blowing. At my father’s wedding, he was such a nice young guy. Did he change that drastically just from me ignoring him that one time? That can’t possibly be it; no way did I have that much effect on someone’s personality. Right? But he said it did.

I sigh and lie down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Guess there’s nothing else to do but sit around and wait … Maybe I’ll go on the prowl when things go quiet and everyone’s gone to bed. At least then I won’t have to talk to him.

A few hours later, I pry open the door and softly tread down the stairs. It’s dark all around me as the sun has already set, and no one seems to be around. I waited long enough to make sure everyone would’ve gone to bed or be at home right now. I don’t know whether his workers sleep in his mansion, but I didn’t wanna risk running into any of them.

My growling stomach reminds me I haven’t eaten in a while, so I go straight to the kitchen on the left of the stairs to see if I can find something. It’s huge with marble tiles everywhere, oak walls and cabinets on the sides, and a huge cooking island complete with expensive pottery and pans hanging from a ceiling rack. If I wasn’t a prisoner here, I’d say the place was like a dream. Except this is more like a worst-nightmare scenario.

Still, I’m not gonna sit around and do nothing while I’m hungry as hell. There must be something in the fridge that I can eat. A delish chocolate cake stares right back at me the moment I open the door, and my mouth waters. No one will notice if I take a piece, right? It’s already been cut anyway.

I reach inside the fridge and take out the cake, placing it on the gray marble counter before searching the drawers for a knife. However, I find that all of them are locked.

“Looking for this?”

The sudden sound of his voice has me jolting up and down and holding in a squeal.

Easton holds up a sharp knife. I don’t know where he got it … or how he even discovered me here in the first place. I immediately check my surroundings; the walls, the door, everything because there must be a camera, right? How else would he have known where I was?

I back away, bumping into the counter with my hips as he approaches me. The sharp blade in his hand gleams, and I swallow hard as Easton comes close with it.

“Hungry, huh?” he asks. Cocking his head, he glances at the cake next to me.

I don’t say a word. I don’t want to give him more ammo.

Even though, according to him, I’m responsible for his pain and suffering … I refuse to let it get to me.

“Here, let me help you,” Easton says, tightening the rope around his robe before leaning in to the cake. He takes a whiff, purposely watching me as my mouth waters and my lips part. God, I wish I could have a taste, but I don’t wanna give him that pleasure.

“You can have a bite …” he muses, sticking the knife inside and cutting a piece in a very violent manner. He grabs a plate and scoots the cake onto it, bringing it up to my face.

“Smells so good, doesn’t it?” he asks, a wicked smile forming on his face. “But wait …”

Right as I lean toward the plate, he pulls it away again and fishes a key from the pocket in his bathrobe. With it, he opens a drawer beside me and takes out a fork, then immediately locks it again. Then he picks up the plate and takes off a piece of cake with the fork, holding it in front of my mouth.

“Open up,” he muses, sliding it across my lips.

But the possessive look in his eyes tells me this is more than satiating my hunger. This is about power, a game of cat and mouse, so I keep my mouth shut and stare straight ahead. His pitch-black eyes show no mercy.

“Open your mouth, Charlotte,” he says, this time with a more domineering voice. The way he holds the fork near my mouth, brushing it along my lips feels as if he’s trying to kiss me with an object.

I don’t know if denying him is the smart thing to do here because I don’t want to anger him. What if he lashes out? Then again, I don’t want him to believe I’ll become a meek little lamb. But what harm can a little cake do?

My grumbling stomach has decided for me, so I open my mouth. He slides the fork inside, and his gaze follows my lips as they close, taking the cake in my mouth. His eyes bore into me as I chew on the delicious piece and swallow it down. A satisfying groan leaves his mouth.

I feel naked. Watched. Used.

As if he only did this because it reminded him of something far dirtier.

The cake suddenly doesn’t taste as good anymore.

He scoops another piece with the fork and attempts to push it inside my mouth too, but I turn my head away.

“C’mon now …” he murmurs. “Have another bite. You love it. I can tell.”

“No,” I say. “I want to do it myself.”

“You eat when I tell you to eat, and you eat how I want you to eat,” he replies.

I refuse without words. He knows what I think. One look is enough.

Suddenly, he throws the plate on the floor, shattering it and covering the tiles with chocolate.

“Then stay hungry! I don’t fucking care,” he growls, pointing at the door. “Go! Go to your fucking room and don’t come out until I say so.”

I stay put, grasping the marble countertop and curling my toes while expecting his blowback. We already passed the stage of him becoming enraged, so now all I can do is make a choice; either run like a weakling or face the threat head on.

“I’m not a robot,” I reply with as much grace as I can muster. I won’t sink to his level.

“No, you are my hostage,” he says, his tongue dipping out to lick the top of his lips as if he’s contemplating what that means. Like the word hostage automatically means I’m supposed to do anything he wants. But that’s just it. Even as a hostage, I still have my own autonomy. I can still choose not to think or feel whatever he wants me to. He can own my body … but not my heart or soul.

The chilling silence between us speaks volumes. It tells me he knows this same thing.

His nostrils flare, and he averts his eyes, rubbing his lips together. He closes his eyes completely as he turns away from me and rubs his forehead with the palm of his hand.

“Get out,” he says, but his much softer voice confuses me.

Where’s the anger? Debris litters the whole kitchen, and he’s standing there with slumped shoulders as if nothing ever happened. As though he’s … ashamed.

“Leave me,” he says, still pointing toward the door as he clicks some kind of button hanging on the wall near the stove. “Someone will escort you to your room.”

Within a minute, someone has arrived. A curly-haired male employee, from the looks of it, complete with outfit. As if they don’t ever sleep.

He gestures me to follow him, so I do. I don’t want to give Easton the satisfaction of winning this fight, but I need to remove myself from this situation before it gets out of hand.

I can tell he had to stop himself from going any further … As if he was dying to grab me and do something to me. But the way he stared at me while I ate that piece of cake, with such a beastly glare, made me feel … powerless. Like he was going to fuck me right there and then on the kitchen countertop.

My heart palpitates, and I clench my legs together as I follow the man up the stairs. I can’t stop thinking about how Easton literally tried to feed me. At first, I thought he was only trying to get to me, to make me feel like a child, but he was so transfixed on my lips that I felt naked. And I don’t like that feeling at all.

Shivers run up and down my spine as we arrive at my door, and the employee kindly opens the door as if it’s some kind of service to me and not at all as an accomplice to his employer’s schemes.

“Do you work for him?” I ask as I walk inside and turn around to face him.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says as he attempts to close the door.

I put my foot out to stop the door. “What’s your name?” I ask before I lose the chance.

“You can call me Nick, ma’am,” he replies.

“And you agree with all this?” I ask. “You know I’m a prisoner here, right?”

“Ma’am …” He sighs. “We’re not allowed to speak with you about this.”

“So you know yet you choose to do nothing?” I say, cocking my head as he continues to try to close the door on me.

“Good night.” He manages to push my foot back inside and immediately shuts the door, locking me inside.

Fuck.

I punch the door several times. “You can’t keep me in here!”

But no one replies to my calls. No matter how many times I bang, and say, “Let me out!”

It all falls on deaf ears.

But I know Easton can hear me.

I know because he’s been watching me all this time. He knows where I am whenever I leave this room. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was watching me right now. He just chooses not to respond to my cries. Like a true cruel man keeping a girl hostage.

After a while, I turn around and fall onto the bed facedown. Not wanting to face reality, I curl up into the fetal position and close my eyes, wishing the tears away.