Page 146 of Chandelier Sin
I squeezed back tears, holding back the pain of losing a man I never really had.
The haunting truth fell on me like an avalanche—he wanted to own this place and he wouldn’t let anything stand in his way.
The realization he might have used me hurt like hell. I was collateral damage and nothing more.
A sense of futility weighed me down, keeping me on the floor.
Confusion settled in as I replayed the last half hour.
Atticus had gone from hot and heavy and possessive to suddenly cold and dismissive. As though his mind had caught up to what his body craved—me.
Perhaps he sensed I was in trouble. That both of us teetered on the edge of a wild passion and if we fell, we’d never survive.
Another impossible dream I’d clung to was that he might stay in my life as a lover I would come to trust. It was delusional to believe he could help me rescue my daughter. Ridiculous to think anyone would be willing to risk their life to help a virtual stranger.
I’d find my daughter myself.
Somehow.
Someway.
Atticus didn’t believe I was innocent when it came to the evil at Pendulum. I could see why—I was the wife of Aemon Roper. If there were dirty secrets here, I should know them. He wouldn’t expect them to be kept from me.
Even though they were.
The trophy wife had outgrown her usefulness.
Fear had always been the price of admission. I’d just never considered that it applied to me.
Warnings were given to members who showed an interest in the sixth floor. They were advised of the repercussions of entering this private space uninvited.
I’d believed everyone knew it was fact, not myth.
Tracing my fingertips over my bracelet, I considered that even though I’d lost this war with Atticus, perhaps I could make use of what he had told me about this place.
Quickly, I pushed to my feet, resolving not to give up on him. Hurrying out of the chamber, I stormed down the hallway flanked by Egyptian hieroglyphs carved along the way.
Would Atticus recognize the symbolism? Recognize the ankh that represented the Key of Life? The language being used to impress guests and intimidate submissives.
Atticus’ concern for the origin of our subs had given me hope. Or was he just after the forbidden?
No one had approached me and shared their story of being brought here against their will. Then again, I was as much a part of the hierocracy as Jewel.
Quietly, I eased open a side door to the vast chamber and stepped inside. The same theme of Egyptian drawings flourished everywhere.
I tried to see this Grand Hall as Atticus would, visualize what he would make of this place, and wondered if it would intimidate him as it often did first-time visitors.
A moody musical piece by Lisa Gerrard provided an ethereal backdrop to the scene.
Pressure tightened my chest, my guilt rising for not seeing the sinister truth, as I mingled with the hundred or so guests standing around the dais.
Atticus had to be wrong.
Everyone wanted to be here, surely?
With the club’s luminous offerings and great erotic rewards,submissives were given more money than they’d make outside the establishment. They could afford anything their hearts desired—a new car or a lavish home. All they had to do was serve and enjoy the ride in the process.
Each guest wore a different style of mask, some ornate and others simply reflecting a stark coldness.
