Page 27 of Enraptured

“Are you ready to come out now?” Mrs. Fitz slides the bolt back and opens the door. Blinking, I raise my head. Pieces of hay stick to my face, cling to my hair and clothing.

“It’s past supper. You cried yourself to sleep.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Come inside and eat or I’ll handcuff you to the table and spoon feed you like a baby.”

I didn’t doubt she would. My tummy grumbled as I scramble up. I’d need my strength back to fight. And fight I would. I have nothing left to lose now.

“Where is he?” I whisper, looking around the empty rooms.

“Gone.”

“I can’t be that lucky.”

“He left for London. It was either that or strangle you…before or after he fucks you. I’m not sure which.” She shrugs, sliding a hot plate of roast turkey and mashed potatoes in front of me.

“How can you be so nonchalant?”

“Christos might not be able to save himself, but he can save my Johnny. My son is all I care about.”

“How old is he?”

“Twelve. Now eat. I’m going upstairs for the night. Don’t try any shit with me. If you think Christos is hard, you have no idea what I want to do with a self-entitled American cow like you.”

“Bitch,” I mutter to the empty room. She left before I could pull the fork from my mouth to fling the word at her. I finished everything on my plate before pushing it away. I’m wired. My mind racing, heart hurting that everyone I know thinks I’m lost at sea. My poor father must blame himself for giving me the love of being out on the water. I vow to get back to them one day. I just need to figure out how.

With Christos gone and Mrs. Fitz in her quarters, I’m less hesitant to explore. I’ve never ventured through the house, never wanting to chance running into Christos. Making my way to the front of the house where the grand foyer is, I turn into the drawing room, not finding anything worth noting besides priceless art and expensive furniture. The formal dining room could seat at least fifty. I don’t bother going in, passing it by. There’s a small alcove I’ve never noticed, but as I turn the corner, it leads down a small hall. A solid oak door is closed. Carvings etched in the old wood in an intricate pattern. I trace it with my fingers before trying the handle. Of course, it’s locked. It must be Christos’ office.

But the next door swings open at my touch. My hand feels for the wall switch. I gasp as lights flood the small room. It’s a woman’s room. Painted in a soft pastel yellow. Stately Victorian style furniture fills the space cozily. But my eyes don’t linger on the art or vases filled with fresh flowers. Instead, they focus on the rows of pictures sitting on lace table runners. It’s him. I’d know his eyes anywhere. I gasp, clutching my sides. He’s empty. This poor little boy who’s frozen in time is empty. There’re pictures of Christos in various stages of his life but his childhood photos tell his story. He was lost, so lost. Sometimes forcing a smile, but in others not pretending to fake what he doesn’t feel. What’s left of my destroyed heart falls to the floor as I pick up picture after picture, holding it to my chest.

I still love who he could be. But how can I get past everything he’s done? There’s no chance for a normal relationship now—that chance came and went. All I can hope for is he’ll change his mind. Get bored of me and let me go. Deep inside me, I remember who he was during that stolen week we spent moored off the coast of Southern Italy. I can’t believe he’d hurt Yaya and Andre. But I do believe he faked my death somehow.

“This was his mother’s drawing room.”

I spin around, almost dropping the picture in my hands. “I thought you went to bed.”

“I needed acuppa. Tea,” she explains, noticing the puzzled look on my face. “Do you want one?”

I shake my head, not trusting her in the least.

“Place everything back exactly where it was. We wouldn’t want Christos getting angry, would we?”

“He can’t get angry. He doesn’t have the ability.”

“Even so. He needs things orderly. Patterns help him make sense of things...knowing plans in advance, organization—he needs that to function.”

“That explains why he’s so uptight. But why does he want me? I’m chaos. Where is your son anyway?” I suddenly ask, noticing the picture I’m holding is of Christos when he must have been about twelve.

“Switzerland. It’s the only place they would do the trials using the medicine Hexagon Pharmaceuticals manufactured.”

“Hexagon? That sounds familiar.”

“It should. Christos’ mother owned forty-five percent of the stock. Naturally, it passed down to him.”

“Why aren’t you there with him?”

“I was. Until, Christos flew me back here to take care of you.”

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