Page 14 of Entwined

“JESSIE?”

“I’m fine, Mom. Stop touching my head every thirty seconds. I have a headache not a fever.”

“I’ll check on you as much as I like. My daughter is back from her watery grave. It’s a real miracle.”

Dad looks on, swallowing hard. He can’t even speak one word to me yet. Every time he tries, he chokes on his tears.

They were both stunned. Not believing the news from the Greek authorities until my voice came over the phone.

It was real.

I wasn’t dead.

Their daughter was back. But what they don’t know is I’m still gone. My heart and mind a world away—trapped in time. Wishing I could relive every moment with him again.

Maybe he’s right. This must be Stockholm Syndrome. It must be why I’m so consumed by him; wanting nothing more than to go back into his cage. All I want is to kneel for him, wait for instructions and see the flare of approval in his eyes when I obey his every command.

I can’t believe my eyes. He’s there. On TV. His handsome, brooding face filling the screen as dozens of reporters close in on him, pushing microphones in his face. I grab the remote, turning up the volume, confused as I can’t read the Greek scrolling on the bottom of the screen. My heart hammers. What has he done? Did he turn himself in? Admit what really happened to me?

I gasp, placing a hand over my mouth.

“Jessie? Is that Mr. Devillo?”

“Yes. I-we-he—was my employer.” I finally spit out.

“Why is he on TV?”

“I-I don’t know. I can’t understand anything.” I grab my new cell phone and pull up the Internet doing a search for him. I’ve done it a dozen times already in the past few days but nothing new ever turned up on him.

Until this second.

He’s selling his company. Leaving the UK and going abroad. The rumors are wild, ranging from he’s being investigated by INTERPOL to he’s eloping with some mystery woman.

My finger traces his face on my phone. “Jessie?” My father finally found his voice, saying my name in a tone he used dozens of times when I was a teen and snuck the keys to our third car.

Shit.

So much for being an actress.

“What? He’s handsome. I’m not into women. I thought you’d be happy…since I know there was a time you wondered.”

He rolls his eyes, “At least yourtemporary amnesiahasn’t changed your personality.”

“I’m still me.”

“Was he just your employer, kiddo?”

“Yep. Mr. Devillo is a billionaire. He dates supermodels... you know—the typical blonde Barbie type. Fake everything. He never looked twice at an awkward duckling of a deckhand like me.”

“Then the man’s an idiot,” my father points at Christos still on the TV. “Anyone can see you’re worth more than a dozen supermodels.”

I swallow, looking away. Christos said almost the same words to me once.

“Don’t call him an idiot, he did pay off our house.”

“What?” My eyes snap to Mom’s.

“Shortly after we received news that you had disappeared. Gone overboard, during a freak squall…. Mr. Devillo sent us a handwritten note with the deed to our house. He paid it off. He said it was miniscule compared to our daughter’s worth. But that it was all he could offer to compensate our pain.”

---