Page 16 of Meet Me in the Vines
I pause as my breaths grow more tattered, my jaw ticking like a fuse running quickly to ignite an explosion. The anger suddenly turns to pleas, aching for something so tantalizingly out of my reach.Love.
Audrey
Why Kellan? What did I do to deserve it? Why can’t you just fucking love me?
An unbidden tear splatters on the screen. I wipe my eyes quickly and take the end of the towel wrapped around me to wipe it off my phone. I stare at the words I’ve typed, my lip quivering as my thumb hangs over the send button.
*delete*
Audrey
I just got out of the shower. I’ll be on my way shortly.
I turn on the lights to the massive walk-in closet that Kellan had custom made. A wave of leather and cedar entersmy nostrils. A stark black marble island sits in the middle, filled with jewelry and watches that are worth more than the penthouse itself. Floor-to-ceiling shelving houses Kellan’s expensive dress shirts, carefully pressed and ironed—not a wrinkle in sight. His suit collection oscillates between midnight black to ocean navy, reminding me of a certain pair of eyes I just can’t shake.
My work clothes fill a whole wall. Or, more accurately, the clothes Kellan picked out for me fill a whole wall. It’s all muted, neutral tones. Chiffon and silk blouses and skin-tight pencil skirts. Below my somber wardrobe is a row of wooden drawers with gold accented knobs that showcase an array of lingerie. Kellan says lingerie is part of the uniform, in case he wants to have his way with me in his office. Which happens more often than not.
I slip on a black lacy thing to put underneath my outfit for the day, which is basically scraps of material that do a horrible job of covering anything. Kellan will like it, though.
I opt for a high-neck blouse to cover the bruises. I slip on a form-fitting pencil skirt and sheer black thigh highs with a seam running up the back. I find a pair of black pumps and a black blazer to finish the look. My prison uniform. Hopefully, this is enough for Kellan today. I don’t have the energy to put up a fight.
I sit at my vanity and put on my makeup the way Kellan likes. Dark, smoky eyeshadow, thick mascara, and a dark red lip. A low bun, tiny gold hoops, a spritz of Chanel No. 5 and I’m the perfect imitation of a powerful woman.
I flick the light off as I make my way into the open-concept living room. Kellan designed this place with the starkness of a modern art museum. The room is slate gray and expansive, punctuated by a black leather sectional exactly in the center and authenticated art acquired at private auctions adorning the walls. Perhaps the most garish is the chandelier gleaming abovethe sofa, making this apartment feel more like a billionaire’s lair than a home. Because that’s exactly what this is—this is Kellan’s place, not mine.
“Darling, I have taste. You don’t have to worry about any of the design. I’ll have my people to take care of everything.”
At the time, I thought he was spoiling me, not wanting me to lift a finger. I found it endearing, as if he knew what I would like because he had me in mind when building our—his—home. Now I know it for what it really was: control. Control over every decision when it came to us. When it came to me.
“Eat this, Audrey. It’s good for you.” “Wear this, Audrey. It suits you.” “Do it like this, Audrey. You know it drives me wild for you.”
He wore manipulation like a mask, infiltrating every crevice of my soul. I fell in line, unable to resist his pull. I didn’t realize until I was far, far deep in the hole, that I was no longer myself.
I grab a banana from the counter and shove it in my purse, my heels clacking against the black marble floor with every step I take. This apartment is cold. Lifeless.
I clutch my purse and head toward the elevator. There’s a soft ding one floor down as my momentum slows and the door opens to a familiar face with a wispy handlebar mustache.
My neighbor gives me a bright smile and a polite nod as he enters the elevator.
“Morning, Ms. Winthrop. Busy day today?” he bellows. The heavy hand he had with his cologne this morning wafts in the enclosed space, making me lightheaded the second it engulfs my nostrils.
Richard Hammond is kind enough on our morning elevator rides. He’s a lot like Pop—friendly and wise with a warm buttery voice that wraps you like a comforting hug. Today is not a day I feel like making small talk. But I do it anyway.
“Good morning, Mr. Hammond,” I say in the friendliest manner I can muster. “Busy as always,” I chirp with the fakest of smiles on my face.
More like busy contemplating my life choices.
Mr. Hammond’s gaze drifts to my wrist, and my own eyes follow, spotting a bruise subtly emerging from beneath the cuff of my blazer. I immediately shove my sleeve down over it, giving Mr. Hammond a nervous smile.
“Are you alright, honey?” His voice carries a warm concern, mirrored by the worry creasing his forehead.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” I chuckle with false bravado. “I’m so clumsy. Always bumping into things.”
I’ve never been a good liar. I couldn’t get away with it growing up either. My grandfather could always read it all over my face. He knew I wasn’t okay that summer before I left, ignoring my insistent claims of“I’m fine”and“Nothing happened.”I think that’s why he didn’t argue when I asked to leave for New York two months early. We didn’t talk about it, but he seemed to understand that I needed to leave and put the pieces back together.
The man standing before me now, still looking at my covered bruise, has the same intuition. It must be a grandfather thing. I know he doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t probe any further.
“Alright, well, you know that if you ever need anything, you let me know. Okay, sweet pea? I mean it.”
