I want to make her cry and I want to make her laugh.
I take several steps back from the bedroom’s entrance so that she can pass by without touching me. The corner of her mouth turns down when I do. I’ll never get tired of these contradictions in her.
The air stirs as she moves into the bedroom. The clean scent of my shirt hasn’t erased the bright, floral scent of her shampoo. A fleeting regret whisks by with her. I should have woken her up with my tongue on her cunt. I should have tasted her again before I delivered the news.
“This is the same as yours.”
Resurfacing from thoughts of her sweet flesh is a real hardship, but I lean against the doorframe nonetheless. Daphne stands in the center of her bedroom. It’s a mirror image of how we were before. Only the art studio stayed in position.
“The bedroom?”
“It’s the same bedroom.” She lifts her hands, almost helpless, and lets them drop to her sides. “Same bed. Same bookshelves. Less books, but…” Daphne twists her head to look behind her. “Same size closet.”
“The same en suite bathroom as well, if you wanted a complete list.”
“You’re giving me a bedroom just like yours?”
“The art is different.”
Daphne takes the risk of turning away to scan the walls. The space above my bed is taken with one of her paintings. The space above hers, however…
“That’s a Giorgia Russo.” She pads closer to the bed, letting her fingertips skim the comforter. “Is that—”
“The original.”
On the canvas above Daphne’s bed, a warrior goddess raises a knife above her head. She wears a satisfied, determined expression in the captured moment. A breath before dealing a fatal blow. It makes my pulse quicken to see the painting. It makes my chest heat to see Daphne taking it in.
Her shoulders drop. Her chin lifts. Awe. That’s what she feels.
“The opposite of Lehmann,” I say to her back. “Ms. Russo’s value has gone up significantly since this purchase.”
“Did you buy this for me?”
“I brought it to the gallery, but you were gone.”
Daphne turns to face me. Her cheeks glisten with tears.
“You are…” The sentence is interrupted by a shuddering breath, bordering on a sob. “You are the cruelest person I’ve ever met, Emerson.”
A strange urge. Fix it. Whatever’s making her cry. Of course, the person making her cry is me. “You don’t like it?”
“I love it.” Daphne’s voice catches. “I love her work. I love how—how unapologetic it is. This piece shows the kind of strength I wish I had.”
“It’s the strength you do have. It’s why I chose it for you.”
“It’s a joke. Look how strong you are, Daphne. Look how brave. Look how smart you are to have ended up in this prison.”
“Little painter—”
“Just leave me alone.” Her hands ball up into fists. “Or am I not allowed to be alone?”
“You can be alone anywhere you want. Anywhere in the house.”
“Great. Well, thank you.” Daphne turns around and marches over to the closet. “Oh my god. There’s clothes,” she mutters as I go back across the studio. “Oh my god.”
In my bedroom, I sit at the foot of the bed and listen to her pace.
Daphne doesn’t throw any books. She doesn’t attempt to break a window. She just paces, like a hummingbird caught in a net.
Her footsteps move back and forth.
Back and forth.
It would be soothing, if my mind could dismiss the sound. It’s impossible. When there are other people in the house, I’m constantly on alert. It’s like having the outside world barge in. It takes time for my nerves to settle. My house is the only place on earth it’s possible for that to happen, so visitors are rare by necessity.
Except Daphne doesn’t seem like a visitor.
I’m listening to her for another reason entirely. I can’t help myself. I need to know more about her, and if all I can have is the sound of her footsteps, then that’s where I’ll start.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
From this perspective, I can only see small flashes of her when she passes in front of both doorways. Faint tendrils of her shadow reach into my bedroom, though I would hardly describe it that way. A shifting of the light, perhaps. It begins to feel like a shift in the air. Tactile movement. I suppress the urge to push it away, to ignore the sensation. Many times in my life, surviving meant a departure from the situation at hand. If I couldn’t leave physically, then I left in my mind.
I’m staying here for this.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
I wish she would come back to me. A futile wish. She won’t be crossing the studio, my white shirt moving with her hips.
A vision of that moment springs to mind, vivid as any daydream, as any real day. Daphne returning to me. Understanding.
The footsteps stop.
A moment of silence.
And then—
A crash.
3
DAPHNE
The stool is heavier than I thought. It seemed solid under my hands when Emerson made me bend over it, but I didn’t expect it to have so much heft. Still—it’s a better option than the chair by the bookshelves. The one that matches his. I couldn’t lift that one. I had to go out to the studio for the stool. Had to make my footsteps match the length of the room so he wouldn’t know. My bed is not centered over the studio doors, which means his isn’t, either.
I took a risk to get here.
The wooden legs of the stool tug at my palms as I swing it toward the big glass window in the studio. I didn’t think I’d have time to get back to my bedroom.
Impact.
The shock reverberates up my arms, and I gasp. It hurts. My hands. My wrists. My bones. I don’t feel like I have full control over the stool but I bring it back and swing it again.
The second shock is powerful, electric. It makes my teeth click together. I’ll jump out when the glass breaks. That’s my plan. Jump out of the second-story window and run.
Another swing.
Nothing.
The glass doesn’t crack. Doesn’t give. Hot tears run over dried salt on my cheeks. Glass is supposed to crack. I saw the destroyed remnants of the paperweight on Leo’s desk. A cascade of shattered petals. The window should be easier to break. My reflection grits her teeth back at me. I aim for my face this time.
Mirror-Emerson enters the studio, his stance casual, hands in the pockets of his sleep pants. Once again, I am consumed with wishing I could hate him. Truly hate him for how calm he is. How unaffected. I hate myself a little for how it makes me feel. His placid expression makes me think that I’m wrong somehow. That this is only a temporary madness, and I’ll come to see that I belong here.
I swing the stool again.
The glass holds.
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” he comments. No worry in his tone. No urgency. It’s as if he’s saying no clouds out there tonight.
I swallow a sob. “What do you care? You’re holding me hostage.”
“No, little painter. Hostage implies that I’m going to let you go once I receive payment. That’s never going to happen.”