The following day was Christmas Eve. I remarked on it, casually, to Tom.
“Perhaps you want to write a letter to your family?”
The suggestion was startling. And exhilarating.
“Can I?” I clarified. “I mean, am I allowed?”
“Why wouldn’t you be allowed?”
I could think of several reasons, the most obvious being that I’d tell them I was being held captive and to get the FBI involved in finding me ASAFP.
But Tom was digging out stationery and a pen, and I wasn’t about to clue her in on her mistake.
I kept it simple, sticking to facts and details needed to initiate a rescue mission. I addressed it to my father, knowing he was the one who had the power to do things, the man who would make things happen. I didn’t tell him he’d been right, that Edward Fasbender was no good, that he was a devil, that I should have avoided him at all costs.
He’d already know that without me saying it.
I sealed the note in the envelope Tom had provided and handed her the letter, feeling more hopeful than I had in weeks.
The next gift came Christmas morning, along with another invitation.
I’d expected to be alone for the day, and that idea had brought on the worst bout of melancholy yet. Though I wasn’t emotionally close to my parents, we were close in other ways. We did things together. We went to the ballet, the opera, charity fundraisers. We spent holidays together. We exchanged cliché, meaningless gifts, but we were together.
Except for the year I was in the hospital, I’d always spent Christmas in their condo, snuggled up in my pajamas, watching It’s a Wonderful Life and Miracle on 34th Street. There’d be an early dinner first, with the Pierces, either at our house or at theirs, but classic movies was the evening routine. My father would leave less than halfway through the first one and my mother would drink too much sherry, but it was tradition. It was what I knew, and I missed it more than I thought I could.
I missed them. More than I should. More than they likely missed me.
But I had dealt with those feelings laying in bed on Christmas Eve. And after acknowledging them, I’d made a plan for distraction. I’d spend the day reading something from the library—one of the countless business communication books or one of the worn paperback romances that I assumed belonged to Edward’s sister, Camilla, or his ex-wife, Marion. The pickings were slim, but I’d always enjoyed reading. There would be something to occupy my mind, even if I had to reread something I’d already read.
Instead, I awoke to the smell of something delicious baking and the sounds of commotion.
“What’s going on?” I asked Tom when I found her in the kitchen pulling cinnamon rolls out of the oven.
“These should do you for breakfast,” she said, as if that was an answer. “Sorry this is all I have time for before getting back to my own. We’ll have dinner at our quarters at three. Dress casual.”
“Okay.” I hadn’t thought for a moment I’d be welcome at their family Christmas celebrations, and I wasn’t about to question the invitation. “I heard noise in the library too. What’s going on in there?”
“Oh, that’s your Christmas present from Edward. I think you’ll be quite delighted with his choices.”
Without hesitation, I left to see what she was talking about. There were a few people in the library—Louvens and Peter as well as the two eldest of Peter and Tom’s kids. While Lou was breaking down boxes, the rest were loading empty shelves with books. I surveyed the titles. There were a lot of classics but more contemporary reads, titles that I recognized but hadn’t yet picked up. Titles that were definitely on my TBR.
Edward had guessed my taste in books as well as he’d guessed my taste in clothes.
Except, guess wasn’t the right word for it. He’d studied me. He’d learned me.
My throat felt suddenly tight.
Unwittingly, a memory popped in my mind, one of the last games I’d played with Hudson. Or I’d thought it was a game. He’d decided it was something different. The subject was Alayna Withers, the woman who would one day become his wife. He’d called me from the Hamptons with a list of books he needed me to purchase and have delivered to his penthouse immediately.
He hadn’t told me, but I’d known they were for her. Even then, I’d suspected where things were headed. That he was done with me.
The books he’d chosen had been personal, it was obvious. He’d put care and thought into the selections, and a strange throb had begun in my chest. Like a knocking against my ribcage from deep inside. I wouldn’t let the emotion out, wouldn’t let it show itself, but I’d recognized it.
It was envy.
What would that feel like, to have a man care about me so much, to have him be that attentive and adoring that he’d fill shelves and shelves with exactly the books I wanted to read?
When Louvens and Peter and Tom left a short while later, I knelt on the library floor, stared at the shelves of new books, and took long, deep breaths until the dizziness went away. Until the tightness loosened in my chest. Until I could make my mind separate the gift from the man who’d given it.
The gifts continued the next week and into the new year, if gifts were what they were. The allowances. The evidences that I remained on Edward’s mind.
First, on the next grocery day, came a beautiful handcrafted wooden chess set and a book on how to play. Which was fine and all, but I knew how to play already, though it had been ages since I had, and who was supposed to oppose me?
I found myself reading the book anyway, learning new moves, brushing up on techniques. I set the board up and played against myself as best I could.
The next week, Eliana began joining me for afternoon games. She beat me most of the time, but I was a quick study, and the company was good.
One day when she came to play, she noticed the copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude that I had on the table near the sofa, face down to keep my place.
“If you have specific books you’d like, let me know,” she said. “I’ll see what I can do to get them.”
I wasn’t sure if that meant she’d go through Edward or she’d simply pick them up on grocery day. There wasn’t much I wanted, at the moment. He’d stocked me up fairly well.
Except, there was a subject I was interested in, a topic I wanted to know more about before my husband returned. “Could you maybe see if you could get me some books about BDSM?”
“Romance books?” she asked, her expression strange.
“No. Nonfiction. About being a submissive. A how-to guide or whatever you can find.”
The following week, she brought me three—Exploring Kink, A Dominant’s Guide for Submissives, and Sadistic Desires. I felt powerful with them in my possession. It gave me a guide for my future.
And if Edward knew about them, fine. Perhaps it was good he knew that I was prepared.
The same week, I learned that Marge had been a massage therapist before she’d moved to the island. I discovered it when, after yoga one morning, she announced that I was to follow her to the pool house. It was right outside the main house, but I’d never bothered to go in. Now I discovered I’d been missing out. It was well-equipped with a steam room and boxing ring and, surprise, surprise, a massage room. For two hours, I lay on that table and Marge worked every muscle until I was a noodle.