CHAPTER THREE
1495 Words
Ivy
I dried my hands and followed him to the study. My heart was pounding against my chest.
Inside, he closed the door behind us and locked it. That was never a good sign.
I stood in the corner of his office with my hands clasped in front of me, and my head down.
"I have a problem," he said, pouring himself a drink. "A very expensive problem."
I said nothing. I have learned not to speak without permission.
"I owe money to some very powerful people. A lot of money. Two million dollars, to be exact."
What?! Two million. The number was so large it didn't feel real.
"I need a solution," he continued, downing his drink in one gulp. "And I think I've found one."
He turned to look at me, and something in his expression made my blood run cold.
"You're going to help me, Ivy. Whether you want to or not.” He said, his voice void of any emotion. "You're going to die anyway.” He continued. “You might as well make yourself useful for once."
His words hung in the air like smoke.
"Did you hear me, girl?"
"Yes, Uncle Richard." My voice came out barely above a whisper.
"Good. Now get out of my sight. And tell your aunt I need a drink."
I turned to leave. My feet were silent on the expensive carpet that my father's money had bought.
Everything in this house belonged to my parents. The furniture, the paintings, even the roof over our heads. Now it all belonged to Richard and his family while I slept in what used to be a storage closet.
"Wait." He called.
I froze.
"Come here." He said calmly.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I turned slowly and walked back towards his desk. Each step felt like walking towards my own execution.
When I was close enough, he grabbed my wrist. His fingers dug into the bone hard enough to bruise it.
"Look at me when I'm speaking to you." He ordered.
I forced my eyes up. His face was red and blotchy, his breath was smelling of whiskey.
"You think you're better than us, don't you? Walking around here with your mother's eyes, and your father's face. You think you deserve something."
"No, Uncle Richard. I don't…"
His hand cracked across my cheek before I could finish. The force of it snapped my head to the side. My eyes watered but I didn't cry out. Crying would only make things worse.
"You deserve nothing. You are nothing. The only reason you're still breathing is because I'm too kind to throw you out on the street where you belong."
"Yes, Uncle Richard." I whispered.
"Now get out."
I fled from the room. My cheek ached from the impact of the slap. In the hallway, I pressed my back against the wall and tried to catch my breath. My hands were shaking. They were always shaking these days.
"Oh my God, Ivy. You look even more pathetic than usual."
I looked up to find Celeste standing at the top of the stairs. Why hasn't she gone to bed already?
My cousin was beautiful in the way magazine covers were beautiful. Perfect hair, perfect makeup, perfect clothes. All of it paid for with money that should have been mine.
She descended the stairs slowly, like a queen approaching a beggar. Her designer heels clicked against the marble floor with each step.
"Daddy hit you again?" She tilted her head, examining my face with casual interest. "You really should learn to keep your mouth shut."
"I didn't say anything." My voice trembled.
"Well, you must have done something." She reached out and grabbed my chin, turning my face towards the light. "That's going to leave a mark. Not that it matters. It's not like you're pretty anyway."
She released me with a little shove and continued past me towards the kitchen. I closed my eyes and counted to ten. One. Two. Three. It was a trick I'd learned years ago. Count to ten and the urge to scream would pass. Four. Five. Six. The urge to run would fade. Seven. Eight. Nine. By ten, I would be invisible again.
Ten.
I opened my eyes and made my way to the kitchen. Aunt Margaret was there, making chocolate dessert.
"Uncle Richard wants a drink." I whispered.
"Then get him one." Her voice was cold, and dismissive. "You know where the liquor cabinet is."
"Yes, Aunt Margaret."
I poured whiskey into a crystal glass that used to belong to my mother. The bottle was expensive. Everything in this house was expensive. Everything except me. I was worth nothing. Uncle Richard told me so every day.
When I brought the drink back to his office, he didn't look at me. He just took the glass from my hand and waved me away like I was a fly buzzing around his head.
I went to my room. It wasn't really a room. It was a closet at the end of the hall, barely big enough for a twin bed and a small dresser. There was no window. No mirror. No pictures on the walls. Just gray paint and shadows.
I sat on the bed and pulled my knees to my chest. My cheek still hurt where Uncle Richard had thrown coffee at me. I pressed my fingers against it gently, feeling the heat of the bruise forming.
This was my life. This has been my life for thirteen years. Sometimes I tried to remember what it was like before. Before the fire. Before my parents died. Before Uncle Richard took everything from me.
I remembered laughter. I remembered warmth. I remembered my mother braiding my hair and my father reading me stories before bed. I remembered feeling safe.
Now I remembered nothing but fear.
A knock on the door made me jump.
My heart raced.
"Ivy?" It was Aunt Margaret. "Come downstairs. Your uncle wants to speak with you."
Again? What have I done now?
"Coming, Aunt Margaret."
I stood on shaking legs and smoothed down my dress. It was one of
Celeste's old ones, faded and way too big.
Downstairs, I found Uncle Richard in the living room with Aunt Margaret and Celeste. They all looked at me as I entered. Celeste was smiling and I knew something bad was about to happen.
"Sit down, Ivy." Uncle Richard said quietly.
I perched on the edge of a chair with my hands folded in my lap.
"You're getting married." He said calmly as though reading the weather.
The words didn't make sense at first.
Married? Me?
"I don't understand." I whispered.
"It's quite simple." Uncle Richard leaned back in his chair, looking pleased with himself. "Remember what I told you earlier, about owing a very powerful man a substantial amount of money. In exchange for clearing that debt, I'm giving him you."
The room tilted. "You're... selling me?"
"Don't be dramatic. It's a marriage arrangement. Perfectly legal. You should be grateful."
"Grateful?" The word came out strangled.
"Yes, grateful. Do you know who Dorian Vale is?"
I shook my head.
"He's one of the most powerful men in New York. Rich beyond measure. You'll live in luxury for the rest of your life. However long that is."
"What do you mean?" My voice shook.
Celeste laughed. "Oh, this is perfect. You don't even know, do you?"
Uncle Richard's smile widened. "Dorian Vale is called The Widower. Every woman he's married has died within a year. Twelve brides. Twelve graves. They say he's cursed."
The air left my lungs. Twelve dead women. Twelve!
"You can't… please, Uncle Richard, please don't…"
"It's already done. The papers are signed. You’ll leave tonight."
"Tonight?" I stood, my legs barely supporting me. "No, please, I'll do anything, I'll…"
"You'll do as you're told." His voice turned hard. "Get your things. You have one hour."
I looked at Aunt Margaret desperately. "Please. Please don't let him do this."
She turned away without a word.
I looked at Celeste. She was still smiling.
"Better you than me, cousin."
I ran from the room, their laughter followed me up the stairs. In my closet bedroom, I collapsed onto the bed. My whole body was shaking. Twelve brides. Twelve graves. And I was about to become the thirteenth!
An hour later, I sat in the back of a black car with Uncle Richard beside me. I wore my only decent dress and carried a small bag with everything I owned.
The car pulled up to a tall building in the city. The Obsidian Casino.
"Out," Uncle Richard said.
I climbed out on trembling legs.
Inside, we were escorted to a private elevator that took us to the top floor.
The doors opened onto a penthouse office that was bigger than our entire house.
And there, in front of the floor to ceiling windows, stood the man who had bought me.
Dorian Vale.
- Writer
