Chapter 2 No Hurry
746 Words
The rain started suddenly, a cold drizzle that darkened the streets of Barion City.
Margaret walked without direction, the few dollars in her pocket insufficient for a ticket back home.
After a desperate search, she had finally reached a fellow villager who agreed to give her a ride in seven days. Seven days to survive alone in this vast, unfamiliar city.
Suddenly, a familiar voice sounded in her ears as a hand grabbed her arm. "Margaret?"
Turning, she found Elliot staring at her, his expression one of pure shock. "You... you actually came."
She pulled her arm back gently. "It's fine. I'll be going back soon."
"Going back?" His brow furrowed, voice tightening. "Where? You're coming home with me first."
'Home? Does he mean that place—Duskmoon Villa, the one used to keep the mistress?'
A faint heat flushed her skin.
Elliot's frown deepened as he touched her forehead. "You're burning up. You need to lie down. Why didn't you call me when you arrived?"
Her throat felt raw. "I tried... You didn't answer."
Elliot glanced at his phone. The screen lit up, displaying a photo of him and Victoria sharing a kiss.
Beneath it, a string of digits—her call—showed no saved name.
Elliot's expression drained of color. He turned the screen off with a quick, decisive motion.
"Must have been busy. Let's get you to bed. When the fever passes, I'll show you around," he said, his smile returning too easily.
Margaret intended to protest, but a leaden exhaustion washed over her, pulling her into unconsciousness before a word could form.
She woke to his guiding hand on her back, leading her through the echoing spaces of Duskmoon Villa.
The sharp, clean smells of new paint and fresh construction lingered in the air.
Every sight—the opulent fittings, the lavish furniture—felt cold and strange.
He said, his fingers laced with hers, "Top-of-the-line home theater. The bed is imported, the duvet is velvet. No more old quilts. This wardrobe was made to order; everything in it is yours..." His arm encircled her waist, his voice dropping to an intimate, persuasive murmur. "Just tell me what else you desire."
As Margaret mustered a reply, he pressed a contract and a heavy fountain pen into her hands. The document's black text seemed harsh under the light; the pen's silver nib winked coldly.
"Sign this, and the villa is yours. My first proper gift to you," he said.
That tone—soothing, compelling—was the same he'd used years ago when she'd persuaded him to swallow foul-tasting medicine.
Her eyes, however, snagged on a line of meticulously small print: This deed of gift is hereby enacted. Party B shall henceforth not compel Party A to repay any debt of gratitude.
A small, calculated clause. He likely thought her simple education would let it pass unnoticed.
A slight frown touched his brow, his eyes clouding with impatience. "Margaret? What's the matter? Isn't it to your liking?"
Margaret retreated a half-step, the distance slight but deliberate. "You promised, Elliot. When I finally came to Barion City, you'd show me the city," she reminded him, her voice low.
His letters had always been filled with descriptions of grand monuments and tree-lined avenues, pledges of future tours meant for a girl who had never seen beyond her own village.
The world existed for her only through his carefully chosen words.
"So it's the sights you want," Elliot said, exhaling as if relieved. A gentle, almost pitying warmth entered his eyes. "They'll always be there, Margaret. What I have for you here is worth so much more."
"I'll sign after I've seen them," she repeated, her words barely audible.
That faint trace of stubbornness drew a sharp line of displeasure across his face, but the sudden trill of the telephone cut him off.
He turned his back to her, his posture softening instantly, his voice dipping into a honeyed tone reserved for someone else.
The pain in Margaret's heart was a slow, persistent pulse.
She studied the polished floor, the words meant only for herself escaping in a breath. "Just show me Barion City... and then I'm gone. You won't have to see me again. There's no hurry."
The call ended. Elliot looked from the phone to the untouched papers in her hand, his frustration fading into a weary kind of acceptance. "Fine, let's go, then. The National Mall is the perfect place to begin."
- Writer
