Chapter 5 – A Deal with the Devil
1110 Words
The maid's room was silent.
Amelia lay on the narrow bed, watching a thin c***k in the ceiling. The air smelled of detergent. No keys, no orders, no machines.
Her thumb rubbed the faint groove on her wrist where the plastic bracelet had once bitten her skin. The treatment room felt far away now, but her body still remembered the electric punishment; sometimes the ache flickered under her skin as if the shocks had only just stopped.
A knock sounded.
"Come in," she said.
Mason stepped inside.
The small room made him look even taller. His gaze took in the single chair, the low wardrobe, the narrow bed.
"This is where you chose to stay?" he asked.
"Yes," she said. "It's enough."
"There are guest rooms," he said. "With space. A view."
"I don't need space," she replied. "I need quiet."
He studied her, hands in his pockets. "You're still the same," he said. "But today you finally behaved."
"Behaved?" she echoed.
"At the hospital," he said. "In front of the reporters. You didn't fight. You didn't break down. You answered exactly as we agreed."
"The confession," she said.
"The truth we needed," he corrected. "You admitted you lied. You admitted you framed Sophie. You took responsibility. That will calm things down."
For you and Sophie, she thought. Out loud she only murmured, "I see."
"For everyone," he added. "Including your mother."
The word mother pulled her backwards.
***
The ward door had opened with a metallic groan.
Amelia was curled on the hospital bed, knees to her chest under a thin blanket. The white walls pressed in. Straps hung loose at the sides of the bed. Her muscles still twitched from the last shock.
Two nurses came in first. The rustle of their uniforms made her flinch against the headboard.
"Relax," one said. "Not your turn."
They moved aside.
Mason walked in behind them.
He wore a dark coat over a suit, out of place in the bare room. Cold air slipped in with him, cutting through antiseptic.
Her body locked.
He had signed the papers. He had stood behind the glass while the doctor nodded and the machine screamed.
She shrank into the corner of the bed, pressing her spine into the bars.
"Amelia," he said.
Her arms flew up over her head. "Don't," she blurted, voice breaking. "Please, I'll be good, I'll listen, just don't—don't let them do it again—"
He stopped. "What are you doing?"
She forced herself to look up.
He stood over her, tall and composed, his face in hard lines under the fluorescent light. Not furious—simply impatient, as if she were a problem taking too long.
He reached toward her shoulder.
Amelia jerked away so sharply the mattress squeaked. The blanket twisted around her legs; her back hit the wall.
"Don't hit me," she gasped. The plea ripped free before she could swallow it. "I'll do whatever you say. I swear. Just don't send me back to the machine."
His hand stilled. A small frown appeared between his brows.
"No one is hitting you," he said. "Calm down."
He let his hand fall and stepped back half a pace.
"We need to talk," he said.
"Yes," she answered at once.
"You're here because of what you did," he went on, voice slipping into the careful rhythm he used in interviews. "Your jealousy. Your lie about Sophie. Your fans attacking her."
"Yes," she whispered.
"You know how long she can last without medication."
Somewhere down the corridor, a monitor beeped steadily. She imagined it falling silent.
"I won't fail," she said. The words tripped over themselves. "I'll confess, I'll clear her, I'll say whatever you want. Please… don't let them stop treating her. Don't let them strap me down again."
He looked at her for a moment, at the way she clung to the blanket like a rope.
"Good," he said. "Remember this is what you chose."
She nodded until her neck ached. "Thank you," she whispered. "I'll listen. I'll be good."
He turned toward the door. "When the doctors come," he added without looking back, "you cooperate. No more screaming. I don't want them changing their report about you."
"Yes," she said. "I understand."
The door closed. For a long time she stayed curled in the corner of the bed, repeating his lines under her breath until they blurred with the ones the doctors used.
I lied. I framed Sophie. It was all my fault.
Anything, she thought. Anything, if it keeps Mom alive and gets me out.
***
In the maid's room, Amelia realized her fingers had knotted the blanket.
She made herself let go and looked at Mason.
"How is she?" she asked quietly. "My mother. The treatment… is it going well?"
His expression barely moved. "My people cleared her debts," he said. "Her bills are being handled. She's stable."
Relief loosened something tight in her chest.
"Thank you," she said. The words were careful. "I'll remember what you did for her. I won't cause trouble again."
"See that you don't," he replied. "From now on, no interviews. No posts. If anyone asks, you repeat what you said today. Nothing else."
"I understand," she said.
She hesitated. "Then… if it isn't too much… could I visit her?" she asked. "I won't disturb anyone. I just want to see her from the doorway."
He checked his watch. "Tomorrow," he said. "I'll take you."
"You don't have to," she said quickly. "You're busy. I can go by myself."
"I said I'll take you," he repeated, colder.
She dropped her gaze. "All right," she murmured. "I'll do as you say."
His phone vibrated. He glanced at the screen.
"Sophie," he said.
He answered. Amelia kept her eyes on the blanket, hearing only the soft cadence of Sophie's voice—an invitation, a complaint about being alone.
"I have things to handle," Mason said. "We'll talk later."
A pause.
"I said I have things to handle," he repeated. "I'll come by after."
He ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket.
"I'll have the driver take you to your mother's hospital tomorrow," he said. "When you're done, wait for me there. Don't wander off. Don't turn off your phone."
"Yes," Amelia said.
He gave the tiny room one more unreadable look.
"Get some rest," he said. "You did well today. Don't ruin it."
"I won't," she promised.
When the door closed behind him, the room shrank back to its quiet, boxlike shape. The c***k in the ceiling looked like a thin line of ink.
Amelia lay back on the narrow bed and listened to the hush.
- Writer
