The Affair: Emily Thompson’s Entaglement

Emily Thompson suddenly felt lightheaded and her legs weak, causing her to stagger till she fell to the bed behind her. She sat still for a few seconds with her eyes shut, waiting for the room to stop spinning. ‘Those extra shots of vodka’ she hissed, though by extra, she meant half of the damn bottle down her throat in a three-hour sitting. Massaging her forehead with the tips of her finger, she was beginning to feel some sense of stability so she opened her eyes again. The room was warm but dark enough to think of a monster waiting to jump out at anytime—even though the bedside lamps were on, their glow didn’t make it past around the bed. Yet Emily wasn’t scared of monsters in the dark—well, except for one— and it certainly doesn't live in the dark. It owned and lived in the house she presently was in and in a few hours he’d be in a suit, unveiling her on the altar and like they say, the two shall become one. But Emily had a plan, and it all started with drinking more than enough—besides, it was going to take a level of insanity to cancel a wedding with such a man, no, such a monster. A monster whose name sent cold shivers down the spine and gave nightmares whenever it wasn’t keeping its victims awake at night. The Marchant. And while everybody feared having anything to do with the Merchant, Emily’s father, Jonathan Thompson, had to be one of the few who thought differently. He had to be, in fact, the only one who had ever gone to the Merchant to borrow money and then gamble every dime whenever he wasn’t getting drunk. It was no surprise he couldn’t pay back, of course he couldn’t, so he used his children as collateral, like “a f*****g piece of property,” Emily had said when she was informed a week earlier. As the deal was read, it was either she married the Merchant as payment or her brother worked for him as God knew what till he could pay. And if the stories were any correct about the Merchant, he runs an underground business and young kids were really handy in his trade—really disposable too "Concentrate,” Emily said to herself. She needed to focus on the plan. The plan that would have run perfectly if only she could see the Merchant and tell him exactly how she felt about marrying a man she had never seen or giving to a man like a “f*****g piece of property." If only she could see him, especially now that she had drunk enough to be insane. Jaded by her own thoughts, Emily was about to lay down facing the roof when she heard a crack from the door. She pushed herself back to sit quickly, her heart beating rapidly in her chest. She looked straight to the main door, her eyes wide with fear and anticipation but it wasn't opened. Then a mild smell of fresh flowers crawled out of the darkness and it made the room so cold that it made her freeze where she was sitting, not moving a muscle. ‘Who is there?’ she wondered, but it never made it past her thoughts for her lips had gone too heavy to move. She watched for a few more seconds and still saw nothing. ‘It’s just in your head,’ she concluded with a sigh. Besides, the pigface buttler told her the Merchant wasn’t home, so she had to be alone. But was she? He never mentioned she was. Then she heard it, like someone had taken a step. A frown appeared on her forehead quickly and fear clawed at her inside. She squinted her eyes, trying to see something—anything, even if it's just a figure—but nothing. "Anybody there?" she asked, her voice coming out weakly. She never got a reply but the footstep continued till it reached the brim of the dark side of the room, standing in a silohoete. “I see that you have found me before I find you,” the figure said in a baritone. Emily frowned. 'who the he…' Her eyes bulged out like they'd fall out of their sockets. "The Merchant?" He walked closer to her, and the glow exposed the drops of water sliding down his perfect abs to the towel around his waist. And if he's really the Merchant, Emily was disappointed—maybe surprised—that he wasn't the potbelly, receded-haired old man she had pictured. Before Emily could take a blink, he was already standing six feet tall in front of her, his body perfectly built for summer, his blonde hair, though it looked wet, was well carved, and his jawline was straight. He was the perfect picture of those internet Arab princes. “You know, I’ve heard so much about petite girls,” he said as he lifted her chin so she’d be looking in the eye. ‘And?’, Emily thought. “ I heard they are the craziest,” he replied to her, like he was reading her thoughts. She wasn't sure what he meant by that, but she couldn't help but feel a little flattered. 'Stick to the plan,' she told herself, 'and don't get distracted.' She removed her face from his hands and her eyes fell to his towel. Emily's eyes widened immediately and her mouth opened slightly. “Scary?” he asked with enough pride in his tone. Emily’s lips were still too heavy to move and her head had started to spin again but this time she was sure it wasn’t just the bottle of vodka. It was the venom of her own imagination that was intoxicating her. “You want it, don’t you?” he asked again. ‘Get yourself in order and tell him why you are here!' She was thinking but at the same time, she couldn’t stop staring at his towel. It was hard, it was thick, and it was an erection she had never seen before. And it was right there in her face. “Don’t you?” he asked again, returning his hands to her chin.