Page 37 of Checks & Bonds

I hated myself for that moment of weakness. Hated how my breath had hitched when his fingers traced along my thigh, how my skin had tingled under his touch. It was the one thing I had left—my autonomy over my own body—and he had taken that too.

I hated him. Hated the way his eyes bore into mine with that mix of possession and desire. Hated how he thought he could claim me with a ceremony and a lavish room. Hated the arrogance in his voice when he spoke to me, as if he knew exactly what I needed.

The more I dwelled on it, the more the anger churned inside me, boiling hot and relentless. I wanted to scream, to lash out, to break something—anything—to make the rage tangible. But all I could do was lie there in the darkness, feeling powerless and small.

Eventually, exhaustion began to creep in, dulling the edges of my fury. My body felt heavy against the soft mattress as if every muscle had given up the fight. The room’s silence became a cocoon, wrapping around me and pulling me under.

Sleep came slowly at first, a hesitant drift into oblivion. But soon enough, it engulfed me completely, dragging me away from the torment of my thoughts and into a world where Henry couldn’t reach me.

For now, at least, there was peace in unconsciousness.

I wokeup with the sun filtering through the heavy curtains, casting a warm glow over the room. The light told me it was late morning, and a quick glance at my phone confirmed it—10:30 AM.

My head felt heavy, a dull ache reminding me of last night’s tears. I pushed myself up, feeling the plush carpet beneath my feet as I swung my legs off the bed. Determination stirred within me. I needed to do something about my situation.

The attached bathroom beckoned with its promise of hot water and a brief escape from reality. I walked over and pushed open the door.

Inside, the bathroom was an extravagant mix of marble and gold accents. The floor was a polished expanse of cream-colored stone, cool underfoot. A massive mirror stretched across one wall above a double vanity, each sink set into an elegantmarble countertop. Gold fixtures gleamed under the light, giving everything an air of opulence that felt almost surreal.

In the corner stood a glass-enclosed shower that looked more like a small room than a stall. It had multiple showerheads—one overhead like rainfall and several along the walls at varying heights. A built-in bench lined one side, made of the same polished marble as the rest of the room.

I stripped and stepped inside and turned on the water, fiddling with the controls until I found the perfect temperature. Steam began to fill the space almost immediately, curling around me like a warm embrace. The sound of water hitting stone was soothing, a temporary lullaby to calm my racing thoughts.

I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the steam envelop me before stepping under the cascade of hot water from the overhead showerhead. The heat penetrated deep into my muscles, easing away some of the tension that had settled in overnight.

The water felt luxurious against my skin, washing away not just grime but some small measure of my anxiety. For now, in this opulent sanctuary, I allowed myself to just be—if only for a few stolen moments before facing whatever came next.

But even here, surrounded by such luxury, I couldn't shake off the feeling of entrapment entirely. As much as I wanted to lose myself in this temporary escape, I knew it was just that—temporary.

I turned off the shower and stepped out, reaching for a thick, fluffy towel. Wrapping it around myself, I patted my skin dry. As the steam began to dissipate, I caught my reflection in the mirror. The girl staring back seemed like a stranger—eyes puffy from crying, lips set in a thin line of determination.

"Who are you?" I whispered to the reflection. It didn’t answer back.

I walked back into the bedroom and dressed in casual clothes—jeans and a soft sweater. Comfort over style today. I slipped on a pair of flats and headed downstairs.

The house felt eerily quiet, each step echoing slightly in the spacious halls. No signs of life, no sounds of movement. Just me and my thoughts.

I wandered into the living room. It was grand yet somehow managed to feel cozy. The room stretched wide with high ceilings adorned with intricate moldings. A chandelier hung from above, casting soft light over the space. Large windows let in natural light, making the room feel even more expansive.

A massive fireplace dominated one wall, its mantle adorned with elegant vases and framed photographs that seemed to belong to another life, kind of like the one in my room. Plush sofas and armchairs were arranged in a way that invited conversation, their rich fabrics adding a touch of warmth to the otherwise stately decor.

Bookshelves lined another wall, filled with leather-bound volumes that hinted at years of accumulated knowledge and history. A grand piano sat in one corner, its glossy surface reflecting the room's details like a dark mirror.

I moved to one of the sofas and sank into it, feeling its softness envelop me. My gaze drifted to the piano, and I wondered how many times someone had played it while others gathered around to listen. Moments like those seemed so far removed from my current reality.

The silence continued to stretch, thick and almost tangible. I leaned back against the cushions, letting out a slow breath. Here in this quiet living room, surrounded by elegance and history, I felt both small and out of place.

For now, I was alone with my thoughts—a momentary pause before whatever came next in this unexpected journey.

The scent of bell peppers and onions wafted through the air, making my mouth water. I sat up, drawn by the tantalizing aroma, and followed it into the kitchen. As I entered, I stopped short, startled to see an older woman with greying hair, tan skin, and dark eyes moving gracefully around the stove.

"Oh, Miss Freya," she said, her voice thick with an accent I couldn't quite place. "Mr. Henry told me to expect you. You like omelettes for breakfast, sì?"

"Who… who are you?" I asked, my voice catching slightly.

"My name is Carmen," she replied, smiling warmly. "I cook for Mr. Henry. He says you like omelettes with bell peppers, onions, and lots of cheese, sì? No mushrooms."

"Uh, yes." I nodded once and tentatively sat at the bar. I wondered how he could know that.

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