Page 170 of Mangled Memory
I look at the mansion in front of me. I’ve never seen it before. I thought he was taking me to my house.
“What happened to my place?” My voice comes out quieter than I expect.
More than a week in the hospital, all the doctors and the poking and prodding, my family coming and going, and all the odd conversations and it didn’t dawn on me that being released to go home could mean what it does. Namely, I’m looking at an estate smack in the middle of Cherry Hills Village, no less, and going there with a man I’m assured has my best interest at heart. Nevertheless, he’s a man I don’t know and one I sure as hell don’t trust.
How can I? I’ve known him for less than a week. A week of lovey-dovey comments shadowed by what feel like threats. Not blatant ones, but subtle messages that are more control than tough love.
And now, I’m going home with him.
“It’s a corporate rental now.”
Of course it is. A nice high-rise apartment building in Cherry Creek North with an unobstructed view of the Rocky Mountains.
The garage door opens before us as his G-550 slides into the bay. My dread thrums as the door begins its descent. “I’m sorry. I keep forgetting that our shared life isn’t the same for you as it is for me.”
He exits the car and rounds the hood to open my door. I take his extended hand, but when his thumb rubs the diamond ring on my right hand and settles atop my hand, it settles there a hint too tightly. I don’t feel protected.
I feel trapped.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
“I’ll come back for your bag. Let’s get you settled.” If he said something before this, I lost it in the grip of his hand on mine and the panic swelling in my chest.
I nod mutely and might as well be being led to the gallows. Or, from the looks of this house, the guillotine. Gallows would be too common.
Christian is speaking, but the words die between the time they leave his mouth and hit my ears. My senses are trying to take in what’s before me. My house.Myhouse. A house that doesn’t look like… well, a house that doesn’t look likeme.
The great room is living and sitting rooms with an open kitchen and breakfast room. Exposed wood beams and heavy stonework gives this place an old-world feel. Dark gray floors and black doors juxtaposed with the cream stone is stunning, yet the heaviness is almost oppressive. It’s shadow on shadow, and with the low amber light, the contrast isn’t crisp, but mellow.
It’s rustic.
Just like the oversized fireplace that dominates the space.
And the heavy art seems uninspired.
But what do I know?
A laugh bursts from between my lips. It’s joined by the prickle of heat behind my eyes and the tickle inside my nose that can only mean tears.
The irony is not lost on me that I know…nothing. Or more accurately,remembernothing.
“The bathroom?” It’s all I can get out as Christian stops whatever he’s saying and points around the corner.
My ears drown out his questions or whatever sound comes at me, and I make it to the toilet before emptying the contents of my stomach into the bowl. I retch until all that’s left is acid and tears. I flush and turn to the heavy gilded mirror, to the woman I’ve always known, but who’s also an unknown traveler in my body.
My nose is pink and swollen. So are my lips. My eyes are red-rimmed, and my skin is pale. Not that that isn’t always the case, I’m Irish after all, but it’s blanched of all color and looks even worse with the red everywhere. I wash my hands and rinse out my mouth noting that the sink is polished until it shines, and the toilet was sparkling clean too.
I could laugh wondering about my housekeeping skills and what’s changed in the last few years, but I remember we have help. Seriously. That’s cringeworthy. I wonder if that’s this Fitz person. Or if our help has help. If so, I’m buying the latest photography equipment and having a field day with lenses. If our help has help, I can afford it.
I open the door only to be met with Christian pacing in the hallway outside. He abruptly stops and looks at me, pity playing on his features.
“I wanted to…” He scrubs a hand down his face and lifts his chin as his hand travels his neck. “I don’t know how to help. I—” His eyes level me. “Come on.” He extends a palm.
I walk around him instead of taking it. I don’t know his Ayla, but I’m not prepared to be herded.
I find an overstuffed leather chair and curl up into it as he sits on the ottoman in front of it. The leather is saddle brown, and I wonder what in this room or in this house I chose, what touches are the me he knew, because everything here looks… The only word for it is heavy. Heavy woods, rich leathers, dark stained hand-scraped plank floors. The creams don’t lighten; they accentuate.
“Did you hear me, Princess?”
