Page 80 of Ashes of Sin and Stardust

But he was persistent in his own way, and I grew attached to his attention. I spent hours explaining my disorder to him, and he spent even more hours reading about it on his own. He and I came to the agreement that when I needed him to be harder on me because of my disorder, he’d have to use his discretion.

That happened for the first time when I got the call from the Department of Defense that Alex Victor’s plane had gone down, and that she was missing and presumed dead. I went into work to deal with the aftermath, and when I got home, I completely lost my mind. He calmed me down with an intense impact session that had me unable to sit for days. Even though I felt like shit afterwards, it was the only thing that kept me from going insane so I didn’t think anything of it.

Alex, the one person I felt like I could trust, who I thought was as unbiased as God, was gone. I felt alone, like she’d personally left me. I knew it wasn’t true, but it still felt that way. In my emotional state, I tried to break up with Woodrow. He told me that he wasn’t going to let me go for my own good, and I fell into the lie that he was taking care of me, the same way that Augustus had.

It was only later I recognized he was abusing me.

Then I got the news that Augustus Quinn was dying. I talked to him on the phone for the first time in years, his voice weak and his breath so light I could barely hear him. I flew back down to Florida to see him one last time, and he died before I got there.

Peter Woodrow stood by my side as Daddy was lowered into the ground, dozens of white roses piled on top of his casket. I felt completely numb, unable to speak, cry, or feel anything other than hurt. It was like a final betrayal. Gone for good, and he hadn’t let me help him, not even in his last breaths.

I was extremely out of it during the reading of the will, and don’t remember much of what was said, or even what I inherited. I did know the family was angry. I sat there and stared at the paperwork in my hands, staring down at it in horror. I remembered signing it back when he’d sent me away, but I couldn’t remember what it said.

That evening, Peter Woodrow took those papers from me for safekeeping, and we got the next flight back home. The next day, he locked them in a file cabinet in his office, brought me downstairs, and whipped me until I bled. While I sat in the tub in a warm bath of Epsom salts that burned my skin, he called my boss and explained I’d had a death in the family, and would be back in a few days.

I was out for a week because of that. Peter Woodrow did indeed use his discretion, and he decided to use me as a punching bag. Learned helplessness should not be confused with submission, but in the midst of my heartache, they felt the same.

After a few weeks, I began to resurface. I went back to my apartment, though he told me he wanted me to stay with him and possibly move in and go 24/7. I’d told him I didn’t want that, and while I appreciated the help he’d given me through my loss, I wanted to maintain the separation and the scheduled dynamic we had.

He wasn’t happy about it, but he couldn’t force me.

At least, not at that time.

Things in the CIA were changing. Alex was gone. Agent Smith Smith and Michael Lewis had both been arrested and put in prison. Cole Stewart was getting blackmail from multiple outside sources and decided to relocate his family.

That was when he fired me.

“I’m really sorry about this, Alice. You’ve been so good to us. But this is the last straw.” I was so shocked and confused, I wasn’t even sure what I was being fired for, or what was going on, until I was escorted down to a debriefing room and given a packet of paper. I spent the next six hours being told exactly all the things I couldn’t talk about and warned not to talk about my experience.

I walked out of the debrief. “Joke’s on you, I’m into that shit,” was the last thing I said to the HR guy who was warning me about people being tortured by the Italian mob. Which was bullshit, because I’d met three members of the Italian mob, and they adored me.

It was a Thursday, and I was already late for my appointment with Woodrow. I called him and rambled for a few minutes about how I’d gotten fired and how I couldn’t come over tonight, but that I’d touch base with him soon.

“Come over Alice.”

“Sir, I can’t. I need to–”

“Alice, you trust me, don’t you?”

“...yes sir.”

“I need you to come over. I’ll make you some dinner, we’ll talk through this. I want to help you out, cupcake.”

I went over. I wish I hadn’t.

I thanked him for comforting me on the phone and offering to make me dinner. Before I even finished speaking, he’d hit me across the face.

“The fuck was that for?” I shouted.

“You are in a lot of trouble, young lady. You’re over two hours late.”

“Peter, we are not playing right now–”

Another slap.

“Scarlett!” I shouted my safeword, looking him dead in the eye. “No sir! No way. You know what? Fuck you.” I grabbed my bag to leave. “I need time, and a break, and a new job, and a glass of water, and–”

He grabbed me by the hair, pulled me back, and locked the door.

---