Uncovering You The Contract

Uncovering You - 1

Scarlett Edwards

Quick note from the author:

There are a few time jumps at the beginning of the book that some readers might find confusing. Keep an eye on the dates beneath the chapter headings to help your bearings.

The important thing to know is that the prologue takes place in the future; that is, it gives a glimpse of things to come. Chapter One begins the story in the present, from the persepctive of the main character, in October 2013.

Prologue

(December 21st, 2014)

“Lilly. Lilly, wake up.”

No answer.

“Lilly.” A hushed command. “Goddamn you, Lilly, get up!”

No answer.

“Don’t leave me. Don’t do this. Not now. Not now. GET UP!”

No answer.

~~~

(Twenty-four hours earlier - December 20th, 2014)

Something cool and wet is brought to my lips. A liquid, thick like oil yet sweet like honey.

A motherly voice whispers in my ear. “Slowly now, Miss Ryder. Your body’s still weak. Small sips, like a hummingbird.”

Water. It’s water. A drop of it gets in my mouth.

“Just like that,” the kind woman encourages. “Just like that. Oh, Mr. Stonehart is going to be so pleased!”

Hearing his vile name jolts me. I clamp my lips shut, cutting off the trickle of life-giving nectar.

“Miss Ryder, please. Please drink. Please, don’t stop. Oh, Miss Ryder…”

The old woman’s sobs are lost as darkness regains its hold.

~~~

(Two weeks earlier - December 6th, 2014)

His lustful grunts fill my ears.

“Yes,” I beg. “Yes. Give it to me like that. Just like that. Faster. Faster!”

Jeremy complies, doubling the speed of his thrusts into me. I feel the breaking point looming. I need to hold it off. Just a little longer.

I grasp his hair and pull his lips to mine, devouring his mouth with my greedy kiss. I know Jeremy hates it when I take control. But logic is lost in the heat of the moment. There will be consequences later. Right now, I don’t care.

“Lilly. Lilly, I’m going to come…” Jeremy’s words die, replaced by a primal roar that is ripped from his throat as he shoots into me. My body accepts readily. Just like I’ve learned to do, I let the climax wash over me. My core clenches around his cock and shuddery convulsions rock my body.

~~~

(Six months earlier - June 2014)

In the dark, I lose all sense of time.

My sleep is thin. My wakefulness is misery.

A vague longing grows deep inside me. The need for submission. A natural willingness ground into me by the madness taking hold of my mind. I feel it rising. The demonic form consumes me from the womb, sapping my strength, and breaking my resolve.

A cry—no, a scream—rings out in the cold furnace of the night. My head jerks toward the sound.

Is it even night? I don’t know.

I am so tired. I am so lonely. I am breaking, and madness is taking hold.

It’s times like this that the animalistic urge to give in becomes nigh insatiable…

Chapter One

(Present day - October 2013)

A faint hiss, like the sound of an angry cat, jars me from my sleep.

I open my eyes to pure blackness. I blink, trying to get my bearings. A vague memory forms in the back of my mind, too far away to reach.

Why can’t I see anything?

My breath hitches. Panic rips through my body as the horrifying answer comes to me:

I’m blind!

I scramble onto hands and knees and desperately claw at the dark, searching for something, anything, for my senses to latch onto.

A dim light comes on overhead.

Relief swells inside.

I plop onto my butt and close my eyes, taking deep breaths to dispel the rush of adrenaline released by my body. When my heart’s not beating quite so fast, I open my eyes again.

The light’s gotten brighter. I look up at the source. It’s far above me, like a dull, miniature sun. It spreads a little sphere maybe ten feet in diameter. Past that, everything is swallowed by darkness.

An irksome memory keeps gnawing at me. But my head is too heavy to remember. I feel… strange. Kind of like I’m hung over, but without the telltale pounding between my ears.

Cautiously, I try to stand. My limbs are slow to react. They feel heavy, too, like they’ve been dipped in wet clay.

I steady myself. Only when I’m satisfied that my knees won’t give out, do I strain my ears for that hissing sound again.

It’s coming from somewhere behind me. I turn back—and nearly smash my head against a gleaming white pillar.

What the hell?

The sound is forgotten as I reach out and brush tentative fingers against the pillar’s surface. It’s cool to the touch. Smooth, too.

I put my other hand on it. If I had to guess, I’d say it was made of marble. But what is a lone, white marble pillar doing in the middle of this room?

The memory is like a gong going off inside my head. Trying to reach it is like grasping at a smooth, slippery stone at the bottom of an aquarium. Just when I think I have it, it slips through my fingers and falls further out of reach.

I walk a slow, measured circle around the pillar. If I tried wrapping my arms around it, I doubt they would span half the circumference.

Something far in the back of my mind tells me I should be alarmed. I look behind me and frown. By what? A dark room?

No, you idiot. By the reason you’re here!

My eyes widen. The reason I’m here? I don’t… I don’t remember.

I wince and bring one hand to my temple. Why am I having so much trouble remembering?

I gasp as a second gruesome thought hits me. Did I lose my memory? Do I have… amnesia?

I sink down with my back to the pillar. Desperation starts to take over. I hold my head between my knees and close my eyes to focus.

My name is Lilly Ryder. I was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, on May 17th, 1990.

My eyes pop open. Joyous tears form in the corners. I do remember! I take a deep breath and try to keep going.

I was raised by my mom. I do not know my dad…

Suddenly, all my childhood memories come streaming back. Moving around as a kid. Never staying in one place longer than six months. All the cities I’ve lived in. All the apartments my mom and I called home. Even the revolving door of her boyfriends in my teens. There was Dave, and Matthew. Tom, and Steve. There was…

I shake my head to stop myself. I don’t doubt my memory anymore.

But that still does not explain why I have absolutely no recollection of this place, or how I got here.

I push myself back up. The spotlight above me has gotten progressively brighter. The little enclosure of light doesn’t feel quite so tight anymore. I trail my eyes up the length of the pillar. I can’t see where it ends because of the light. But I can tell it’s tall, at least twenty, maybe twenty-five feet…

There’s also something about its surface that calls out to me. My hands itch to run over the smooth stone. A giggle bubbles up as I picture myself stroking it. The column is quite phallic.

I waver at the unfamiliar thought and have to catch my balance against the beam.

Focus, Lilly! I chide myself.

I have no idea where that thought came from. I have never been overtly sexual.

Nothing feels right. The fog that’s heavy on my mind is starting to lift, but not enough for me to understand—or remember—where the hell I am. This place is unfamiliar. I know that much. But right now, I feel like a surgery patient whose anesthetic kinked out: fully awake mentally, but completely impaired physically.

I go back to my memories. I can remember high school. I remember college. That’s where I spent the last three years of my life, isn’t it? Yes. Yes, it is.

“Hello?” I call out. My voice echoes into the surrounding gloom. “Is anybody there?”

I wait for an answer. All I get is the hollow repetition of my own voice.

…anybody there, there, there…

I spent the last three years in college… but that’s not where I think I am right now. No. I shake my head. I know that’s not where I am. My memories are fuzzier the closer I bring them to today. Time feels… skewed. Freshman year’s easy to remember. So is sophomore, and most of junior… but things get weird toward the end.

I… finished junior year, didn’t I? Yes. Yes, I did. And then…

And then I took an internship in distant California for the summer, I remember with another gasp.

Suddenly, my mind is crystal clear. That pressing memory hurtles into view. It’s from yesterday. The last thing I recall, I was alone in a booth at an upscale restaurant. The waiter brought me a glass of wine. I took a few sips, contemplating my future….

Oh, God! Fear wraps a stranglehold around my neck.

The restaurant. The wine.

I’ve been drugged!

I can’t breathe. A suppressing tightness constricts my throat. I feel dizzy, and terrified, and most of all… ashamed.

Holy shit, Lilly, way to look out for yourself! My semi-mad inner dialogue pans with a generous dollop of sarcasm.

I’ve always known about the dangers of sick men preying on unsuspecting girls. I just never thought I’d fall victim to it.

I’ve been on my own since I turned seventeen, after the final falling out with my mother. I’ve always been proud of how well I managed. Even the shabby holes I’ve lived in while saving up college tuition were an improvement over living with her and all her low-life boyfriends. At least there, I had autonomy.

I’ve dealt with landlords selling crack on the side and the junkies they attract. Always, I’ve been known as independent, and strong—maybe offputtingly so. But, those were the character traits I had to develop to have any chance of getting ahead.

And all that lead to what? To this? To letting my guard down for one night and ending up… here?

Wherever “here” is, I think to myself.

The shock of the revelation has subsided a bit. I push off from the pillar. I can figure this out. I take a deep breath and look at my hands and feet. I am not bound. I pick at my clothes. They are the same ones I wore last night.

Do you know what might be lurking in the darkness?

I shove the meddlesome voice down. I don’t need more worries. Not now.

Carefully, I place one foot in front of the other and edge to the outer reaches of the light. The strange hissing noise has gone away. I don’t recall when that happened. Maybe it was in my head the entire time.

I strain my eyes, trying to pierce the surrounding darkness. It’s impossible. I reach out with one hand and find nothing but air. This far from the pillar, I can barely see my outstretched fingers.

“Hello?” I try again. “Who’s there?”

There’s no answer.

What kind of madman would do something like this? I wonder. What is hidden in the shadows?

Without warning, my imagination starts to run wild. Torture devices? Bondage equipment? Something… worse?

Snap out of it! I tell myself firmly.

I refuse to give in to despair, even if my entire self-preservation mechanism is on high alert. Despair is what whoever brought me here wants me to feel.

I will not succumb to that.

I look down at the floor. It is made of some expensive stone. I kneel down and brush my hand over the large, square tiles. They feel solid. Sturdy. They don’t belong in a dingy basement or a dirty warehouse.

Somehow, that thought strengthens me. Things aren’t quite as bad as they could be.

I stand up and peer into the black. I glance over my shoulder at the safety of the pillar. If I venture past the light, I can always find my way back.

Go slow, I warn myself. Who knows what might be waiting for me out there?

I’ve seen the horror movies. Just because I don’t get the dungeon vibes does not mean I’m not in one.

Haltingly, my foot reaches past the edge.

A thousand bright lights flood the room. I gasp and shy back, shielding my eyes on instinct.

After a few seconds, I lower my arm, blinking through the sharp pain that shoots through my head. I almost groan. Light sensitivity, too?

Then I see the room.

Holy shit.

It’s huge. Massive. It must be at least five thousand square feet of pristine, flat space. I’m smack dab in the middle of it all.

The lights come from embedded ceiling lamps high overhead. Three of the walls, far away from me, are decorated with black and white abstract paintings created in bold brush strokes. The fourth wall is shielded by a heavy red curtain. The entire floor is made of rich, creamy white tiles reminiscent of steamed milk.

The ceiling is so high above me I almost feel like I’m in a cathedral. It’s made of exquisite dark oak beams.

But this is no church.

I do a slow turn. Something about this is all wrong.

So wrong.

Why am I here? What is behind the curtain? Other than the massive pillar and the paintings, there is nothing in the room.

If I’m being kept prisoner, why am I unbound? Why waste so much space on me?

I cup my hands around my mouth and yell.

“HEY! Anybody? Where am I?”

As before, I’m greeted with silence.

I take one more careful look around. If I got in, there must be a way out.

My eyes dart to the curtain.

Behind there.

I start toward it, my bare feet making determined slaps against the cold floor. I’ve not even gone ten paces when I feel a small tug on my ankle.

I stop and look down. I discover a thread, so thin it’s almost translucent, tied loosely around my foot. The other end is attached to the base of the pillar.

I bend down and finger it.

What on earth is this?

The thread looks like it should snap with the smallest amount of force. I wrap my hands around it and tug.

It doesn’t give.

I frown, and apply a little more effort.

This time, it breaks in a clean cut.

I shake my head as I straighten.

Strange.

I half-expected something to happen when I did that. Alarms to blare, the lights to go off, something.

Nothing.

That’s when I notice a small white envelope leaning against the pillar. It’s right where the thread connects. In fact, it blends so well with the marble that I’m sure I would have missed it were it not for the string.

Exploration forgotten for now, I pick up the envelope. Maybe it will give some clue about what the fuck is going on.

It’s made of heavy paper. A wax stamp seals it, imprinted with a two-faced drama mask that I would find unnerving no matter where I saw it.

The only time I saw a wax-sealed envelope was when my ex got tapped by the Spade and Grave at Yale. I can understand the need for antiquity in New Haven. It makes no sense here.

My finger slips under the flap. I carefully ease it open. A foreboding sense of doom swirls around me as I pull the folded letter out.

I stare at it for a long minute. This is all so surreal. It feels like being caught in a bad dream. Once I read the lette, I play myself right into my captor’s hands.

My natural inclination to resist, to fight back, tells me to tear the paper up without another glance. But that would be madness. The only clue I have to my whereabouts might be contained inside.

My thirst for information gets the better of me. I sit on the floor, cross my legs, and slowly unfold the paper.

It’s handwritten in swift, flowing blue ink. The rows of words make perfect strides across the page. Precision is the first word that comes to mind to describe the owner of the handwriting.

I set the sheet on the floor in front of me, lean forward and begin to read:

Two items require your immediate attention.

You may spuriously assume you are being held here against your will. Nothing could be farther from the truth. You are a guest. As a guest, you retain full ability to leave my home at any time. The door behind the drapes shall remain open for the duration of your stay. There are no physical barriers to speak of—though I would advise you to read to the end of this letter before making decisions based on a flawed understanding of your situation.

You may have already noted the new adornment around your neck. If so, well done! I applaud—

Adornment? I stop reading. What adornment?

I bring my hands to my neck. I feel the unfamiliar shape against my skin. Why hadn’t I noticed it before?

I scamper closer to the marble pillar to try to make out my reflection. I see it right away: there’s a black collar around my throat. I touch it with one hand.

It’s smooth and flat. It’s made of some kind of matted plastic, like the edges of a computer screen. It’s not tight or uncomfortable.

It frightens me. If it warranted a place in the letter, there must be something to it. I need to get it off.

My fingers dart around the edges, seeking the clasp that opens it.

I don’t find one.

The collar is smooth inside and out. It feels like a single piece of plastic. I trail one finger around the rim on the inside, and, finding no discrepancies, do the same on the outside. Again, I feel nothing.

There’s no crack, no edge, nothing to indicate how it was put around my neck.

I jam all my fingers between my skin and the plastic and pull with all my might. The collar flexes ever-so-slightly but doesn’t give.

“Dammit!” I cry out and try again.

I pull with all the strength God gave me. It’s not enough. I try again, and again, and again.

Nothing.

I realize I’m panting at this point. The exertion has me almost hyperventilating.

I drop my hands. It’s just a stupid, harmless little piece of plastic. Why do I want it off so much?

Because the idea of having anything foreign touch your skin is repulsive.

The voice is right, as always. But what can I do? The collar is bound to be part of the mind game in which I’m an unwitting participant. Reacting the way I just did is probably exactly what my captor wants. He—and I am certain it’s a “he” now, from the wording of the letter—wants me to feel terrified.

I will not give him the pleasure. I return to the letter and continue to read:

…applaud your perspicacity! You should know, however, that it is not an ordinary collar. Contained inside is a small positioning chip and two electrodes. They become activated the moment you stray outside your designated safe zone.

The string around your foot offers a conservative estimation of the distance you may roam past the marble column. Stay close, and you will remain untroubled. I am told that the electric shock the collar provides, while not lethal, can be quite unpleasant.

Holy fuck.

My spine goes absolutely straight and I forget to breathe. Now the collar has meaning. It feels like a live serpent wrapped around my neck.

My eyes are wide as I look down to my foot. The piece of string is still there, but it’s not connected to the pillar.

I’d ripped it like a moron.

How far do I dare go? I’ll have to retie the string—unless I find a way to get the collar off my neck, first.

Another thought occurs to me. Maybe this is a bluff? Does the collar really have an electrode in it? It’s so thin. Where would it draw power from?

I stand up. Assuming the collar is rigged, and the pillar is the center point… but that’s just what he wants me to believe, isn’t it? The letter claims there’s a door behind the drapes. It could be my path to freedom. I would have to be an idiot to stay here without testing the boundary myself.

I can’t trust anything the letter says. But, I can’t give in to despair, either. My only choice is to contest everything that’s thrown at me. If this is supposed to be a battle of the wills, the guy chose the wrong girl to mess with.

I pick up the piece of string tied to the column and hold it in my fist. I square my shoulders to the long, drawn curtain. I hold my head high. My free hand itches to tug at the collar, but I keep it still. If my captor is watching me—which I’m sure he is, because I’m positive there are cameras hidden all around me—I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing me hesitate.

I take a deep breath and start toward the curtained wall. My strides are strong and purposeful. I will not waver. I will not turn back. Fear of a little shock will not keep me from testing the true limits of this prison.

The string goes taut, and I stop.

So far, so good.

It’s the next few steps that will determine everything.

I glance at the floor to mark my position. So, he expects to keep me in an invisible cage, does he? A cage of my own imagination?

Yeah, tough luck.

I drop the string and take one solid step forward.

Nothing happens.

I risk one more.

Again, nothing.

The corner of my lip twitches up in a hint of a smile. I called his bluff. But, I’m not home free yet. The veiled wall is another thirty-odd paces away from me.

I take two more steps forward, and, when nothing happens, start to walk more briskly.

My stroll is cut short by a sharp little zap beneath my left ear.

Color me surprised. It looks like the collar does have bite, after all.

I tense and wait for more.

When a second jolt doesn’t come, I can’t stop my smile from becoming a satisfied smirk. I knew the collar couldn’t possible have enough juice to hurt me. Where would the battery go?

Extremely pleased with myself, I venture onward, toward the curtain and its promise of freedom.

The violent torrent of electricity blindsides me. One second I’m on my feet, the next I’m writhing on the floor.

The current pours into me. I thrash about like a grounded fish. Fierce convulsions rock my body. And all I know is pain, pain, pain.

I can feel the source of it, snug around my neck. I’m helpless to fight the onslaught. My head flails about on the ground, throwing hair into my face. A high-pitched squeal sounds in my ears and I desperately hope that pathetic sound is not me.

My eyes roll up and all goes black.

Chapter Two

(Present day - October 2013)

I wake with a gasp and bolt upright.

Water. I need water!

As my groggy brain starts to recognize my surroundings, I feel sick. I can’t stop the reflex. I turn to my side and hurl. I vomit until the full contents of my stomach are spewed up. It’s not enough. My guts keep contracting, making me dry-heave again, and again, and again.

Bile burns my throat. Tears stream down my face. My back is covered in sweat. I feel so weak. So pathetic. I gag on the putrid smell and endure another attack. It feels like my stomach is turning itself inside out. My insides hurt.

When the final convulsion subsides, and I’m sure the worst is over, I collapse onto my side. I bring my knees up and curl into a little ball, holding my arms tight over my chest. It’s the most protective position I know.

The stink of my vomit is all around me. It’s so bad I almost start puking again. I roll to the other side to get away.

I’m shocked when I see the marble pillar inches from my nose. I was so far away when I blacked out…

That means somebody came in here and moved me.

Even more revolting than the stench is the thought of the author of that letter laying his hands on me. I start to cry. What else did he do to me while I was unconscious?

My blouse is a wet mess of sweat. My cheeks are stained with tears. I can’t get away from the smell. Breathing through my mouth is no better. It brings attention to the taste of vomit on my tongue.

It’s a wonder I haven’t pissed myself yet.

Cope. I can’t cope. I can’t deal with this.

You can, a strong voice tells me. You’ve done it before. Remember?

I close my eyes and drift away to a place where the pain isn’t so bad…

Chapter Three

(Eleven years ago – 2002)

It’s summer. I’m twelve. Mom and her boyfriend are off at the lake house. I’m exploring the woods nearby. Out here, I can be anybody.

I pretend I’m a famous explorer, discovering a new land for the first time. The trees over there bear exotic fruit that are blue like the sky and taste like caramel. The shrubs across the field are actually a mother fox’s den. She has five pups to care for from her last litter. They’re always hungry, so she lives close by to feed them the fruit.

I start climbing a small crest, scrambling over rocks to get to the top. The valley on the other side is going to be blooming with beautiful flowers. I just know it. I reach the peak…

And am caught by surprise at the strange stone structure in the distance.

I drop the branch I’ve been using as a walking stick and rush over. Stumbling upon something real like this is a thrill unimagined!

My little feet carry me forward quickly, sandals slapping against the ground. I come to a stop right in front of the structure.

It’s big. And scary-looking. I don’t think anyone’s been here for years. The stones make up three solid walls, kind of like a house. The fourth has collapsed inward with a fallen tree. I don’t see a roof.

What kind of people would live in a place with no roof? Wouldn’t they get wet when it rains?

I walk around it once. There’s a heavy door on the other side. It’s rotten, and doesn’t budge when I give it a shove. That’s okay—I never expected getting in to be easy.

I look at the plastic toy watch I got at my best friend’s birthday party. It shows twelve minutes to six. Mom told me to be back by eight. I still have lots of time.

I stand and face the collapsed wall. My eyes run up the trunk of the tree. If I climb on, maybe I can drop in. Who knows what real treasure might be waiting for me?

I use the unearthed roots as footholds and climb on top of the trunk. It’s wide, and pretty easy to walk on—even in sandals. I always thought sandals were bad for exploring until I realized I could cross creeks without getting my socks wet.

“Cool,” I mutter when I see over the wall for the first time. The house has a dirt floor and an old table in one corner. There’s one chair with a missing leg. Along the opposite wall is a small mat about the size of a bed. I see the remains of a fireplace right where the tree fell.

I squat down and catch a branch. Unlike other girls, I’ve never been afraid of scraping my knee or getting a few bumps. Heights are no big challenge for me. My mom says I get that fearlessness from my dad. I guess it must be true, even though I don’t know him, because she always freaks out when I come home dirty and bruised after hours of playing with the neighborhood boys.

Mom asked me once why I didn’t play more with Carrie, her friend’s daughter.

“Boys do all the fun things,” I told her. “Girls my age are so boring.”

She laughed and tussled my hair.

I hop from my perch and swing down. My feet dangle high above the floor, but I’m not afraid. I let go. After the rush of free fall, I hit the ground with a thud.

A cloud of loose dirt rises where I land. Twigs and dry leaves crack under my feet as I take my first few steps. The place smells musty, kind of like the shelves of an old library.

I go to the doors and check to see why they wouldn’t open. I discover them blocked by a fallen branch. I press my shoulder against it and heave it aside. It’s dry and not very heavy. I try the door, and give a laugh of delight when it moves.

Happy that I won’t have to climb the tree again to get out, I set about investigating the place. I go to the table first. There’s an old sack underneath.

Treasure? I wonder.

I bend down and crawl under to take a look.

A flutter of wings startles me. I jump and hit my head.

Caw! Caw!

I look back at the black bird that’s landed on one of the walls.

Caw! Caw!

“Shoo!” I yell. My head hurts and I want to lash out. “Get out of here, you stupid bird!” I pick up a stone and chuck it at the raven.

The bird takes off before my rock rebounds off the wall.

Caw! Caw! Caw! it complains as it flies away.

“Good riddance,” I mutter. I turn my attention back to the sack. I retrieve it and untie the top.

The most vile stench ever greets me. It’s like rotting onions and week old garbage left in the sun. I gag and throw it away. A rotten black… something… rolls out. Maybe it used to be a potato. Or an apple? It’s crawling with tiny white worms.

“Disgusting!” I wipe my hand across my shorts. So much for treasure.

Disappointed, I get up. The old mat catches my eye.

I stop and look over. It’s not flat on the ground like I would expect. There’s a lumpy shape underneath.

Intrigued, I make my way to it. This time, I remember to shield my nose and turn a little to the side as I pick up one corner of the mat and fling it back.

A scream of blind terror erupts from my throat. Horror drowns out every thought in my mind.

There’s a skeleton there. A human skeleton, with wisps of hair still on top of its skull.

I stumble away. My heel catches a rock on the ground. I trip and fall, but when my back hits the earth, there comes a groan. The dirt shifts, and a splintering crack fills my ears.

The next thing I know, I’m falling again, falling through the soil, underground, into the pits of hell.

My body hits a succession of soft planks. Each one is more rotten than the last, and even my meager weight is enough to break them. Pain shoots through me as I tumble down like a rag doll. My body hits the floor with such force that all the air is driven out of my lungs.

My ears are ringing and my heart is thundering in my chest. Pain stabs every inch of my body with sharp, evil jabs.

Slowly, I become aware of a sound beyond the ringing. It is both distant and above me, almost like I’m hearing it from deep underwater. I open my eyes weakly, lacking the strength to even cry, and look up…

Caw! Caw!

It’s the goddamn bird. It’s goddamn back!

I whimper as I push myself up. My whole body feels like it’s on fire, but some of the pain is subsiding. Somewhat.

I look up at the gaping hole in the ceiling through which I fell. Light filters down. A vague understanding forms in my mind.

I’m not in hell. I’m in a cellar.

A shadow blots out the light. I see black, flapping wings settle down as the raven lands on the edge of the hole and peers down.

Caw! Caw! Caw! Caw!

“Go away!” I scream. My voice echoes around the inside of the enclosure.

The raven hops from one foot to the other, picks up a worm, and then cocks its head at me.

Caw? it asks, then twitches its head up and swallows its prey.

Something moves behind me. I scream and shy back. An enormous rat, nearly the size of my head, darts across the floor, disappearing into darkness.

Just an animal, I tell myself, trying to calm my racing heart. Nothing to be scared of.

That’s the moment I notice all the beetles and roaches crawling on the floor.

I yelp and jump, propelled in equal force by fright and adrenaline. I cry out as soon as I put weight on my left foot. I collapse as a tearing pain shoots up my leg.

I land face-first on the floor, right in the middle of the scuttling army of insects. I taste dirt and spit it out.

Caw! Caw!

I scamper away, helpless, to the closest wall.

Caw! Caw! Caw!

I rock back and forth, chilled with fright. Pathetic whimpers give voice to the tears flowing down my face.

Chapter Four

(Present day - October 2013)

I open my eyes to the brilliant expanse of my prison. I test the air with my nose. There’s no more odor.

I feel groggy, as if waking up from a long sleep. How long have I been out?

I push myself to a sitting position and look around. The tiles are clean. The vomit is gone. There are two jars close by that were not there before.

I crawl over and look at them. One is filled with water. The other is empty.

Without thought I clutch the handle of the first and start to chug. I spit the first mouthful out to clean my mouth, but the rest goes down quickly. My stomach rumbles in protest after my umpteenth heavy gulp, but my body needs the hydration.

Two more drafts and I set the jar down.

Only then does it strike me that the water might be drugged.

I start to feel sick again. I’m in the process of jamming my fingers to the back of my throat when the absurdity of what I’m doing strikes me.

You’re already a prisoner, and as vulnerable as you’re going to get. Why spike the water?

A hysterical sort of laughter builds in my chest. It’s the laughter that comes when all the lights have gone out and all hope has been extinguished. It’s the laughter of a woman on the edge of sanity.

I bolt to my feet, shaking with laughter. “What do you want from me?” I scream at the sky. I spread my arms and spin. “Show yourself! Show me who you are!”

I stood up too fast. A wave of light-headedness overcomes me. I lose my balance and fall.

My head bounces off the floor. Everything goes black again.

Chapter Five

(Eleven years ago)

I’m twelve. It’s night time. The air is cold, and a half-moon hangs from the cloudless sky.

A hooting owl cries out in the distance. My head jerks up from its slumped position against the wall.

I’m terrified of falling asleep down here. I’m afraid I’ll never wake up. What if I end up like that skeleton?

My left ankle is swollen and hot to the touch. The foot beneath it is numb. My stomach keeps tying itself into ever-tighter knots, reminding me of my hunger.

I wonder if my mom is worried about me. She’s been so busy with Paul lately that she hasn’t paid me any attention our entire vacation.

I don’t mind Paul. He never yells or drinks. He doesn’t hurt my mom like her last boyfriend did. He just kind of happily ignores me. I was always fine with that. At least he lets mom bring me to his lake house.

I wonder if I’ll ever see him or mom again. I broke all the steps when I fell. There’s no way out. If I am found…

But no, no one will ever find me down here.

~~~

Caw! Caw! Caw! Caw!

My eyes open and I’m hit with a rush of alarm. I was asleep! For how long? I only closed my eyes for a few moments…

The first tendrils of light shine through the air, making the dust shimmer with a sinister majesty. The raven is here again. Watching me.

“What do you want, bird?” I ask.

Caw! Caw!

“I can’t get up, okay?” I yell. Tears fill my eyes. I know I’m going to die here.

Caw! Caw! Caw! Caw! Caw!

“Leave me alone!” I scream.

Caw! Caw! Caw caw caw caw caw CAW CAW!

“I can’t reach!” I shriek. “I can’t jump! And even if my foot wasn’t broken, I wouldn’t be able to do it anyway!” I begin to cry. “What more do you want? Do you want another rock thrown at you? Was the first one not enough?” I grope at the ground and find nothing but dirt. I take a fist full of it and fling it up anyway.

Caw! Caw! The raven takes off and the dirt showers to the ground.

I’m left alone with nothing but the bugs and giant rat for company.

I hate this place. I hate the moist, earthy smell. I hate the darkness that clings to the corners even during the day. I hate how close the hole in the ceiling is. It mocks me. If I were just a few inches taller, maybe I’d be able to reach…

Caw! Caw! Caw!

I scream in frustration. Most of all, I hate that goddamn bird!

It flies into the cellar and lands a foot away from me. I stare at it, amazed. It’s utterly fearless. It looks at me with its beady black eyes, then starts sticking its beak into the ground, searching for breakfast.

Wait. The dirt. That’s it!

I look around me. Dig my fingers into the ground. It’s all soft, loose earth. I may not be tall enough to reach, but I sure as heck can build up a mound!

Determination sets in. I refuse to starve in a hole in the middle of the woods. I refuse to let my fear control me. That bird doesn’t even know the meaning of the word, and I refuse to let it best me.

I go on hands and knees and start shoveling.

Chapter Six

(Present day)

I come to with a searing headache. It feels like someone drove a spike through the back of my head.

I groan and sit up. The lights from the ceiling lamps are as bright as ever. Too bright, in fact. They make my headache worse. I can’t stand my new light sensitivity.

I look at the pillar, then suppress a shudder as my fingers brush the collar at my neck. It’s still there, of course. Did I expect anything else?

I wonder in a distracted sort of way what time it is. I wonder how long I’ve been in this room. Without a window to let sunlight in, it’s impossible to tell.

I don’t think it’s been more than a day, though. I don’t smell, for one. Two, I haven’t had the need to use the bathroom yet.

With that thought comes a sudden, unstoppable urge to urinate.

Shit! I look all around me. Does the man just expect me to piss on the floor?

While defiling the pristine tiles might seem like a small act of defiance, I’m not a pig. And I’m not that desperate. Yet.

I remember the two jars and run to the empty one. When I pick it up, I see it for what it really is.

Not a jar, you idiot. A chamber pot.

I use it and then carry it as close to the perimeter of my prison as I dare. I do not want another electrical shock.

I spot the letter I never finished reading on my way back. Just the memory of the flowing blue ink is enough to make a shiver crawl down my spine.

I make myself sit down and look at the rest anyway. There might be vital information in the words.

...Tomorrow, you will receive a contract outlining my expectations for your behavior. Compliance with my desires will grant you progressively greater freedoms. Child-like resistance will be met with apathy and a degradation of previously-earned freedoms.

Today, you entered my home as a guest. When you sign our contract, you become my property.

Always, I expect my property to perform to the highest standards.

You will remain undisturbed for the next eighteen hours as you ruminate on your available options.

Do not disappoint me.

- J.S.

“J.S.” Something about those initials tickles the back of my mind. The letters look like a signature, but what’s more, one that I’ve seen before.

But where? I try thinking back, racking my brain for it. The familiarity is vague, but undeniable. It’s a little like running into a former classmate whom you haven’t seen in five years and who’s lost a lot of weight. You feel like you should recognize her. Only after you start talking do you remember from where.

The rest of the letter flies over my head. It’s obviously from a lunatic. What kind of sick mind would call me a “guest”? That’s a generous euphemism. The collar might as well be leashed for all the freedom it provides. “No physical barriers” to my leaving? Hah!

I don’t want to think about the implications of the contract. I won’t sign it. I will never become someone else’s property.

I’d rather die first.

All at once, the lights go out.

The sudden darkness unnerves me. I stand up and wave my arms. “Hey! Hey, I’m still here!”

Nothing. Like a blind woman, I grope for the safety of my pillar. When my hands find it, I turn around and slide down its cold, smooth surface.

My butt hits the ground. After a moment of staring into darkness, I lower my head. My stomach growls, reminding me how long it’s been since my last meal. I was provided water. Does that mean I’ll get food, too?

With nothing but my thoughts for company, I draw myself back to my memories, trying to summon the strength I once had.

Chapter Seven

(Eleven years ago)

The noon sun is high above me, beating on the forest with its unforgiving rays. I’ve been shoveling for hours. My nails are black and my hands are covered with dirt. My fingers are numb, and my arms feel like lead weights. Both my shoulders burn.

I look at the pile I’ve built up. It’s right underneath the hole.

Still not high enough, I think.

I scoop up another handful of dirt and painfully labor it over.

My stomach rumbles. I’m so hungry.

But even hunger has taken its rightful place behind my desperate need for water.

“Have to keep going,” I mutter to myself. “Can’t stop now.”

My whole body is exhausted. My ankle seems even more swollen. I can’t put so much as an ounce of weight on my left leg without whimpering.

I’m scared that, even if I pile the mound high enough to pull myself out, I won’t have the strength left to get to the lake house.

But I have to try. I know that.

I want to sit and rest. It would be so nice, just for a few moments. But, I don’t. I’m afraid if I stop moving, I’ll never start again.

So, I dig, scooping the dirt with my bare hands, then carrying it back to the ever-growing pile.

Hours go by. The sky turns red. The sun starts to set. I can’t spend another night down here.

I look at my pile. It’s already up to my waist. But my feet sink when I step onto it. I still can’t reach the floorboard.

“Lilly! Lilly!”

The male voice is so faint that I think I imagine it at first. Then it comes again.

“Lilly? Lilly!”

My heart swells and relief splashes over me like ice water.

“Here!” I cry out. My throat is so parched and my voice so weak that I barely hear myself. “Here!” I try again.

“Lilly? Lilly!”

The voice is getting fainter. Alarm fills me as I realize he’s going the wrong way.

I clamber to the top of the mound and fill my lungs with air.

“HERE!”

I wait. And wait some more. My chest heaves with anxiety. Did he hear me? Why doesn’t he answer?

“HERE!” I scream. “I’m down here! Help me! I’m here!”

I can’t hear my name being called anymore. Nothing breaks the silence except the rustle of wind through the trees.

A crushing pain explodes in my chest. The man did not hear me. He will not come.

I fall to my knees. I try to blink away the tears, but I can’t. My despair is too great.

My entire body shakes as I start to sob. He did not find me. He did not hear me.

“Lilly!”

The voice comes from right above me. I look up, and see Paul’s face. For a half-second, I think it’s a mirage. But when he reaches down, and the shadow of his arm is cast along the floor, I know he’s my savoir.

“Give me your hand, child!” he urges.

I lift one trembling arm up as high as I can, fighting through the tearing pain it causes my shoulder.

His hand grasps my forearm with a grip as strong as iron.

“I’m going to get you out,” he promises. “Can you stand?”

I nod, dumb with amazement.

“Give me both your arms. I’m going to lift you up. Ready? Three, two…”

Chapter Eight

(Present day)

My eyes shoot open in the dark.

Paul rescued me? No. No, that can’t be right.

Falling into that cellar was a defining moment of my young life, because I saved myself. I remember building the dirt pile. It’s been a long time since I thought about it, but I was always certain that I was the one who got myself out.

Paul never gave two shits about me. That’s what my mother hammered into my head when we moved away a few weeks after that summer. He didn’t give two shits about me, or her.

But… could I have repressed the true memory of my rescue? Could I have made myself believe that my escape plan worked after what my mother told me about him?

Why? Why would she lie?

Childhood memories are always tricky. But, I remember that my mom started drinking later that year. Right when I turned thirteen. And when she drank, she always talked about Paul.

Alcohol was the catalyst that deteriorated my relationship with my mother. Could her regret over leaving him, coupled with the booze, have driven her to deceive me?

Not that any of it matters now. There is no Paul to pull me out of this hole. I have only myself.

If the most comforting memory I have is false, what hope do I cling to now?

I fold my hands under my head and lie on the floor. The cold tiles leech away my body heat. The only thing to do now is wait.

Chapter Nine

(Present day)

In the dark, the hours all mesh together. I can’t sleep. I can’t stop thinking about the vile collar around my neck.

I need to find some way to get it off. My fingers have explored every millimeter of it. There is no weakness to be found.

Every minute that goes by brings me closer to tomorrow’s confrontation. What will the contract say? What demands will my captor have of me?

It does not matter. I will never sign that filthy sheet of paper. I will never willingly surrender my freedom.

My mind keeps turning back to those initials: J.S. I’m sure I’ve seen them before. I—

In a brilliant flash, all the lights in the room go on.

I curse and squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my forehead to the cool floor against the pain. When it subsides, I look around me through slitted eyes.

There is something new in the room. A tray cart on wheels, covered by a black cloth. It’s well within the space where I’m allowed to move.

Still, I walk toward it very slowly, waiting for the telltale warning jolt that tells me I’ve gone too far. Caution is my sole mantra at this point.

As I get closer, delicious, mouthwatering smells waft from beneath the cloth. How long has it been since my last meal?

I get to the tray and lift one corner of the cloth. There’s a platter of hot breakfast foods covered by a clear glass dome. Two small holes by the handle let out the delectable scents and prevent condensation.

I put one hand on the lid. It’s still warm. This was brought here recently. Why didn’t I notice?

I find a little note by the platter. It reads, “As a gesture of goodwill.” There’s an arrow pointing to the other side. I flip the note over.

The contract is in the compartment below. You may sign when ready.

– J.S.

Suddenly my appetite is gone. I throw the cloth back on and storm to my pillar.

I go to the other side so I won’t be tempted by food. I’ve never been a big eater. Some days I don’t even have time for more than a bagel.

But my body knows it needs nourishment. Hunger lies heavy on my brain. I shove a fist into my stomach to stop it from making noises and try not to think about eating.

That works for about a minute. Then I catch another faint whiff of the breakfast waiting for me.

Just one bite, I tell myself as I get up. I justify it by admitting that food will boost my strength.

I walk around to the tray and wheel it to the center of the room. I take the cloth off, intending to keep it as a blanket. I throw it over my shoulders. It’s sad, but I feel like the barrier offers some protection.

I eye the plate of eggs, stacks of waffles, and bowls of fruit before deciding on an apple. It’s still whole, so nothing sinister could have been done to it.

I grasp the handle and lift… then frown. The lid doesn’t move. At first, I think it might be the pressure difference, even with the holes for air escape—like when you cook a sealed pot of rice. But then I notice the baby blue Post-it note on the drawer underneath.

Open me first.

Clever, I admit. He won’t give me food until I see the contract. I pause in thought. Pretending it doesn’t exist won’t make anything easier. And if I read the contract, at least I’ll know what I’m up against.

Information is vital.

I open the drawer and hear a click. The lid over the food springs free. I see the thin metal hinges that held it in place. But, my eye is drawn to the single sheet of paper inside instead of the food.

I take it out. The lettering is tiny. All of it is written by hand. The rows are perfectly straight, the words arranged like armies of marching ants. I bring it close to my face and start to read:

AGREEMENT OF SURETYSHIP:

I, Lilly Ryder (there is a blank space that has already been filled with my name) enter into this agreement with the understanding that I:

Have accumulated substantial student loans in the order of $180,000.00 (one hundred eighty thousand dollars and zero cents),

and,

Am unable in my current or anticipated future financial situation to satisfactorily settle said debt,

and,

Am liable to default on the full debt amount plus collected interest.

Therefore, I grant subrogation of the full debt amount to J.S. (“The Guarantor”), thereby granting The Guarantor all my former creditor’s rights, privileges, priorities, remedies, and judgments.

This is done with the understanding that:

All outstanding accounts held in my name will be assumed, and settled, by The Guarantor, who, acting on my behalf, ensures no further financial burden to me,

and,

Settlement of newly-created debt between myself and The Guarantor will be remitted through fulfillment of the employment contract (“THE CONTRACT”) contained herein:

THE CONTRACT

(the title is capitalized and takes up two regular lines of space)

Purpose:

This agreement outlines the parameters of the professional relationship established on this, the ____ day of __October__, 2013, between

J.S., (hereinafter referred to as “the Employer”) and,

Lilly Ryder, (hereinafter referred to as “the Employee”)

WHEREAS the Employer desires to obtain the services of the Employee as remittance for debt(s) owed, and,

WHEREAS the Employee agrees to render all such services on the terms and conditions set forth in this document (“THE CONTRACT”).

Employment:

the Employee shall at all times and to the best of her abilities perform all duties required by the Employer.

The Employee shall comply with all policies and procedures, written and oral, as announced by the Employer and described henceforth.

Compensation and Accommodations

The Employee agrees to waive her right to monetary compensation. Instead, all services rendered will count against debt owed to The Guarantor.

The Employer agrees to provide the Employee with all accommodations necessary for the maintenance of current health. This will be done at the Employer’s expense, and includes essentials such as food, water, shelter, etc.

Length of Term:

THE CONTRACT shall automatically expire after five (5) years, or,

Until such time that The Guarantor deems the services rendered by the Employee to be equivalent to the worth of monies owed to the Employer ($180,000), subject to the following condition:

Premature termination of THE CONTRACT must be mutually accepted by both parties.

Work Schedule:

The Employee agrees to make herself available for the performance of contractual obligations at any time of the day, seven days a week, including weekends and holidays.

The Employee shall be entitled to forty-two (42) hours of cumulative sleep over any seven day period.

Description of Duties:

The Employee shall be employed in the capacity of a “Personal Assistant,” the current duties and responsibilities of which are set out in “Schedule A” annexed hereto and forming a crucial part of this agreement.

These duties may be amended from time to time at the sole discretion of the Employer, subject to formal notification of the same being provided to the Employee. However, they can be summed up in the following broad guideline:

Ensuring the complete and utter personal satisfaction of the Employer.

I, __Lilly Ryder__ (again, my name is filled out for me) herby consent to the conditions laid forth in this agreement, henceforth known as “THE CONTRACT.”

By signing this document, I declare that I have done so by my own free will. I have in no way been coerced or otherwise manipulated into signing THE CONTRACT. As a free citizen of the United States of America, I understand that THE CONTRACT is not in violation of my constitutional rights, in particular The Thirteenth Amendment. I waive all future right to challenge the legality of this document, including, but not limited to:

As ordered by a court

Under power of a defense attorney or attorney general.

By signing this document, I also declare that I am:

Free of venereal diseases and in good health.

Signature: _x____________

Date: _x________________

At the bottom of the contract, I see a small written note:

In short…

(I flip the page over)

YOU ARE MINE.

Disgust and revulsion billow up inside me, tinged by a strong sense of disbelief. I don’t have to look at “Schedule A” to understand what he wants. Personal satisfaction can only mean one thing.

He wants me as his sex slave.

Still, curiosity gets the better of me. I flip to “Schedule A”.

Schedule A: Duties and Responsibilities of a Personal Assistant

To be available at any time to satisfy any desire, sexual or otherwise, of J.S.

That’s it. There’s nothing more.

Why me?

Who is J.S.?

How did he find me?

One thing is obvious. The kidnapping has been planned for a long time. I am not a random victim.

This is someone I know.

Or, someone who knows me.

Chapter Ten

(Present day)

I never talk about my student loans. Hell, I knew they were enormous. But, they were essential for me to attend school. They were the reason I accepted the offer to extend my summer internship into a full-time job and took a year’s sabbatical to make it work. Unfortunately, when the client pulled out and left me jobless…

Shit.

An uncomfortable shiver runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the vile collar around my neck. This person—J.S.—has been watching me. Following me. Waiting for an opportune moment to strike.

For how long?

“Show yourself!” I scream, bolting up. “Goddammit, show me who you are!” I wave the contract angrily through the air. “You want me to sign this? I’d rather die first! Here’s what I think of your goddamn conditions!”

In one move I rip the paper in two, then ball the pieces up, stalk to the edge of my prison, and hurl them as far as I can. I spin around—furious, angry, confused, defiant—and stomp back to the pillar.

Halfway there, the lights go out.

“Mother fucking goddammit!” I curse when I collide with the serving tray in the dark. Pain shoots through my knee. In one violent bust, I sweep all the plates of food onto the floor. I earn some measure of satisfaction when I hear the porcelain shatter.

I find the marble beam and sit against it. I feel around until my hands come across the cloth, and I tug it over my shoulders.

So, J.S. thinks he’s stripped me of all my power, does he? He’s taken away my sight, my freedom, and thinks that will be enough for me to give up my body?

Tough fucking luck. He’ll have to kill me first.

He can never take away my willpower, my defiance.

“I deny you, you fucking asshole!” I scream. I’m shaking with adrenaline. “Do you hear me? I DENY YOU!”

Thus marks day one of my protest.

Chapter Eleven

(Present day)

They say solitary confinement is the worst kind of hell.

They’ve never been in my situation.

It had been seven days since I awoke in this room. Seven days since I was kidnapped and thrown in this God-forsaken dungeon.

I only know that by the amount of meals I’ve received. Seven. There have been seven meals brought to me. Each time, the lights go on for an hour. After that, I’m plunged back into darkness.

I refused to eat the first two. My weakening body could not resist the third. It came with a note from J.S. :

Your strength is failing. You will give in.

I found it only after devouring the meager plate of food.

Even calling it a “plate” is too generous. The meal was two eggs, a piece of burned toast, and one stalk of celery.

Succumbing to my desire to eat was a mistake. The tiny amount of food awoke a ravenous hunger in me that left me unable to sleep. Whereas before, my hunger had just been a dull ache, the moment my tongue tasted bread, it became a wild fire that could not be put out.

The next day, when my food came and the lights turned on, I found a new contract sitting beside the plate. There was another note:

You may sign when ready. Know that my patience is wearing thin. I am displeased with the state of your body. Your malnourishment is troubling. Until you sign and come under my care, I can do nothing to help.

- J.S.

PS: Please note the amended guideline at the end of Schedule A

The guideline read like this:

Schedule A: Duties and Responsibilities of a Personal Assistant

To be available at any time to satisfy any desire, sexual or otherwise, of J.S.

To maintain a constant body weight and shape, consistent to what it was on October 1st, 2013, allowing for a 2-3% deviation in such measurements to account for natural weight fluctuations, hormonal cycles, etc.

Ignoring the note, I nibbled on my pathetic provisions.

After that, it became a battle of pure willpower.

My captor knew I was starving. He knew the food he provided was barely enough to sustain essential body processes. He knew that one tiny bite would awake that insatiable hunger.

So, the next day, I discovered an entire tray of food. It was like the one that had arrived the first time, but even larger. There was a single spotlight shining on it.

I did not need the light to know it was there. My nose picked up the mouthwatering aroma the moment I woke up.

There were pastas and soups, cakes and tarts, glazed fruits and chopped vegetables. There was seafood—lobster, salmon, shrimp and clam—drenched in buttery sauce. There was scrumptious corn on the cob, glistening with cream, and steaming plates of veal, steak, and a half-dozen other meats. There were bowls of rice and rolls of sushi, teriyaki chicken, and pulled pork. There was even a whole bowl full of my absolute, biggest weakness: caramel-dipped chocolate truffles.

It was enough to feed a village. The smells were so rich that they would send the strictest dieter onto the biggest binge of her life.

When I stood up on trembling legs, my mouth salivating, the rest of the lights came on. I blinked through the pain that the sudden brightness always caused, and saw that my path to the food was blocked by a single sheet of paper.

The contract.

There was another message:

You are hungry. The food you see is two feet beyond the range of your collar. Sign, and you will earn your first freedom:

Twenty-four inches.

I collapsed onto the floor and cried.

It was the illusion of freedom that got to me most, not the promise of food. In that moment, I saw just how desperate my situation had become. Every aspect of my life was governed by a madman. He would continue feeding me, barely enough to live, while tempting me with the relief that would come when my signature scratched on the empty line of that filthy piece of paper.

I crawled back to the pillar and hugged the balled-up cloth to my chest. The lights went out.

That day, I did not even receive my allotted breakfast.

Chapter Twelve

(Present day)

Two weeks. Two weeks I’ve spent like this.

I have not felt the sun on my face or the wind in my hair for half a month. I have not seen another human being or heard any voice but my own for fourteen endlessly long days and nights.

Sometimes, I sing to myself, just to break the oppressing silence. It is quite likely I am going insane.

Every day since the promise of twenty-four inches I have woken to a freshly-stocked tray of food. I receive my daily allotment of eggs, toast, and celery, too. I eat that on the far side of the pillar to temper temptation.

My body is shriveling up. I am always cold. The smallest movement is a burden. I reek.

At this point, I am starting to doubt the wisdom of my resolve. The battle that goes on deep inside my mind is one of my own making. The clarity of purpose required to resist is becoming muddy.

If I sign the contract, I sign my life away. But, if I do nothing, am I not giving my life away, too?

I am so lonely. My only friend is the crater in the pit of my stomach.

Hunger, at least, lets me know I’m still alive.

What a sad existence this is. Grime and sweat is caked upon me like a second skin. Sometimes, I crawl to the edge of the border and stare at the food. If I stretch out my hand, I can almost touch it.

The only thing standing between me and it is that one piece of paper.

One little piece of paper, requiring one little signature.

Is this what a prisoner of war feels like? Is this the same sense of hopelessness that rules the lives of those at Guantanamo Bay?

Or, is this something much worse?

My stubborn refusal to wield a pen is killing me. I must have fantasized about what I might do a thousand times:

I scratch my signature on the paper. The lights come on. My captor reveals himself, and congratulates me for accepting fate. In my mind, he has no face. The range of the collar is extended. I get my food, and then—

No.

The idea of being someone else’s property, someone else’s pet, and continuing to wear this horrible collar is nauseating. It is the sticking point that my conscience cannot overcome. I will not serve as the passive vessel to the perverted fantasies of some sick freak.

It is quite ironic. The collar is the object that keeps me bound. But, were it not for the collar, I am certain that I would have signed the contract days ago.

A sharp stab of hunger pulses through my body, triggered by one unintentional breath drawn through my nose. I shiver and hold myself tight.

How much longer can I resist? My blood sugar is dangerously low. The slightest movement leaves me desperately dizzy.

I close my eyes and think back to the circumstances that brought me to California in the first place….

Chapter Thirteen

(Seven months ago)

It is March. The death-grip that winter has held over New Haven for the last three months is finally showing signs of relenting.

I’m sitting with my legs tucked under me on the red, circular rug in the common room of the dorm I share with two other girls: Fey and Sonja. We met during orientation week of our freshman year, when all three of us got stranded in the middle of a rainstorm and took shelter under the same willow tree. While our heavy workload and extracurricular commitments keep us from being inseparable, we are as close to it as anyone is going to get at Yale.

I have half a dozen textbooks spread out in front of me. Every page is marked up by my personal blend of pink, yellow, orange, red, and blue highlighter. Sonja calls my studying style OCD. I call it, “having a system”… although the specifics of that system seem to change every day.

I smile at the thought and get back to my books. Unlike Sonja or Fey, I’m on the hook for full college tuition. Sonja got a full ride; Fey has rich parents. I am in possession of neither, so every semester I spend here costs me dearly.

That’s why every term so far, I’ve taken the maximum four courses, then petitioned the administrative board to add a fifth. I was denied first term freshman year, but granted every term after. Since I managed to keep my GPA respectable, I finagled the administration into letting me add a sixth course this year.

While course number six has not exactly been the straw that breaks the camel’s back, it’s come damn close. I’ve been surviving on less than five hours of sleep for most of my junior year. Fey and Sonja have expressed their concern, even going so far as to stage an intervention—by smuggling me onto a bus and taking me with them to the largest party of the year for the annual Harvard-Yale football game. But, I think I’ve managed pretty well.

Sure, I might not have any semblance of a social life. The last time I had sex was with my ex more than eighteen months ago. (What they say about athletes, by the way, is patently false. He may have excelled on the court, but in bed he had the stamina of an octogenarian.) However, if it means getting my diploma faster, and for less money, I’m all for it.

The door bursts open and sends a gust of wind that picks up my papers. Fey darts into the room, followed by her boyfriend, Robin. He’s been following her like a shadow since she agreed to a date after meeting him in her study group last Thanksgiving. Sonja and I both think he’s going to propose soon. While I do see how good Fey and Robin are together, I think Fey is too young to get hitched. Then again, I’ve always been a romance cynic.

“Ohmygod, I’m so sorry!” Fey exclaims when she sees me scrambling for the sheets. “Here, let me help you.”

She squats down. Robin is right there beside her. He gives me a shy smile and then focuses on the floor.

I’ve never been able to figure out why he’s so afraid of me. Sonja once told me that I give off “intimidating vibes.” But just because I have a backbone and am not afraid to stand up for myself does not make me a scary person! In fact, both my roommates have laughed and said they consider me the nicest girl they’ve ever met—after they got through my tough exterior.

That week, I made a point of smiling at every single stranger I saw. The end result was no different.

“So, what’s with all the excitement?” I ask after we clean up.

Fey blows out her hair. “Didn’t you hear? Tomorrow’s Daily News just went to print. They’re announcing this year’s finalist for the Barker Prize. Robin got us an advanced copy.”

I tilt my head to the side. “So?”

“So? You’re one of them, sweetheart!”

My eyes go wide. “What?”

The Barker Prize is the most prestigious award given to students in the faculty of psychology. Every year, the professors submit one name from their entire enrollment as a nominee. Dozens of students vie for each precious spot. They have to write a paper that brings to light issues connecting the study of psychology to society at large.

It’s mostly an exercise in creative writing—not dissimilar to a college admissions essay. Nearly all the submissions end up being wasted work. There are only twenty professors in the faculty. That means twenty nominated spots.

From those, a selection committee picks the five most promising entries. These are then publicized and voted on by the faculty members of the entire college.

“…But I didn’t even apply!” I protest. “How is that even possible?”

Fey’s eyes sparkle. “Robin found the essay you wrote after you printed it and threw it in the trash. He read the first few paragraphs and thought it was brilliant.”

Robin keeps his eyes glued to the floor, but it’s not enough to hide his growing grin. “Sorry,” he mumbles, shrugging his shoulders and trying to look penitent.

So that’s the reason he’s been refusing to look at me all this time!

“It’s okay,” I say, shaking my head. “But I don’t understand. What I wrote was a piece of garbage. I spent one night on it before realizing it was a colossal waste of time. My essay didn’t even have a conclusion!”

“Well, after I read it, I showed it to Sonja.” Fey gives me a mischievous look. “And she thought it was brilliant, too. We kind of, um, improvised the ending… and then submitted it on your behalf.”

I look at her in disbelief. “You what?”

“You were so busy we decided not to trouble you,” she says quickly. “We thought it would be a nice surprise if you got it.” She squeals. “And you did!”

I’m stunned. “Fey, I don’t… I don’t know what to say.” Even though she and Sonja did it without asking, I don’t feel affronted in the least. I am more in awe that Fey and Robin and Sonja all thought my essay was good enough to submit. And I am absolutely blown away not only by some professor selecting my entry as his nomination, but by the freaking selection committee deciding that what I wrote in one night was one of the five best applications!

“Who nominated me?”

“Professor Hickler!” she exclaims.

I look at her like she’s insane. “Hickler? I’ve never had a professor hate me more. He gave me my lowest grade last semester. And, I might add, that wasn’t for a lack of effort on my part.”

Fey giggles. “You say that, but you still earned the highest grade in his class.” She winks. “I know. I saw the curve.”

“So, you and Sonja went to him, with my paper… and said what? Students are supposed to petition their nominations individually.”

She waves my concern away. “We made up a sob story about you coming down with a nasty case of swine flu and being stuck in quarantine.”

“But I was in class that week!”

“I know that. So did Professor Hickler. But the story gave enough plausible credibility for him to bend the rules.”

“I don’t believe this,” I mutter. “Fey, you’re amazing! Both you and Robin are amazing! Where’s Sonja? Does she know?”

“Not yet.” Fey winks. “You’re the first to find out, aside from the Daily editors.” She pauses in thought, then adds in a stage whisper, “From what Robin’s gathered, you’re the front-running nominee.”

Chapter Fourteen

(Present day)

I come to with a gasp.

Cold, I think. So cold.

I open my eyes. The tray of food’s still there, with that mocking spotlight shining bright upon it. And the contract. Always, the goddamn contract.

How did it come to this? I wonder. I’m starving. I’m dying. How did I fall so far?

It all began with that prize. That is what brought me to California. If I had known back then what it would lead to…

But of course I didn’t. No one could.

I hug my arms around myself and wonder how Fey and Sonja are holding up. I wonder when they last thought of me. They were both crushed when I called and told them I’d be staying in Cali for the year, working on my internship.

They still think that’s what I’m doing. When it fell through, and I was stuck with no income, no home, and nothing but loans and debts to my name, my blasted pride prevented me from calling them and admitting the hard truth.

I bet they think I’m working hard while enjoying the life I’ve always imagined for myself. They probably think I have it made with my $120,000 contract from the consulting firm. They probably think I’ve forgotten about them because I haven’t called for so long.

The last thought fills me with sadness.

But taking the contract was a no brainer. Money like that is only offered to a fresh-faced, Ivy League graduate once in a blue moon. It is never offered to an intern—especially to one who hasn’t even earned her diploma yet.

I knew it was too good to be true.

But, when I held the offer sheet in my hands, when I felt the weight of the paper, and imagined the freedom that that money would bring… I couldn’t say, “No.”

It seemed like such an easy decision back then. Sign the contract. Take a year’s leave of absence. Return to Yale next fall. Reappear in 2014 with a huge chunk of change written off my debt from the earnings.

It seemed easy until it all fell through.

Chapter Fifteen

(Five months ago)

It’s May. The sun is bright and the birds are singing.

But campus feels like a graveyard.

Today is the final day of exams. Everywhere you look, sleep-deprived students are trudging to and fro like cattle. The lucky few who had their last exams last week have long since abandoned campus.

Not me. Lilly Ryder is one of the zombies.

Fey is chattering in my ear. She is one of the only people I see with a smile on her face. It’s been plastered on there ever since Robin proposed last weekend.

She said, “Yes.”

“Lilly. Lilly, are you even listening to me?”

“Huh? What? I…” I shake my head. “No.”

She makes an annoyed click with her tongue. “I said, since Robin’s parents live in Oregon, when I go there this summer, we’ll take a road trip down the coast and visit you.” She beams. “Isn’t that great?”

I fake a smile. Normally, I’d be thrilled with her exuberance. But, today my mind is full of worry.

After today’s exam, I have exactly two hours to pack and rush to the airport. The little commuter plane will carry me to Logan International, where I have to run—no, outright sprint—to get on my connecting flight to San Francisco.

Even if I end up being seated next to a mother and her bawling baby, the six-hour flight will be a blessed relief from the GO-GO-GO bustle I’ve endured on campus for the past two weeks.

April was a whirlwind. I won the Barker Prize. Officially, the prestige of it is reward enough, but one unspoken perk—that I only learned of after I had accepted the certificate—is that winning puts you on the radar of the best consulting firms in the country.

In the span of one week, I received three different, unsolicited internship offers from the most prestigious firms in America. Forget Bain and McKinsey. These were firms where the only way in is if you are a son or daughter of a managing partner.

To say I was blinded by the offers is an understatement.

I had never considered a summer internship before. I had always preferred to work at some minimal wage outfit that would let my mind lie fallow during the precious summer months. Flipping burgers might not offer ideal working conditions, but I needed the time to recharge for another year of school.

The first two offers I rejected immediately because they demanded too many hours. But the third… the third caught my eye.

It came from a boutique firm called Corfu Consulting. It was in glorious, sunny Palo Alto. I would be set up with a team in charge of creating new advertising campaigns for the richest companies in the world.

I’ve never had a chance to flex my creative muscles before. The internship was everything I aspired toward. I would work with a professional team consisting of brilliant people. I would have a chance to apply my psychology education in the real world.

I pride myself on understanding people. I pride myself on knowing what makes them tick. I could channel all the insights I’ve gleaned from both my studies and from real life into creating the best advertising campaign the firm has ever seen.

In short, the third offer was perfect.

But accepting came with its own set of challenges. Suddenly, I was responsible not only for my six college course, but also for planning and officially signing my summer contract. I received phone calls from people at the firm congratulating me. Two Yale alumni who were former employees took me to dinner. And I had to write out an entire acceptance speech for the Barker Prize…

I did that the morning of the awards ceremony.

To say that I feel like I’ve been trampled by a herd of cows is an understatement.

“Well, aren’t you excited?” Fey prompts.

“Thrilled,” I sigh.

She stops and takes my arm, turning me toward her. “Lilly.” She says my name with conviction. “Are you sure the pressure’s not getting to you? You’ve always worked so hard. You deserve a break. This summer doesn’t have to be about work for you, you know. Think about it—this is the last summer we have as kids before the responsibilities of the real world come crashing down on our shoulders. Maybe we can go backpacking across Europe instead—just you, me, and Sonja? My parents will happily pay—”

“No.” I stop her. “Fey, I can’t take any more of their money. It wouldn’t be right.”

“Come on! They love you. That’s what family friends are for. Remember New Year’s?”

I do. Fey’s parents invited me and Sonja to visit, then surprised us by an all-expenses paid trip to Whistler, British Columbia, for a week-long ski trip. Sonja and I had no idea it was coming. We suspect Fey knew.

“Yes,” I say, “and I still feel rotten about not being able to pay them back yet.”

Fey makes that irritated noise again. “How many times do I have to tell you? You don’t owe them anything. Family friends do that sort of thing for each other.”

“Not where I come from,” I mutter. Fey frowns, and I quickly continue, “I can’t back off now, Fey. I need the money to pay off my loans. Can you imagine how bad it’ll be if eighty percent of my salary goes toward them for five, hell, even ten years after graduating? At least this way I’ll get a head start.”

Fey chews the inside of her lip in thought.

“Okay,” she says finally. “I know how determined you are to make it on your own.” She squeezes me in a quick hug. “But if anything goes wrong, I want to be the first person you call, understand?”

“I promise,” I smile.

Chapter Sixteen

(Present day)

I did not renege on that promise.

I just avoided it. When things went wrong, I didn’t call anyone at all.

A little bit of saliva goes down the wrong way and I start to cough violently. My insides spasm and scream. I feel raw, stretched, and very, very thin. My whole body is wasting away in this prison.

I keep coughing, shaking with convulsions, until the fit finally goes away. My throat feels scratchy and blistered. I taste metal on my tongue. I don’t need any light to see that I’m coughing up blood.

I pride myself on understanding people?

I sneer at the naivety I once had. You can read every psychology book in the world and still be blindsided by the cruelty of the human heart.

I am at my very limit. I am a woman on the edge of a precipice. I know that I only have one choice right now:

Die, or sign the contract.

Chapter Seventeen

(One month ago)

I am pissed. Seriously, I’m pissed.

I am pacing around the posh downtown apartment given to me by the consulting firm, shocked and angered by what I’ve just heard.

“Miss, are you still there?”

“Yes, I’m still here!” I snap into the receiver. “I’m here, in downtown Palo Alto, because your firm offered me employment. Where the hell else would I be?”

“I understand this must be a trying time for you. Your severance package includes specific benefits—”

“Don’t you DARE try to sell me on those benefits!” I explode. “I can read as well as anyone. Seven days’ notice? Are you fucking kidding me? That’s seven days to—” I can feel my temper getting the better of me.

I stop, take a deep breath, and continue in a sickly sweet voice, “Seven days to ‘vacate the premises,’ which is as good as an eviction. Where am I supposed to go after, huh? Tell me that. The school semester has already started, and Yale doesn’t accept late registrations!”

It’s no use. By the end of the sentence, I’m screaming at her again.

“Miss Ryder, I am simply relaying the information provided to me. You understand that I have no authority to change things?” The tone of voice the woman uses to pose the question is clearly intended to make me feel like an imbecile.

“And you understand that I will not just lie down and take this type of treatment like a beaten dog! Tell your boss that he should expect me on the doorstep of his office tomorrow morning demanding compensation for an unlawful breach of contract!”

I jam my thumb into the onscreen “end” icon, then hurl the phone across the room. It dents the wall and falls to the ground, shattered.

Good. I feel like breaking things.

That was undoubtedly the worst phone call of my life.

I fling myself onto the couch, bury my head in the pillows, then emit one long, drawn-out scream of utter frustration.

Three weeks ago I was a key member of a professional team put together to design a worldwide ad campaign for the client company’s upcoming launch of a new tech product. A combination of Apple TV, Roku, and all the top-set videogame consoles that have been so popular since the Xbox launched in 2005. It had all the potential to take the world by storm.

I was a key member of the lead team for the entire ad campaign. I was the one with the most valuable insights, the most exciting ideas. Everyone on the team recognized that. I got along splendidly with my coworkers. And even though I was just an intern, and they were full-time employees of the firm, not once did I feel disconnected from them.

Two weeks ago, the summer internship ended. While our work was far from finished, I was proud of my contribution. I thought I could expect a glowing letter of recommendation from my boss.

What I got instead blew my mind:

A year-long contract to stay with the firm and see the ad-campaign through to its launch. The value of the contract? $120,000, base, plus another fifty percent in performance bonuses.

If I earned the bonuses, I could wipe my college debt clean when I returned to school.

Of course I signed. I was even offered accommodations for the length of my full stay, not a block away from headquarters in Palo Alto. That incentive was worth another thirty or forty grand.

The paperwork was done in two days. I emailed my resident dean and told him I’d be taking a year-long leave of absence. He replied instantly expressing his excitement for me, and reminded me that I’d be welcome back next year. All the Ivy League schools are good about things like that. They want to maintain a pitch perfect graduation rate.

Next came the hard part: Phoning Sonja and Fey and telling them that I’d be bailing on our rooming arrangement. I expected them to be pissed.

Instead, like the good friends they are, all they said was how happy they were for me.

It felt like a dream come true.

All that brought me to today.

For the last few days, the client has been increasingly distant in communications with my team. I shrugged off the warning signs. Stuff like that is expected from time to time. These are huge multinationals, after all. No matter how much they might be paying my firm, they have other products, other responsibilities to take care of.

It was a slight annoyance at the worst. Nothing to lose sleep over…

That is, until the head of my team found us at noon today and asked us to go home early.

He said we have been working hard and deserved a break. Since it was Friday, we’d essentially be getting a three-day weekend.

That should have set off alarms in my head. But it wasn’t like I was the only one who’d been asked to leave. The whole team was dismissed early. We made plans to meet for dinner and drinks tonight at a swanky hipster bar.

No big deal, I thought… until I got the phone call from HR five minutes ago.

The client pulled out. The project was over. I’d be paid, prorated, for the two weeks of work. But no more. I’d have a week to give up the apartment.

It feels like my whole world is collapsing on itself. Good-bye, financial freedom. Good-bye, start of new life. Good-bye, beautiful Palo Alto.

In the span of thirty seconds, I’d basically been told that I am homeless, jobless, and have absolutely nowhere to turn.

Yale doesn’t take late registrations. No way. Never. Even coming back for the spring term would be a stretch. They like to have their students there from the start of the year. They work hard to build up a homey community, and don’t want it disrupted by newcomers halfway through the year.

Besides, most of the kids at Yale come from rich families. It’s not like they would hurt much if they fell into the same hole I find myself in.

Belatedly, I realize the pathetic futility of my threat over the phone. If I show up at my boss’s door tomorrow morning, I will wait two full days without seeing a soul.

The building is closed on the weekend.

I scream into the pillow until my voice is hoarse.

Where will I go? What will I do? My mother—

No. She might be the only family I have. But I will not go crawling back to her. We haven’t spoken for six years. She caused the rift. The onus is on her to repair it. I promised myself I would never be liable for her mistakes again.

So where does that leave me?

Broke, unemployed, and heavily in debt. That’s where.

Even worse, I’ve now lost the next twelve months of my life. Poof, they’re gone, just like that. I can’t go to school. I can’t work on anything that will help me in the future.

But, I intend to stick to the other thing I said. I will not lie down and take this without a fight.

They will have to drag Lilly Ryder kicking and screaming through the pits of hell before she gives in.

Chapter Eighteen

(Present day)

I come to with a shudder.

It’s dark. Always, so dark.

I can’t feel the entire left side of my body.

Shit.

I’ve been sleeping on it and lost circulation.

I struggle to a seated position and fight off the wave of dizziness that overtakes me. There are white spots in my vision. Even worse, the spotlight and tray of food is gone.

I try not to think about what that means. Is that it? Is the contract off the table?

Did I… win?

The only thing you won is a slow, grueling death for yourself, the voice inside my mind taunts. Way to go, Lilly!

No! I shake my head. No! I don’t want to die.

The contract promises five years of servitude before my release?

Fine. Fine! I’ll take it. I’m far beyond desperate.

“Hello?” I squeak. My voice is frail and thin. “Hello? Is anybody there?”

There comes no answer.

“Hello? Can anyone hear me?”

I wait five long breaths. Ten. Twenty. Thirty.

The lights stay off. I try to stand, hoping to trigger the motion sensor—and end up falling flat on my face.

On the floor, I can no longer feel. Neither cold, nor pain, nor hunger holds meaning to me. I exist in a void of blackness.

I ache desperately for human contact. Any human contact. What is life devoid of joy, of warmth, of love?

How do I hold onto the crumbling pieces of myself? How can I retain sanity in a place designed to break me completely?

Eyes closed or open, it makes no difference. I am numb. I am forgotten.

I am nothing.

Chapter Nineteen

(One month ago)

I stalk out of my Monday morning meeting with the head of HR. The warm morning sun does nothing to dispel the ice in my veins.

I am in a worse mood than when I arrived. Not only did I have to endure a nearly hour-long wait in the firm I worked for, but I was also dismissed as easily as a girl scout selling cookies. Mind you, this was by the same PR person who greeted me so warmly when I arrived at the start of summer!

Apparently, professional courtesy extends only to current members of the firm.

To add insult to injury, I got the feeling that the asshole thought he was doing me a favor by just seeing me. Hah! He then proceeded to point out all the clauses in my contract that allow for this type of termination—the clauses I neglected to pay attention to in my euphoria when I signed it.

As much as it hurts to admit, everything was done by the book. The client pulled out—not my firm’s fault—and the whole project ceased to exist. As the only intern on the team, I got the short end of the stick. The full-time employees simply got reassigned. I got kicked to the street without a second thought.

I’m angry. But, I’m also determined. Determined to do… something. I have a paycheck worth $2,300 for the work I’ve done. That’s something. I also have a company credit card with a fifty thousand dollar limit.

I figure I have a day, maybe two, before it gets cut off.

My first order of business is getting a new cell phone. I walk into the Apple store and let the associate charge the card for the newest, most expensive iPhone. I hold my breath when he swipes the card, then exhale in relief when it goes through.

I decide to push my luck, and ask him to add a MacBook to my purchase. I don’t need it, but I figure I can pawn it on Craigslist for full value and get another grand in my pocket.

The card gets declined half an hour later at Starbucks. I pay with cash and hurry out.

When I return to my apartment, I clear a space on the dining room table and start to game plan. I have four days before my key stops working. That’s four days to figure out what the hell to do.

Returning to Yale is not an option—at least not until January. I go to the admissions website and scroll through the onerous requirements needed to come back halfway through the year. The restrictions are there because of a limited amount of on-campus housing. My only shot is if somebody decides to go on a leave. That’s mostly a crapshoot.

I cross that option off my list. It’s too uncertain.

I start considering jobs I may be suited for. I know how few respectable companies would look at a candidate without a college diploma. “Few” becomes “zero” when the stipulation that employment is good only until the start of the next school year is added to the mix.

Of course, I could lie and say I’m looking for something permanent. But that would feel sleazy.

What about freelancing? SAT tutoring? Something like that?

I frown and shake my head. Those may pay more than minimum wage, but they are unstable. What if I go through a drought and can’t find work? I need something guaranteed.

My only real option is a low-paying service job.

Like my mom.

“Dammit!” I smash my palm against the table. The laptop jumps. My biggest goal in life is complete self-sufficiency. No reliance. No strings. I want to make my own decisions, and have life be in my control.

I crave that. Growing up with an uneducated mother, I know how hard it is for someone without a degree to find work. I hated my teens. That’s when she started drinking. After Paul. We were always at the mercy of landlords and creditors and slimy exes she owed money to.

The key to having control is an education. If my mother taught me anything, it’s that—if only by showing me the flipside of the equation.

That’s why I work so hard in school. With a degree comes opportunity, which brings autonomy. And I will earn my degree.

The problem is, for the next year, I am forced to step into my mother’s shoes.

The apartment landline rings, startling me out of my thoughts. I look at the phone in wonder. Who could it be? I never gave the number out. Hell, I don’t even know it.

I pick up the phone. “Hello?”

A cheerful, young female voice greets me. “Hi, is this Lilly Ryder?”

“Speaking?” I say.

“Oh. Whew! Ha, ha. I’ve been calling every apartment complex in the area looking for you!”

“You have?” I ask, not following.

“Oh, yes. This is my first week on the job and I’m still trying to get the hang of things. You would think working a phone is easy. But in this office there are so many flashing lights and beeping thingies and like, a hundred different lines to keep track of…” she trails off and giggles. “I left so many voicemails on different machines asking for you, and now I’m paying the price. I’m getting dozens of calls back from different people, all of them confused about what’s going on—”

“Hold on,” I say. The girl’s talking way too fast, and none of it is making sense. Still, something about her enthusiasm makes me smile.

“Who are you? Why are you looking for me?”

“Oh. Oh!” She sounds startled, then seems to remember herself. “Jeremy always says I get carried away,” she admits, then quickly rushes on, making her voice an octave lower and a breath slower. She clears her throat. “I am calling on behalf of Mr. Stonehart, Chairman and CEO of Stonehart Industries.”

I gasp. The sound must be loud enough for her to hear, because she returns to her real voice and asks happily, “Oh, you’ve heard of us?”

“Yes, I’ve heard of you,” I answer, breathless.

Stonehart Industries is the conglomerate that owns the tech company my firm was developing the ad campaign for.

Stonehart Industries is also a wholly private company and extremely secretive about its operations. Most people don’t even know they exist, but they have their corporate finger in all sorts of industry, from mineral mining to drug development to food production to God-knows-what-else. Chances are, if you’ve used an American commercial product that came out in the last ten years, Stonehart Industries has contributed to it one way or another.

“What I don’t understand,” I continue, “is why you’re calling me.”

“Oh, that’s simple,” the girl answers breezily. “Word of what’s happened to you has reached Mr. Stonehart. He heard about the promising young woman whose plans got derailed when ZilTech terminated the marketing campaign for its new television product. He wants to offer you his sincere condolences.”

That is the most ludicrous explanation I’ve ever received.

“Is this a joke?” I demand, suddenly angry. “Amy? Is that you? Are you pulling some prank on me?”

Amy was the only one in the firm I did not get along with. Something about my being there was threatening to her, or some such nonsense.

“No joke, Miss Ryder,” the girl says quickly. “Mr. Stonehart says—”

“I don’t care what ‘Mr. Stonehart’ says,’” I spit. This is beyond insulting. “I don’t want to hear about false sympathies or any other bullshit. If ‘Mr. Stonehart’ is truly sorry, he’ll reinstate the contract and get me my job back!”

I slam the phone on its base with such force that a splinter cracks across the glass table. Good.

The phone call has me really upset. I’m sure it’s Amy, just rubbing salt in the wound.

As if the CEO of a multi-billion dollar company would give a rat’s ass about what happens to me!

Just as I’m turning away, the phone rings again. I debate ignoring it, but I feel like screaming at someone.

I grab it and knock the base over. “Amy, I swear to God, when I find out it’s you—”

“Lilly.” A rich, deep voice answers me. I’ve never heard this voice before. But the two syllables of my name are enough to cut me off. There is an unspoken quality of command that naturally makes me want to obey.

I’ve never heard my name said quite like that before.

“This is Lilly Ryder, am I correct?”

“Yes,” I whisper. The speaker’s voice is smoky and smooth all at once. Take one part Morgan Freeman, mix it with another part Sean Connery, and you still won’t hold a candle to the masculine power projected in this voice.

It’s enough to make my core clench with the most desperate type of need.

“Good. Lilly, my name is Stonehart. My secretary called you. But I take it she did not leave the most convincing impression?”

I stammer something incomprehensible, shocked to actually be on the line with the Stonehart of Stonehart Industries. Instinct tells me this isn’t a joke anymore.

“I’ll make this brief,” he continues. “I heard about what happened. I want to offer reparation for the injuries suffered by my decision. Come to my office Thursday morning. I will have my driver outside your apartment at eight. He will bring you here and back. You don’t know me yet, but you will find I am a man of my word.”

The line goes dead.

I stare at the phone in my hand like it might grow wings.

Did that really just happen?

I fly to my computer and pull up YouTube. I search “Stonehart speech.”

A lot of results come up, most of them useless, except for one: Mr. Stonehart giving the commencement speech to the Wharton Business School class of 2010.

I click the video and read the description while it loads. Apparently, Stonehart is a Wharton alumni. His company donated twelve million dollars to the university to establish a scholarship fund that year.

The video starts. It’s shaky and low-quality, so I can’t get a good look at the speaker, but when his voice comes through my speakers… my mind instantly places it.

It’s the voice of the man who just called me.

Holy shit.

Holy shit! The CEO of an enormous corporation just called me.

Personally.

I walk to the kitchen in a sort of daze. I pour myself a glass of water. Set it on the counter. Walk away.

My mind is buzzing with questions. The most prevalent of which is, “Why?”

Why would Stonehart care about what happened to me? Why would he call me himself?

A Google search reveals nothing about him and very little about his corporation. Their website is a blank screen with the words “Stonehart Industries” in silver lettering across the middle. Nothing more.

Should I go to the meeting? I snort a laugh. I can’t exactly turn it down. A call like that doesn’t happen every day.

If I do go… I will have to keep expectations to a minimum. I should expect nothing, in fact, and be pleasantly surprised if something comes up. It’s a stretch, anyway.

Stonehart is not Paul.

I have two days left until Thursday. The best thing to do is keep planning my future as if the call never happened.

I cannot rely on it.

Chapter Twenty

(Three weeks ago: Thursday morning)

I step out of the black limousine in front of a towering glass and steel building. I am wearing a Classiques Entier Diamond Blend jacket, matching pencil skirt, and Attilio Giusti Leombruni belt pumps. The meeting required a new wardrobe. This one set me back an entire grand.

That’s why all the clothes have their sales tags expertly hidden in the seams.

The doorman offers a smile as I enter. I smile back. My heels strike the shining terrazzo floor. Each stride sends a confident jolt through my body.

I pretend to scan the building directory, but I already know my destination. Stonehart Industries owns this building, and has offices spanning the top three floors. I’m just biding for time.

I have no idea what I’m doing here. There are multinational conglomerate leaders who would kill to be in my position. How often do you get to face the owner of one of the most secretive yet influential American companies to be formed in the last twenty years?

What could he possibly want with me? I refuse to believe this is just an act of charity. Real life does not work that way.

There is always a catch.

A hand touches my elbow, surprising me. I start to turn, but the voice I hear stops me cold.

“Lilly.”

Oh God. It’s him. There’s no mistaking that rich, masculine treble.

What’s he doing down here?

“M-Mr. Stonehart,” I stutter, turning. I curse my inability to hide my surprise. He totally caught me off-guard. I have to look up to meet his eyes. Then up some more.

The face that I find is so striking it should belong to a Greek god.

He’s younger than I expected. Late thirties, maybe early forties.

That means he started his company when he was younger than me!

Dark scruff lines his angular cheeks. His jet-black hair is styled in long, natural waves. My fingers itch to run through it.

Totally inappropriate.

He has a prominent nose that might be too big on a less imposing man, but on him, it’s perfect.

In short, he’s a package of the purest masculinity I’ve ever seen.

And then there are his eyes. Oh my God. His eyes. They pierce into me like honing missiles. They are the deepest black I have ever seen. They would be frightening if they weren’t so beautiful. When the light reflects a certain way, you catch a glimpse of the purple underneath.

They are like midnight sapphires. His eyes reveal a cunning intellect. Those eyes do not miss a thing.

Add all that to his towering height, his wide shoulders, his confident-yet-at-ease posture… and Stonehart cuts an intimidating figure.

My gaze darts to his left hand before I can stop it. No ring. He’s unmarried.

He looks down at me, expectantly. His eyes narrow ever so slightly, and I feel like I’m being dissected, measured up, and tucked away in some small corner of his brain. I imagine this is what a gemstone feels like under the magnifying class of the most critical appraiser.

Stonehart clears his throat. I come to with a start, realizing I haven’t said anything in ages. I open my mouth, but the capacity for speech seems like a foreign concept to my brain. “I—”

Somebody bumps into me from behind. I stagger forward. I’m not used to these shoes, so my heel steps the wrong way. My ankle twists under me, and I start to fall.

I don’t fall far. The hand still on my elbow tightens, and Stonehart pulls me into him.

I plaster myself onto the solid steel wall the man has for a body. I catch a scent of his cologne. It’s a deep, musky smell with a hint of charred spruce that is all male. It scrambles my thoughts even more.

“Sorry!” a rushed voice calls out. From the corner of my eye, I see the postman giving a hurried, apologetic wave.

Although the sequence lasts less than a second, it feels like an eternity. Pressed up against him like that, I don’t want to move. I know that I couldn’t have made a worse first impression.

Stonehart eases me off him with a firm yet gentle grip. Our eyes meet. I flush the most vibrant red. His fingers graze my forehead as he brushes a lock of hair out of my face.

Any tenderness I may have imagined vanishes when Stonehart takes out his cell. He long dials a key and growls an order. “Steven. See the delivery boy leaving right now? Have his building pass revoked.”

I gape. Stonehart keeps speaking. “Wait. I thought of one better. Bar his company from accessing the building.” There’s a pause. “For how long? Indefinitely. FedEx can talk to me when they have an improved employee selection program in place.”

The phone call gives me just enough time to compose myself. My heart’s still beating out of my chest. But nobody has to know that.

I speak without thinking. “You’re going to restrict the entire company from serving this building because of that?”

Stonehart humors me with an answer. “A company’s employees are its most important asset. Their behavior reflects the organization as a whole. If FedEx decided that clown is good enough for them, it tells me they’re sloppy. I do not do business with sloppy organizations.”

“What about the other tenants in the building?” I ask. “Won’t that piss them off?”

When I hear myself and realize how improper my question is, my cheeks flame red again.

Stonehart’s eyes darken, as if he cannot believe I asked that question. I open my mouth to apologize for my imprudence, hating the way my professional skills have evaporated into thin air. I’m cut off by a short, barked laugh.

“Miss Ryder.” He sounds amused. “I believe that is the most direct and honest question anybody has dared ask me in weeks.” He takes my elbow again and leads me to the elevators. I have to take two quick steps to match one of his long strides.

“Yes,” he continues. “They will be ‘pissed off.’ But the perk of owning a building—” he hits the elevator call button, “—is that you get to make executive decisions.” He gives me an unreadable glance as the doors open. “That is, at the risk of being questioned by inexperienced interns.”

If that isn’t a loaded remark, I don’t know what is. I flush scarlet red for the third time since I’ve met him. I’ve never had a man throw me so off balance.

The elevator is packed, for which I’m infinitely thankful. The trip up will give me some time to properly compose myself.

Gratitude turns to panic when the crowd files out, meek as mice, when Stonehart steps in. None of the people waiting in the lobby follow us.

The doors close. I’m alone in here with him. My heart’s beating as fast as a hummingbird’s wings.

He catches me staring. “Impressed?” he asks.

“They know you,” I manage.

His dark eyes flash with amusement. “Astute.”

He swipes his left wrist in front of a card-sized scanner. A beep sounds, and the light to the highest floor turns on.

“Biometric NFC chip,” he tells me in an off-handed way. “A tiny kernel I had implanted six months ago. Developed by the research team at ZilTech. One of my subsidiary firms. I understand you’ve dealt with them?”

Stonehart’s phone buzzes before I can answer. He looks at it. “Excuse me.”

I step half an inch back so I can admire his profile without being caught. He has one of those faces that only get better with age. I try not to eavesdrop on his conversation. I’m struck by the fact that sharing an elevator this way must be a very rare occasion for him.

And so far, all you’ve done is make yourself look like an idiot, a tiny voice derides me.

The elevator shoots up. Just three floors from our destination, it comes to a sudden halt. At the same moment, Stonehart drops the phone from his ear.

The doors stay closed.

He turns to me in a predatory move. “Going higher requires a retina scan,” he tells me. I can literally feel the reverberations from his rumbly voice. “The first swipe can be faked. This cannot. We have thirty seconds before the elevator goes back down.”

He looks at me. I blink dumbly.

“You should know,” he adds, “that I hate wasting my time.”

He takes one step to me as the words sink in. Only the slimmest margin of air separates our bodies.

“Lilly.” The way he says my name sends a shiver of arousal down my spine. I crane my neck up to look at him. “Impress me. Prove that I’m not wasting my time.”

My nerves are beyond frazzled. My palms are sweaty. My mind races for the right thing to say, but all it finds is blank space. His smell fills my lungs with every breath, destroying my composure.

“W-what do you want?” I stammer.

“I want…” his powerful arms jut out against the mirrored wall on either side of me. I’m trapped. My breath catches as he leans in and his cheek scratches against mine.

“I want,” he rumbles in my ear, “your mind.”

My knees go weak. Thank God he doesn’t see me falter as he pushes off and turns around, back to me. The insane attraction flaring to life inside me is all wrong. The incomprehensible power dynamic Stonehart seems to revel in confuses me even more.

He clasps both hands behind his back. “I want to take the company public,” he announces, the same way an arrogant professor would to his understudy. “My board disagrees with me. But, I don’t care. I made them. They owe their livelihoods to me.”

He glances briefly over his shoulder. “What do you say to that?”

“The board—”

“Fuck the board!” Stonehart’s shoulders tighten. “I want to know what you think about my desires.”

“Mr. Stonehart, I don’t know anything about the inner workings of your company…”

“Yes, I’m aware of that, Miss Ryder.” He places special, derogatory emphasis on the title. “I’m not looking for the vague textbook answer all you consultants like to offer to protect your own asses.”

He whirls around, and his eyes bore into me like augurs. “I want to know what you think, Lilly. Should I take the company public? Yes or no.”

I square my shoulders and rise to his challenge. “Yes.”

“Reasons. Now!”

I lift my chin. Business questions like this were what I expected. “Stonehart Industries has the richest portfolio of subsidiaries I’ve ever seen. Investors will be chomping at the bit to get a taste. A company its size going public after being private for so long is unheard of. You can raise billions in equity, expanding your economic power. Keep available shares low. Make owning a piece of Stonehart Industries a prized commodity. And never give up majority control.”

Stonehart looks at me. His impassive face gives nothing away.

I’d imagine most people would break under that stare. But he’s already seen me at my worst. I have nothing to lose.

I meet his gaze, back straight, eyes unwavering.

Suddenly, the corner of his mouth twitches up in a small smile. He nods once. “I knew I made the right decision about you.”

He turns, and brings his eye to the scanner. The elevator rises the remainder of the way.

I steady myself against the railing when he’s not looking.

What the fuck was all that about?

I’d just given him the biggest bullshit answer in the world. Instead of challenging my assumptions, he seemed pleased with my spark.

Maybe it was a test. Maybe it wasn’t the answer that was important, but my reaction to the situation.

The doors open. Stonehart steps aside and gestures me through. As I pass, his hand slips to the small of my back.

It takes all the willpower I have to suppress my satisfied smile.

We walk down a long, immaculate hallway. One side is lined with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking San Jose. The view is breathtaking.

There’s a secretary’s desk at the end, attended by a young blonde. Two massive oak doors dominate the wall behind her.

She stands as we approach, her face twisted with worry. “Mr. Stonehart, the board is getting anxious—”

He cuts her off with a curt gesture. She slumps back. I recognize her voice from the phone call. But her youth makes no sense. Why would Stonehart employ someone who looks like she’s barely out of high school?

She looks at me, and her eyes widen for a brief second. The next thing I know, a radiant smile curls her lips. As Stonehart and I pass, she gives me a little, secret wink, almost as if to say, “Go get ‘em, girl!”

Stonehart stops before the doors. His hand leaves my lower back as he adjusts his suit. He takes hold of the handles, twists, and the sound of a dozen angry voices fills the air.

They cut off as Stonehart makes his entrance. All eyes are drawn to him.

I count fourteen men, all older than he, seated around a polished conference table. This is a corner office, so two of the walls are glass, overlooking the skyline. The third is also glass, but that one looks into a bustling, magnificent, modern office.

Not one gaze flickers to me. I feel invisible.

“Gentlemen,” Stonehart announces. “I’ve made my decision. There will be no more debate.”

A great swell of protests rises up, and again is cut off when Stonehart raises his hand. “My associate here has more courage than any of you.” He looks at me. “You could learn from her.”

Stonehart presses a button under the table, and the doors to the rest of the office slide open. “This meeting is now over.”

I watch the entire exchange with a sense of awed reverence. These are obviously important men. Yet Stonehart took control of them as if they were children.

When the room is empty, Stonehart closes the doors. He then walks to a bar in the far corner of the room. Bending behind it, he pours himself a glass of scotch. When he turns, he seems surprised to see me. “Lilly. You’re still here?”

“You called me to have a meeting—”

“We’ve had it.” He walks to his desk, which has nine different screens arranged in an array above it. He does not look at me again. “You may leave the same way we came.”

I’m astounded. The man called me here promising reparation. He praised me in front of his colleagues. Then he dismisses me like an unwanted maid?

“You said—”

His dark eyes flash. “Are you questioning me?”

“No, but I thought—”

“Lilly.” His hand hits the desk. I jump. “I stress, do not ruin the impression you have made. Rare is it that I repeat my words, but I will do it this time, for your sake: Leave. Do not make me angry.”

The presumptuous asshole!

Dozens of choice words run through my head. I can tell all of them would be wasted. I huff and stalk out, slamming the door behind me with a satisfying thud.

I’m halfway to the elevator when I hear the clicking of heels on the floor behind me. “Miss Ryder. Miss Ryder, wait!”

I turn to see the young girl from the desk running after me.

“I almost forgot! Jer—I mean, Mr. Stonehart—wanted me to tell you about dinner reservations tonight.”

I look at her like she’s mad. “What?”

“He asked me to tell you that he requires your presence at dinner at Nemea tonight.” She speaks so quickly that it’s hard to catch her words. “He said for me to tell you when you left, but it almost slipped my mind. Thank God I remembered!”

I shake my head. “I doubt he wants to see me again after the way we left things.”

The secretary’s eyes widen. “Oh, no, no, Miss Ryder, you must have misunderstood him. Mr. Stonehart can be a difficult man at times. He was adamant about my asking you. He doesn’t make that type of offer to just anybody.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s obvious you must be his friend’s daughter or somebody important for him to go to so much effort for you.”

I narrow my eyes. “What effort? What do you mean?”

“Whoops,” she gasps. “Maybe I wasn’t supposed to tell you that. Oh well,” she winks, “it’ll be our little secret. Okay just so you know…” She unlocks the iPad under her arm and swipes into an app. “Your reservation is at eight, but the driver will be outside your place at six-forty.”

“Hold on,” I say. “I didn’t even agree to this.”

She rolls her eyes. “Come on. It’s not like you can turn this sort of thing down. Reservations at Nemea are booked months in advance. I’ve never been. But, I hear it’s magnificent. You’re so lucky. And lovely. If you excuse my candor. It’ll be the most perfect dinner date.”

“Look, I know you think that Mr. Stonehart wants me there,” I try, “but honestly, after the way he dismissed me, I’m fairly certain he doesn’t want to see me again.”

Or I him.

“No, no, no. You have to understand, Miss Ryder. Mr. Stonehart is a very busy man. He asked me to call you to set up today’s meeting. I’ve only been here a few weeks, but I know this morning was just a chance for him to gauge your personality. Dinner tonight is when he really made time for you. If he didn’t want to see you again,” she adds conspiratorially, “he would have sent you out through the main office entrance.”

“So you were just out here waiting for me?” I ask. “Who else comes through the elevator?”

“Only Mr. Stonehart.”

“Then, why is your desk there?”

The girl’s eyes dart to her feet. “Mr. Stonehart prefers his secretaries to have privacy while still in, um… training.”

An uncomfortable shiver runs down my spine. I have a strong suspicion about the type of training she is talking about.

“Anyway,” she perks back up, “6:40 tonight. Don’t forget. The driver will be waiting for you. Oh, and there’s a certain dress code…” She trails off. “Here, let me just write it down for you.”

She runs back to her desk, and I see no choice but to follow. She takes out a business card from the drawer and writes on the back:

6:40PM. Today. Dress code: Professional.

She beams when she hands the card to me. I stuff it into my pocket without any further thought. It’s not like I’m dumb enough to forget those instructions.

“Thanks,” I mutter. “I wonder. Does Mr. Stonehart expect such compliance from everyone he meets?”

“Oh yes,” the girl nods. “Jeremy always gets what he wants.”

Chapter Twenty-One

(Present day)

Jeremy.

Jeremy Stonehart.

My hand trembles as I reach into the pocket I’d forgotten all about. I feel the edges of the card in the dark.

The one I was not supposed to be given.

My trembling thumbs slide over the slightly-raised letters of his signature. The letters imprinted in my mind are the same ones I feel under my fingers:

J.S.

Chapter Twenty-Two

(Three weeks ago)

I rush after the hostess as she leads me through a maze of tables. I’d only decided to come at the last minute—and only after I saw the black limousine waiting for me outside.

In fact, all day I was certain I’d blow Stonehart off.

It was not curiosity that changed my mind, but desperation. Tonight is the last night I am allowed to stay at the apartment. Tomorrow I get evicted, with only a half-baked plan for what I will do next.

Maybe Stonehart has something to offer other than stark arrogance.

I see him alone in a secluded corner. His eyes are dark and his jaw is set. He does not dignify me with a greeting as I sit down.

“Can I offer you…” the hostess starts.

“No,” Stonehart barks. His tone makes the hostess swallow and turn away.

“You’re late,” he growls at me.

“Your driver—”

“Was at your door at precisely 6:40.” Stonehart’s entire body is like a coiled spring. It makes me fidget uncomfortably. “You came to the car at 6:58. Eighteen minutes, Lilly. That’s how long I’ve been waiting here for you.”

I glance at my watch. It shows six minutes after eight. “Reservations were for eight…” I begin.

“Which still makes you late,” Stonehart snaps. “Precision is important to me. Do you know how many people I have waited for as long as I’ve waited for you in the last ten years?” He looks up, then, and his dark eyes burn with a rage unlike any I’ve seen contained in another human. It shocks me how little of it seeps into his voice.

The contrast of it to his manner, cold as ice, frightens me.

“I—”

“Two,” he answers. “Two people. Less than the fingers I have on one hand.” He holds his left hand in front of his face and rotates it back and forth.

Without warning he slams it down on the table. I jump, and he surges up.

“It seems I was mistaken about you,” he says, and starts to walk away.

Desperate, I reach out and grab his sleeve. “Wait,” I say. “Please.”

Stonehart looks down at me. He sneers. Then, he rips his arm back and walks away.

I slump down in my seat. That was such bullshit! He didn’t even give me a chance to explain! What type of psychotic man waits twenty—no, “eighteen”—minutes only to leave the second his guest arrives?

“Miss?” A waiter interrupts my thoughts. “The gentleman ordered wine?”

I am poured two glasses before I can say a word. One is set on Stonehart’s side of the table, the other, in front of me.

I sigh and pick up my glass. The aroma of the wine is soothing. I sip at the rim.

I guess I am not cut out for this world, after all.

Chapter Twenty-Three

(Present day)

Stonehart.

The bastard. It’s been him this whole time!

Who else would have the power, the influence, to organize all this? I curse myself for not thinking of him before. I’ve been starving because of him. I’ve been dying because of him.

My war has been all for naught. If I truly want to hurt Stonehart, holding out like this won’t help. He may not know it, but he gave me the most valuable piece of information the morning we met in his building.

He is taking his company public.

He has left his king vulnerable.

Let him think me broken. Let him think me weak. I will play his sick game. I will sign the damned contract.

Because I know, when the time comes, I will strike.

And I will destroy his empire.

Epilogue

(One day later)

An elderly woman comes in to bathe and clothe me. I do not know what she must think when she sees me, for she says nothing at all.

Once I am cleaned, fed, and dressed, I ask her casually, “When will Mr. Stonehart be presenting himself?”

The woman’s manner falters. She drops the rags she is holding and looks at me, really at me, as if seeing the person I am instead of the broken shell of a human she found last night. Something akin to pity shows in her eyes.

The break in composure lasts only a second. She picks up my soiled clothes and addresses me formally. “Mr. Stonehart will be informed of your request.”

As she bustles out, I try to temper the growing smile on my lips.

I am not supposed to know it’s him yet.

Score one for Lilly Ryder.

The End.

Content

Uncovering You The Contract
Uncovering You - 1
Scarlett Edwards

Quick note from the author:

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue