Blackmailed by the Beast

“Is it some kind of a pact? Does he abuse you?” she asks softly.

“He doesn’t abuse me,” I deny. “As a matter of fact, I like him.”

She laughs as if I have said something hilarious. “You like him? That’s a strange word to use for such a … complicated arrangement.”

My insides clench. “I need some fresh air.” The sound of my voice is so strained and odd it surprises even me.

My mother waves in the direction of the balcony, a knowing, sarcastic smile on her face. I stand and go outside. My mind is swimming with strange thoughts. I love my mother. I wish she loved me back. I just want her to love me, but I don’t know how to make her do that.

There is a cold breeze blowing, but the weak sunlight on my face is a welcome feeling. I clasp my hands and rest my forearms on the railing. With a resigned sigh, I lower my head to rest it on my hands. What I see below makes me jerk back in astonishment.

Chelsea

The Bentley is gone.

In its place is a matt-black Aston Martin, and the group of kids playing truant are circled around it.

No! He can’t have.

I don’t think I really believe it until I peer over the edge of the balcony and see Thorne leaning against the back door. He must have been talking to the kids, but suddenly looks directly up at me.

My mouth drops open in shock.

We stare at each other. Then I pull back, furious, livid. In a way I have never been in my life. I march back into my mother’s living room and pick up my purse. “I have to go, Mama,” I announce without looking at her.

“Chelsea,” she calls.

I turn around and look at her from the doorway.

“Thank you for the money. It is a great help when my measly allowance dries up every month.”

Oh, Mama. If only you would love me, it would all be worth it. But she doesn’t, a little voice whispers. I nod, open her front door, and quickly close it shut behind me.

Thorne is waiting for me when I exit the building. I glare at him. We are like two boxers in a ring, eying each other up, spoiling for a fight.

“Get in,” he says coldly.

I hang back defiantly. “Where’s Ralph?”

“I sent him home,” he replies shortly.

“Why?”

“Because I’m here.”

I’m so pissed off I almost want to call a damn taxi, but there is a white ring around Thorne’s mouth. Looks like he is just as furious with me as I am with him. What the hell has he got to be furious about? I want to shout at him, but I realize we have a very curious audience. All the kids are watching us with great interest. I get into the car without a word and he closes the door with a quiet click.

“You followed me?” I explode.

Thorne doesn’t react to my outburst. He simply puts on his seatbelt and begins to drive. “No. I asked Ralph where you were. When he told me you were in this God forsaken estate, I drove here myself. Have you no sense? What the hell are you doing here?”

“You tracked me down without my knowledge or my permission. That’s spying,” I say between gritted teeth.

“Get over it,” he says callously. “This is London, the CCTV capital of the world. You are being surveilled all the time. By many agencies. There is not a moment that you are not being watched or listened to.”

“That doesn’t excuse you. You were stalking me.”

“Well, you stole from me,” Thorne says. The controlled, low tone of his voice makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise, but I refuse to back down.

“Yes, I stole from you, but I’m paying for it now, aren’t I? Every time you fuck me I’m paying for it,” I yell angrily.

If I’d hoped to hurt him with those words I was very much mistaken. It slides off him like water off a squirrel’s head. He completely ignores what I said. “Why did you do it, Chelsea?” he asks instead. “Why did you steal my money?”

My heart feels as if it is being squeezed. I turn away from his searching eyes. I cannot tell him. It’s too long of a story. I don’t have the energy to dig that deep into my dark memories. Anyway, I do not trust him enough to tell him.

“I watched you for weeks before I finally made contact with you. You don’t wear designer clothes, you didn’t get a fancy new apartment, and you were working at an office. What could you have spent it all on, or did the money simply vanish?” he asks. His voice is a lot calmer now that I have quieted down. His current demeanor doesn’t move me enough to reveal anything.

“What I did with the money is none of your business.” I cross my arms and stare out of the window.

“It’s my business because you belong to me,” Thorne retorts.

“I’m beginning to believe that you think everything belongs to you. Well, I have news for you, Thorne Blackmore. You may control my body for the next few weeks, but you do not own my time, my mind, my heart, my free will, nor do you actually own me. We have an agreement, and all that entails is: I devote myself sexually to you for three months. After that there will be nothing between us. Nothing.” I realize that tears are pouring down my face, and I can’t control the things that I’m saying, but it feels like a release from my pent up anger.

His gray eyes are like burnt holes in his face. I can see that he is furious by the way his jaw is clenched and his nostrils are flaring. Thorne leans over, and my body stiffens, unsure of what to expect, but he stops a few inches away from my face. “Don’t worry, Chelsea. When this is over … you will never see me again,” he snarls.

I blink hard.

It’s okay, Chelsea. It’s okay. You’re used to this. The people you love have always gone away, but you have always survived to fight another day.

Nineteen years before.

My grand plan to bring Momo over to England is instantly dashed the next morning. Granddad is allergic to animals. All animals. Be they mammals, reptiles, amphibians, or even insects.

But that is not what scares me. Over the next few weeks I am sent to all kinds of doctors and professionals who are very gentle and kind. They ask me all sorts of questions, and tell me they are evaluating my mental state so they can help me.

But I know what they are doing.

They are trying to make me say that Uncle Dave was not interfering with me, that Mama killed him for no reason.

I never let my guard down.

Not even when that kind nurse brought me a tangerine and asked me if mama had ever hit me, or hurt me. I peeled the tangerine slowly, then I looked up into her eyes and told her no.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I say. “Mama is a good mother. She loves me.” Then I begin to cry.

Then the questions about what Uncle Dave did began.

“He touched me,” I say.

“Where?” they say.

I watch their faces carefully. When I point to my shoulders, they appear curious but unmoved, when I touch my chest, they start to look more interested. By the time I touch my Mary, they are very interested.

In the end I convinced them all that Uncle Dave touched me. After that there are exams where I have to take all my clothes off. They look between my legs. They smile and seem satisfied with their results.

The months pass quickly.

One day, Grandma tells me Mama has been sentenced to prison, but because of ex … ten … uating circumstances she has only been convicted of manslaughter and given a fifteen-year sentence. Fifteen years seems like a very, very, very long time to me, but Grandma says Mama will be able to get out earlier if she is well behaved.

Once Mama is convicted, there are no more tests, or doctors, or social workers. I carry on living in the pink room with all Mama’s dolls. I am not allowed to play with them. They have to remain in their packaging or they will lose their investment value.

Weeks turn into months and months into years.

I don’t enjoy life at my grandparents’ home. It’s hard to explain why. Many, many times, too countless to count, I feel like running away, but I

can’t. Once a month, Grandma takes me to visit Mama. If I run away I will not be able to see her. And she needs me. I’m all she’s got.

Then when I’m sixteen years old Mama is released for good behavior. If my mother was a stranger before she is more so now. She gets an apartment and I go to live with her.

Thorne

The email from Nick Patterson is marked urgent. The subject: Miss Chelsea Appleby. Its unread status is like a dull alarm at the fringes of my consciousness. No one is as fast or as thorough as Nick. This man can dig up secrets that you never thought would come up. This morning I asked for a report and six hours later it is done. Everything I need to know about Chelsea will be in that report.

This is wrong, a voice in my head warns.

Maybe, but when have I ever cared whether something was wrong? All my life I just did whatever I wanted. If it benefited me I did it. No excuses. No bullshit apologies. I’ve never been troubled by conscience. That’s for pussies. Pretending that people care for each other.

No, when you strip it all down to the bare truth. The only person anybody ever really cares about is the man in the mirror. If it’s between you and me then, fuck you, I’m going to make one hundred percent sure no matter what I have to do that it’s going to be me climbing out of that snake pit. Anybody who pretends otherwise is either lying or completely deluded.

I recognize there are things about her she doesn’t want me to know, but I need to know who Chelsea truly is. To get behind the calm façade. To understand why she has nightmares, why she awakens in mortal fear. Why she goes to a rundown council estate. What did she do with the money she stole as I can see no outward signs of her having spent it? If she is hiding something, then I want to know so that I continue to have the upper hand in this situation.

It is for my own sanity. I click on the e-mail.

My heart is beating fast, and I am strangely nervous about what I may find. My eyes scan through the text. As my eyes go lower down the screen, I find myself entering a darker and darker world. Chelsea has been hiding a terrible secret.

I lean back in shock.

Murder? Molestation? These words float through my mind. It isn’t anything I was expecting.

So: that apartment belongs to her mother. I read further and the penny drops. She stole the money to pay for her mother’s experimental cancer treatment overseas. There are documents attached to prove Nick’s claims, but I don’t open them. There is no need. Nick is not known as the best in the business for nothing.

There is an odd lump in my throat. It’s not despair. It’s rage. A grown man doing that to an innocent child. I am glad her mother killed that bastard. I think of Chelsea as a child. The horror of seeing her father being murdered, watching her mother murder her abuser. I can’t even imagine the damage that must have inflicted on her. Fuck, no wonder she has nightmares. I cannot even begin to understand her.

A wave of remorse washes over me. After what she has suffered what I did to her must have rocked her world. I forced myself on her. I treated her like a sex object. I wanted to punish her, but she has been punished more than any innocent human being deserves to be. God, she must think of me as a monster. On the same level as the man who abused her. I drop my head into my hands.

Fuck, fuck, what a fucking fool I am.

My mind runs on thoughts of her. I think about her when she sometimes lets her guard down and smiles at me, or the way her long, fair hair bounces with every step she takes, the flash of her bright blue eyes, how she looks beautiful in everything, and even more beautiful when she is wearing nothing.

I sit up in my chair. In the next few weeks she will be gone and will almost definitely never want to see me again. I can’t have that. I can’t let her go. She’s a part of me now. It is something I must have known from before, but I am only able to admit it to myself now. I want to keep her. Forever.

“I want to make it better for her,” I hear myself say.

Chelsea

I sneak a look at Thorne. He looks powerful and dashing in his black tux. His raven hair shines under the sparkling lights of all the glittering chandeliers in the grand ballroom, with lofty, gilded ceilings and ornate wall columns.

With every step I take, I feel more and more out of place. Even though my hair and my makeup are perfect, and the evening gown I chose fits my style and shape perfectly, I feel insecure and insignificant. It could be because everyone here reeks of privilege and the “upper class.”

Thorne’s parents are the hosts of this party to celebrate his success with Alli. I didn’t want to come. I knew I would be like a fish out of water, but Thorne insisted I accompany him. He nods at someone, but in a way that is designed not to encourage them to come up to him.

We spoke very little in the car. He has been pensive and distant for the last two days. Ever since he came to collect me from my mother’s apartment and we argued.

I wonder if it’s because he is still upset with me, or maybe it is simply that I am unimportant to him, and that first flush of desire for me is gone. It has not escaped my notice that he has only been to my room once since that day. And even then, he did not allow himself to come. He just took care of my needs, and though I asked him to stay with my eyes, he covered my body and went away.

Our bodies have been linked in some fashion or other since we stepped out of the car, but even with that closeness I can still sense a kind of distance between us. I tug at his arm. “Where are we going?”

“I’m looking for my parents,” he murmurs, his eyes searching the crowd.

“Okay.”

“Ah, I see my mother,” he says, as he begins to move me towards a tall and elegant woman. Every single hair in her head has been tamed and sprayed into a smooth blonde helmet. She is taller than me and stick thin. She looks like royalty, or an old Hollywood starlet.

She is speaking to two women and has not yet spotted us. As we move closer, a tall man with silver hair and a trim beard steps towards Thorne’s mother. He looks like an older version of Thorne, and I guess he must be his father. The way he stands, straight and tall, confident of his place in the world, makes me think that he must have been born into wealth. His hand touches the small of his wife’s back, but only for a fraction of an instant, when he seems to be apologizing for intruding on their conversation.

Thorne tightens his hold on me as we approach them, and I look up at him in surprise. His face is tense.

“Speak of the devil,” Thorne’s mother drawls, shifting her gaze from the two women to her son. She has the same freezing gray eyes as Thorne, but she holds her head tilted up as if there is a bad smell in the room. I can see up her narrow nostrils.

“Thorne,” his father greets formally.

“Mother, father,” Thorne says, nodding at each of them.

“We were actually discussing Alli. Lady Boscombe and Mrs. Watkins were curious about your plans for the future. I said that I couldn’t possibly know. It’s all top secret, isn’t it?” his mother says. Neither her voice, nor the expression in her eyes thaw. I stare at her smooth, powdered face, astonished that there is no form of friendly greeting between them.

“Mrs. Boscombe, Mrs. Watkins,” Thorne nods at each of them.

They nod and smile back politely.

Wow! I feel as if I’ve entered the twilight zone. No one is laughing or touching. I might as well have stepped into a room full of robots. Everyone here has forgotten what emotions are.

“Please excuse me,” he says to the women before turning to his mother. “Mother, I would like you to meet Chelsea Appleby.”

His parents look over at me with complete disinterest. If these are the people who bore and brought Thorne up, I am starting to understand why he is so cold and reserved. How can you learn to express emotions if you’ve grown up in an environment devoid of them?

“How do you do, Mr. and Mrs. Blackmore?” I say politely. His mother’s reactio

n is to look at me as if I was an insect on a stick. I don’t know why I do it. I can only imagine that it must have been nervousness caused by her icy regard, but my knees bend and I drop into a small curtsey.

“Good heavens,” Mrs. Blackmore exclaims mockingly, as she puts a hand on her chest and lets out a single sound. “Ha.”

I know she is laughing at my faux pas, and I can feel my face turn hot with embarrassment.

“You don’t need to curtsey. We aren’t royalty,” Mr. Blackmore chides.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I sputter, my face getting redder.

“Where did you find this one, Thorne?” Mrs. Blackmore asks, an amused expression on her cold, calculating face.

“You’re not supposed to bring hookers to a place like this, son,” Mr. Blackmore says.

I know it is meant to be a joke, but that is just rude. My eyes widen and Thorne looks as taken aback as I am. “That’s not worthy of you, father,” he says slowly, as if he can’t quite believe what his father said. “You need not utter a word here until you have apologized to Chelsea.”

“Apologize? Why?” His father glances at me, his eyes cruel, his disgust barely veiled. “One look at her and I can tell she is a gold digger. Let me guess, at some point she was in your employ, or in a position of servitude. An air hostess, perhaps, or a social escort you hired?”

I cannot believe they are still speaking about me in this way. They know nothing about me, but have decided I am a gold digger. Maybe, they are right. Rich people always know when they are in the presence of people without money. I did, after all, steal Thorne’s money. I don’t belong here. I wish I could disappear and never see these awful snobs again.

Thorne’s breath comes out in a hiss. “Not that it is anybody’s business what Chelsea does for a living, but as a matter of fact, she is an accountant.” The controlled way he says that tells me he is trying very hard to keep his cool.

Mrs. Blackmore turns to me. “My son always had a soft spot for strays. Thorne is made from greatness, and there is only a certain breed of woman that can handle that level of greatness. You clearly are not that woman so I hope you won’t make long term plans.”