“I’m so sorry. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”
I am losing the battle to stay awake. I fight it. This close to sleep, nothing seems real. I am delirious with exhaustion. I am imagining this, surely. I’ve fallen asleep and I am dreaming. Surely. Surely.
The man I have come to understand over the past year would not speak thus, does not experience such emotions. It is a dream.
Just a dream.
Only a dream.
? ? ?
Wake up, X.” The familiar rumble in my ear.
I blink. Open my eyes, and experience a debilitating disorientation. Am I awake? Am I dreaming, still?
Where am I? When am I?
I am in my room. My blackout curtains are in place. My noise machine shushes with the sound of soothing crashing waves. My bed. The door to my bedroom is cracked, emitting a sliver of light. Through it I can just barely make out a slice of my living room. My couch. The Louis XIV armchair, the coffee table with its antique map.
What is going on?
Have I dreamed everything?
I am near tears. No. No. I didn’t dream Logan. That was real. He is real. It wasn’t a dream.
It wasn’t.
Was it?
I still have the fragments of memory floating in my head, you in my room, the aching, the exhaustion, the numbness. The near-sleep fantasy of a Caleb who experiences real emotions, for someone named Isabel.
Isabel.
I sit up. You crouch at my bedside, and when I sit up, you rise to your feet. You are imperious, cold, distant. Tan suit, dark blue button-down, top button undone. You fasten the middle button of the suit coat.
“Time to get up, X. You have a client in thirty minutes. I’ve prepared your breakfast.”
“Wha—um. What? Caleb? What am I doing here? What’s going on?”
You turn. “What do you mean, what’s going on? You have a client. Travis Mitchell, son of Michael Mitchell, founder and CEO of Mitchell Medical Enterprises.”
I shake my head. It aches. Feels thick. Memories jog and tumble with fragments of dream.
It wasn’t real? Logan, his town house on the quiet street. Cocoa. Naked in bed with Logan, savoring every touch, every kiss. I remember every moment. I can picture every scar, every tattoo.
“No.” My voice is raspy, hoarse. “No. Stop, Caleb.”
“Stop what?” You seem honestly confused.
“You’re fucking with my head. It won’t work.” I slide my feet out of bed and stand up. I am naked.
“Get in the shower, X.” A step toward me. “Now.”
I back up. “Stop. Just . . . stop.”
I run my hands through my hair, and that’s what shakes everything loose. My hair is short.
Mei.
Logan. Oh god, Logan. “You shot him!” I lunge forward, smash my fist into your cheekbone as hard as I can, suddenly full of fiery rage. “You fucking shot him!” I swing again, my other hand, connect with your jaw.
You rock backward, stunned, and then you catch my wrists and easily overpower me. A moment then, as I resist you. But you are far too powerful. You grunt, and throw me aside.
I land on the floor between the bed and the wall, and in a blur you are there, kneeling in front of me. Your hand latches onto my chin, gripping my jaw in a crushing vise grip.
“You . . . belong . . . to me.” Your voice is the venomous hiss of a viper. “You are mine. You are Madame X, and you are mine.”
I lash out with my heel, catch you off guard, and my foot impacts your chest, sends you toppling backward. I lurch to my feet. Back up. Catch against the corner of the bed.
“Fuck you, Caleb!” I spit. “Fuck . . . you. My name is Isabel Maria de la Vega Navarro. I am not Madame X, and I am not a possession. I do not belong to you. I will never belong to you again.”
You collapse backward against the wall, lying where you landed after I kicked you, as if you meant all along to lie there. “You are mine. You will always be mine. You’ve been mine since you were sixteen.”
“What? What does that mean?” I think of what Logan told me.
“I thought you had all the answers. I thought your precious Logan knew everything.”
“Don’t be petulant, Caleb.” I hunt in the darkness for some way to cover myself without having to pass you, since you are between me and the closet.
I end up tugging the sheet off the bed and wrapping it around me, letting the end drape behind me like the train of a wedding dress. After a moment, you stand up, brush off your suit. Glance at me. The cold hard mask is in place.