We never did step foot back in the Museum of Art, and as soon as I found the perfect reproduction for the office, the house was complete. Even though it was still painful, I carefully chose and hung Monet’s Meadow Road to Pourville, 1882 on the wall, hoping that this small concession would appease him.
It wasn’t that I was keeping my past from him. I just wasn’t ready to confront it myself. Still, it was a small step in the right direction. The colors in this particular painting were tranquil, yet they still brightened the room with their flourish of color. The blues brought serenity to life, and if I closed my eyes, I could imagine I was there. Just being near it lifted my spirits, and I hoped that Adrian would feel the same. In fact, I was nearly ready to find another Monet to place elsewhere in the house for my viewing pleasure. Unfortunately, it wasn’t perfection in his eyes, and the next time I stepped in the office, the painting was gone. I offered to find another one more suitable to his wants, but he told me that that part of my job was complete. And I became his lackey.
I shake my head at the memory, willing it away. I can’t believe how close I was to opening up to him, which is what he wanted, and then he shot me down. The more I think about it, the more I realize that his gradual changes over time were subtle. It’s no wonder it went unnoticed. At least I’m aware of it now, even if it took me far too long to do so.
After I glance down at the blueprint in my hands and then back up again, my eyes flick around the room. Everything is where it should be. His office chair is pushed under his desk, and the two across from it are perfectly positioned, exactly three feet away, just as he likes it. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he actually measures it. He wants his clients close, but not too close, he’d always told me.
My eyes scan the room and fall on a solid bookshelf, just where the door is supposed to be. I cross the room and plant my feet, pushing it. It moves with ease, and I realize that its solid appearance is just that—an appearance. A couple of books fall on the shelves with its movement. The sound echoes, and I gasp, unaware of the breath I was holding. Taking a quick peek behind me, I ensure I’m still alone before turning back to completely move the shelf out of the way. Behind it is another door.
I stand and stare at it for a moment, my curiosity building. There can’t be a tunnel yet, since construction’s only just begun, so where did this door come from? Has it always been here? What hides behind it? What is its purpose?
Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to.
His voice resounds in my head. Maybe that’s been my problem all along. I haven’t asked the questions. Hell, I haven’t asked any questions. I’ve just gone along with whatever he says, like the perfect little yes girl he expects me to be. The one I’ve always been with him. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve ever told him no, and even then, I usually came around.
No longer, I think as I reach my hand out. My heart beats wildly as I slowly twist the knob, but then I stop before it even makes half a revolution. The click echoes throughout the room, right along with my hammering heart. I wasn’t expecting it to be locked. My curiosity only grows, and even though I’ve promised never to touch his desk, I whirl around and gaze at it, wondering where he keeps his keys. All of a sudden, I have to know what’s behind this door. What else Adrian could possibly be hiding?
Just as I’m about to cross the room to search for them, my phone beeps from my back pocket, causing me to jump then fall to my knees as I catch my breath.
Knowing that it could only be one person, I look around the room, remembering Adrian’s reminder of having eyes and ears everywhere. Can he see me now? Oh God, did he somehow see what happened in the kitchen?
I told myself earlier that I don’t care, but deep down, the truth is that I don’t know how Adrian might react if he found out I allowed another man to touch me. To kiss me. The rush from earlier has faded, and a nervous chill creeps in.
Hands trembling, I pull my phone out and look at the screen, where a text from Adrian appears.
Adrian: Sweet Gabriella, forgive me for earlier. I just go crazy at the thought of you leaving me. I will see you in a four weeks’ time. Be a good girl while I’m gone.
It’s the closest thing to an apology I’ll ever get from Adrian, and six months ago, I would’ve been quick to do just as he asked. However, with new clarity, I realize he hasn’t asked anything. He’s ordered me to forgive him. There was no I’m sorry, Gabriella, or I was wrong, Gabriella. No, I get, Forgive me. Not even a please. The resounding or else plays in my head. What will he do if I don’t?
Suddenly, any ounce of courage I was feeling dissipates. After rising to my feet, I back away from the door. I move the shelf back, placing all the downturned books right-side up. With one last glance around, I slowly slink out of the room, done for today but knowing that, one day soon, I’ll be back and I will finally have my answers, no matter how long it takes.
The only thing is . . . I have no idea what the questions are.
That night, when I’m ready to retire, I don’t sleep in the master bedroom. What once was my sanctuary has now become a symbol of my dungeon, and I have no desire to spend another night there, even if Adrian’s gone. Instead, I gather up my pajamas and my bathroom belongings and quietly pad down the hall to one of the guest bedrooms, exhausted and mentally drained—nothing a bottle of chilled Pinot Grigio and a long bubble bath won’t fix. At least, temporarily.