Chapter 1

Zoe

Having a tyre blowout is frightening enough; the sudden lurching of the car, the loud bang making me jump, then the glance in the review mirror showing me rubber flying out behind. And all the while, I desperately fight the car’s natural inclination to pull to the offside, struggling to persuade it onto the safety of the hard shoulder, hopefully without hitting another vehicle or causing a major accident.

But that’s not the reason why, only seconds later when the implications of what’s happened hit me, I sit with my head resting against the steering wheel, violently shaking. I’m going to be late!

I’ve suffered the repercussions for not being on time before; what he called my ‘correction'. Shit! Let’s call it what it is: good old-fashioned abuse. Last time I was lucky to escape with a blow to my stomach and right kidney, followed by a brutal kick to my ribs. Lateness, for whatever reason, is a punishable crime in Ethan’s world.

Practicing deep breathing, trying to calm my nerves using techniques I’m so well versed in—a daily exercise to suppress my anxiety—I start to wonder whether it would be better just to sit here and let fate fall as it will. A person’s life expectancy is apparently only an average of forty minutes if you stay in your vehicle when broken down on a motorway. Will I be crushed by a heavy goods vehicle before he comes for me? He could find out exactly where I am; he has the ability to track my every move if he so wants. Every second of every frigging day.

For just a moment it’s tempting to wait in the car and take my chances, but despite the months of living in hell, I’ve still got higher expectations for my life than ending it splattered over the highway. So, pulling myself together, I grab my phone and step out. Then, multi-tasking while climbing over the safety barrier, I look up the contact for the AA. Changing a wheel is, I have to confess, beyond me, and even if I knew what to do, my hands are nowhere near steady enough to turn a nut. I can only hope the road recovery experts will be quick to help.

I select the right number, and am ready to dial when a truck pulls up behind my car, and a chap gets out. There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with his vehicle, making it obvious he’s stopped close by me on purpose. Immediately I feel uneasy—I don’t know him from Adam. I’m a woman on my own, easy prey for someone with suspect motives. Then, as I realise no one could do worse to me than Ethan’s already done, my fear of the stranger begins to recede.

I stare at him curiously as he walks purposefully towards me. He’s not the type of man Ethan would send, definitely not. No, this man is well below his station. He’s wearing dirty and well-used navy overalls open to the waist and shrugged down around his hips, and a once-white T-shirt covers his chest. He looks tough and rough, but even so, as he stomps towards me, any worry about the legitimacy of the reason why he’s stopped disappears when I catch the concerned expression on his face, and hear his opening words uttered once he’s within earshot. His clear worry for my safety dispelling any lingering fears.

When I’m able to hear him over the noise of the traffic racing past, he assures me he means me no harm. “Hey, sweetie, need help? That’s your rubber all over the road, isn’t it? Want me to change your wheel?”

He might be my knight in shining armour, but things aren’t as simple as that. What is the right course of action? There would, of course, be consequences to a wrong decision. Or the right one for that matter, depending on Ethan’s mood tonight. Glancing suspiciously up at the traffic camera just a hundred metres further up the road, I can’t forget it’s relaying and recording everything I do. It’s all too easy for Ethan to get access to such systems; it’s even possible he has someone watching me at this very moment. But whether someone’s monitoring it in real time, or will call up the video to examine it later, the end result is the same. Ethan would be able to discover whatever decision I make.

Although it is kind of a stranger to stop and offer assistance, the right action is not to accept, and definitely not to include him in any escape plan. Oh no, I’ve already learned in the worst possible way how brutal Ethan can be if I involve anyone else.

So, staying dumb of my greater plight, I just wave my phone at him declining his offer of assistance. “Just calling the AA now,” I explain, “Thanks for stopping, though.”

He looks surprised that I’d refuse his aid, and then, misinterpreting my anxiety, he holds out his hands in a gesture of reassurance open and facing up as if to show he’s no threat. “Hey, love. I just stopped because it looked like you were in a spot of bother.” He walks over to the car and checks the rim of the now tyre-less wheel, then glances up. “The AA will probably take an hour or more at this time of day,” he scoffs, “If it’s just the tyre and you’ve got a spare I can have you on your way again in a few minutes?” His voice rises at the end of the sentence, so I know it’s a question.

Staring at him, I’m amazed a complete stranger would bother to fix an unknown person’s car; I’d almost forgotten there can be kindness in the world. But then his words sink through the fog in my brain, and I realise he’s offering me the chance to get back on the move again. If he can change the tyre quickly, maybe I won’t be too late home—and maybe the outcome won’t be as bad as I fear. Perhaps Ethan wouldn’t bother to check the camera feed if I get home on time? Quickly I make a decision. Nodding at him, I manage to summon up a smile, the expression feeling strange on my face, “Thank you. That would be fantastic.”

Taking the keys from my outstretched hand, he locates the spare fast; it’s only a space saver which will slow me down, but at least I’ll soon be on my way again. As I hover behind him I begin to shiver in the cold winter air, my hands wringing and twisting together. I bite my tongue to curb any words to hurry him along as I can see he’s working as fast as he can. He wastes no time swapping the wheels over, rolling the one with the shredded tyre across to show me. “Reckon you hit a nail or tack, love. Just bad luck.”

Bad frigging luck. You’ve got it, mate.

“You alright? You look a bit shaky. It can be a shock.” He’s staring at me, his face kind, open with concern. “You gonna be okay to drive?”

Yes, I’m in shock. I’m trembling, but can’t find the words to explain to this helpful man that the best way to alleviate my fear is to get back on my way as fast as I can. Putting as much confidence in my voice as I summon up, I reassure him I’ll be fine. From his expression, he doesn’t believe me, but I turn away before he can say anything else, throwing a quick ‘thank you’ over my shoulder. Digging around in the passenger footwell, I locate my handbag from where it fell on the floor during my mad swerve to get the car off the carriageway. Extracting my purse, I offer to pay him.

He laughs, waving his hands in refusal, pushing away the notes I’m holding. “Just happy to help a beautiful woman.” He smirks as he throws the compliment out, but there’s no malice or threat in his face. Reaching into the pocket of his overalls he pulls out a card, “Name’s Josh, sweetie. Give me a call if you ever get stuck again.”

Glancing down, I see he’s a mechanic from the local garage. Pocketing the card without thinking, and thanking him profusely once again, I take back my keys and go to my car. A flash from his headlights shows he’s waiting until I get moving, and then I see him following at a safe distance as I increase my speed along the hard shoulder until I’m going fast enough to slide out into a welcome gap in the rush hour traffic. A minute later, looking in my rearview mirror, I see he’s also successfully navigated the almost constant stream of cars. By this time my saviour’s a few vehicles behind.

Flicking my eyes to the dashboard clock, with no further problems I calculate I’ll only be a quarter of an hour late; perhaps Ethan will overlook it. It’s not like I don’t have a good excuse. Allowing myself to relax a little, my eyes dart back to the road as a van speeds past, hoots, and the driver waves. I’m pootling along at fifty on the spare, and he’s got his foot down. I even manage a smile as I recognise Josh, and give a quick wave as my Good Samaritan disappears, merging with the vehicles in the fast lane.

But my optimism soon fades. It doesn’t take long for me to realise that I’d underestimated how quickly the rush hour traffic would build up. Nor had I made any allowance that the dark clouds, which had been threatening all afternoon, would unleash heavy sleet and hail; apparently providing more than sufficient reason to cause the whole motorway to come almost to a complete standstill.

By the time I pull up outside the large ornate gates and impatiently wait for them to slide open, I’m nearly an hour late. With a sinking feeling of dread, I make my way slowly along the sweeping drive leading to the front of the mansion, taking care not to kick any gravel up onto the manicured grass either side. In the mirror, I see the gates automatically close behind me, locking me inside my prison as securely as any high-security detention centre. My apparent freedom this afternoon was an illusion, a taste of normality solely to mock me. The GPS tracker in my car, Ethan’s illegal, but unlimited access to CCTV footage, together with the not unlikely possibility he could have had someone following me, curtails any thought of escape.

Like it had flashed through my mind briefly when the mechanic, Josh, had come to my aid, I’d also had the fleeting thought of confiding my plight to the dentist I’d been to see today. But I have already learned my lesson of what happens to innocent people if I try to enlist their help. Ethan made sure I only needed one example of that. He allows me a modicum of normality, permitting me occasionally to go off the estate, but it’s only one more way to toy with me, allowing me a brief glimpse of the life I’m missing. That I was allowed out at all is a privilege. That I’m home late will be something for which I’ll have to pay.

I park, switch off the engine, then remain in the car for a second trying to compose myself, erasing any trace of guilt that could appear on my face. It’s not my fault I’m late, but if I look like I need to shoulder any blame, Ethan will jump on that weakness immediately.

Suddenly the driver’s door is pulled open. I look up into my tormenter’s face.

“You’re late.” His tone is emotionless.

Eighteen months ago

“Hey, girlfriend!” As I pulled Sophie in for a hug and a kiss,she turned her head and accidentally ended up giving me a smacker on the lips.

“Hi yourself, babes!” The grin almost split her face in two, as I slapped her lightly on the arm.

“Carry on like that they’re going to think we’re a couple of lessies.”

She immediately pulled away, glancing around as if evaluating the quality of the males in the pub. She’s like that, always looking for her next conquest. I barked a laugh at her, and together we went to the bar and ordered a round of drinks. While waiting to be served she started regaling me with all she’d been up to, and didn’t stop talking, except to nod briefly at the bartender and give her choice of vodka and coke. By the time, we were sitting at a table in the corner where we could gossip to our hearts’ delight my mouth had already fallen open.

“Both of them? Together?” As she smirked her confirmation, I found myself wondering exactly what goes where in such a situation. I was far less worldly than my friend, whose primary goal in life seemed to be collecting as many and varied sexual experiences as she was able to. But this particular story had rendered me speechless.

Now it was her turn to give me a slight rap on the hand to get my attention. “So what’s up with you, bitch? ‘Bout time you got laid, isn’t it? How long’s it been now?”

Sophie and I had a long friendship going back to our Uni days when we shared a flat together. Living a fair distance apart, our contact nowadays was limited to these Friday girls’ nights out which tended to follow the same pattern. Each time we met, she would entertain me with her long list of conquests while I sat back and listened. Not that I didn’t enjoy living vicariously through her experiences, it’s just that occasionally I’d have liked to have some of my own stories to reciprocate. And she’s right; it had been an awfully long time since my last sexual encounter with anything that wasn’t battery operated, and even that, like the others before it, hadn’t been anything to write home about.

I had nothing to compare with Sophie’s adventures. Oh, I’d had a few intimate liaisons sure, but had never seen much point in it myself; a few fumbles, then he, whoever it was, did the deed and left me cleaning myself up, waiting for him to leave so I could have a session with my trusty vibrator. Okay, the first time was understandable, with both of us virgins and neither having a clue what to do; the whole rather unfulfilling and embarrassing, and, in his words, messy event, saw us amicably agreeing to part ways just a short time later. But, as years passed and after several more tries with various partners, which always left me feeling similarly unsatisfied, I was not overly fussed to repeat the experience. Hence my envy of the way Soph appeared to put it all out there, and the enjoyment she got from doing the dirty deed.

But needing to contribute something to the conversation, I took advantage, when she paused for breath, and just dropped it in there, my voice animated, “Guess who I’m working for?” Watching her shrug, as obviously it was impossible for her to answer without me explaining, I continued excitedly, “Ethan bloody St John-Davies!”

“What? He’s like one of the richest men in the country, Zoe!” After a quick flash of her eyes letting me see I’d caught her interest, she grabbed her phone out of her bag. “Go on, tell me more.” She gazed intently at the screen, fingers of one hand flying over the keys, but waving her other to show she was still listening.

“I’m working on a project to renovate a 16th century walled garden on a massive estate; his estate.” I gestured towards the picture of the handsome looking man who’d appeared on her phone.

She seemed to be enraptured by the image, “I could so do that! Wow! Just look at him! And look at that house behind him. It’s a fucking mansion! Is that where you’re working? Do you need an assistant? Have you met him?”

Ignoring her questions and wanting to give the answers in my own way, I continued, “So, there I was, Soph, digging in a trench on the hottest day of the year so far. You can imagine the state of me; sweat pouring off me, my tank top sticking to my boobs. And you know what trouble I have with my fair skin—even Factor 50 hadn’t stopped me turning bright red.”

A chuckle. “You weren’t looking your best then, babe?”

I huffed. “About as far from it as you can frigging get! My hair was plastered to my forehead, and, I’d been digging down into the subsoil, so vile stinking mud covered me from the head to toe!” I wait for her snort. Soph, a fashion buyer for one of the top chain stores, had never understood my love for my profession that had me getting down and dirty, in a quite literal way. There it was! I smiled at her derisive sniff.

“Anyway,” I continued, “Suddenly I hear voices, and it’s him! And all I can think about is what I look like and how I must smell. I tried to hide, but Rod—he’s my boss—decides it’s an excellent time to introduce me.”

“You actually bloody met him? What’s he like?”

“Gorgeous!” I tapped my finger on her phone, “In his case, the camera doesn’t lie. And it certainly doesn’t show you his rather tight backside. Soph, his gluts are something else!”

Now her mouth hung open, “I’m surprised you noticed, Zoe! Go you!”

“Well, when he asks if I’m a woman labourer, Rod only bloody tells him I’m the landscape architect on the project!”

“I thought you were just an assistant?”

“I did, too. But Rod, bless him, has given me the project to manage, with him just overseeing I’m doing things right. Workwise it’s a tremendous opportunity, Soph!”

Her eyes narrowed as I deviated from what interested her most, “Hey, babe! Get back to the good stuff!”

“Okay, so he introduces me…”

“I got that bit, babe. Now get to the fucking part.”

My drink almost shot out of my mouth as I spluttered, “What the heck?” I gave her a long stare, and she returned a rueful smile. “So,” I ignored her interruption, “He introduces himself in this really upper-class cultured voice, you know, pronouncing his name as Ethan ‘sinjun’ Davies. I brush as much dirt as I can off my hands, and he holds his out for me to shake. Hah! Then I notice him wipe it off on his trousers. Don’t think he’s used to mud.”

“I doubt he ever gets his hands dirty, babe. According to this website he’s a billionaire and that is fucking multi-million-pound estate you’re working on. He’ll employ minions to do everything for him.” She tilted her head to one side, “So what happened next?”

Taking the opportunity to have a sip of my drink, I thought for a moment. Yes, I’d done internet searches too when I’d arrived home that day, and something inside of me tingled when I saw him described as one of the most eligible bachelors in the UK. I wasn’t going to tell Soph just how much he’d fuelled my fantasies over the last few days, and how many times I’d regretted he did not see me looking halfway decent! What girl could truthfully say she’s never wanted to be Cinderella?

“Nothing, Soph. He went his way, I went mine,” I told her, honestly. “To tell the truth, we’ve been working on the site for a month now, and that’s the first and only time I’ve seen him. I doubt I’ll see him again.” I pointed to her empty glass, “Another?”

Present day

“Why are you late, Zo?” His voice is calm, but the vein pulsing on his forehead betrays his false equanimity.

Knowing any embellishment is likely to be greeted with a sneer of disbelief, I offer him the pure and straightforward truth. “I had a tyre blowout, Ethan. On the M25.” A tremor comes naturally, “It was scary, but I managed to get onto the hard shoulder...”

Already he’s lost interest in my explanation. Instead, he’s looking down at the car. When he doesn’t immediately see anything amiss, he starts to walk around it. I see the moment he notices the space saver wheel on instead of the proper one as he begins to nod slowly. “Must have been frightening, Zo. Are you’re okay?”

Ignoring his faked concern for my wellbeing, it’s a game he likes to play, I answer him nonetheless. “I’m fine. Shaken, but not hurt. It could have been worse.”

“Good. That’s very good, Zo.”

I hate the way he shortens my name, but wouldn’t dare pull him up on it. The first time he used it I had butterflies in my stomach, thinking it signified that I was important enough for him to give me a unique nickname, but now I’ve learned to be wary. Ethan doesn’t do nice. Or hasn’t done, for a very long time.

“Come, dinner’s waiting, but it will probably be ruined by now.” He puts his arm around my shoulders in an affectionate gesture.

I make every effort not to flinch, and somehow the words come out of their volition as he mentions the spoiled meal, “I’m sorry…” Shit! Never apologise.

“Well, it can’t be helped, can it?” he acknowledges mildly.

Have I got away with it? Surely not! He won’t let an opportunity like this pass by.

I scarcely dare to breathe as he leads me into the stately home that has been my home for almost a year and a half now. We enter via the grand front entrance and cross the spacious hallway with its impressive staircase leading to the upper floors. He helps me off with my coat, and hangs it up, a demonstration of his well-bred manners. His hand goes to the small of my back in a gentlemanly fashion as he guides me into the formal dining room. Why he insists on always eating here, I’ll never understand. The long antique table, dating from the sixteenth century, could easily seat twenty people, and we look lost sitting opposite, one at either end. Early on I took an instant dislike almost bordering on hatred, to the portraits of his ancestors hanging on the walls which seem to look down on me with censure, their creepy eyes following me wherever I go as if wondering how I, a mere commoner, dare to eat in this room. As usual, I keep my eyes downcast and try to ignore them.

A long sideboard takes up one side of the room, the top of which currently covered by tureens on warmers. Ethan takes me straight over to the food, only letting go of me to lift the lids of the containers. In one, there’s Coq Au Vin, usually a favourite of mine, but tonight does nothing to tempt me, I’ve no appetite. In another, there are roast potatoes, and the last holds mixed vegetables. The latter have suffered from being left too long, runner beans, carrots and peas well past their best, shrivelled and dried. Ethan fills two plates, piling one high with a generous helping of the ruined veg as if to make a point. Then he nods to my usual seat and puts the overfilled plate in front of me. He pours red wine into a glass for himself then, with a sneer, pours a glass of white for me. Red wine gives me a nasty headache, and he only indulges me at home. In public, I have to drink the right wine with the meal.

We eat in silence for a moment, or in my case; I pick at my food.

“Lucky I took out AA membership for you.” Again, his voice is reasonable and calm.

I swallow rapidly, almost choking on the piece of chicken I’d been chewing. Ethan knows! I look up to see his piercing eyes staring at me as if he can see the thoughts in my head. With a sneer that I don’t understand, he turns back to his food, clearing his plate. My own is still almost full.

Suddenly he holds something up and waves it at me. “Explain this!” His shout echoes around the room.

I can see what it is from here; it’s the business card my saviour Josh gave me. He must have got it out of my pocket. Shit! I look up at him. “He was very helpful to me, Ethan. He’s a mechanic. When he saw I’d broken down, he stopped and changed the wheel for me.”

Ethan’s face darkens, “And you were going to tell me this, when?”

With a feeling of dread, I keep silent knowing I’d already missed my chance to come clean.

His face tightens as he glowers, “What other services did he offer you?”

I shake my head. Remaining calm and keeping my voice even is hard, but I call on the months of practice to help. “None, I had a blowout as I said. He pulled up behind me and offered to sort it out for me. He was very quick. I thought it would be faster than waiting for the AA.” My eyes, meeting his at last, silently plead for him to believe me.

“Get me your phone.” His voice is cold, icy.

He means immediately. Putting down my cutlery, I go out into the vast hall and collect my bag. Pulling out my iPhone, I hand it to him before retaking my seat at the opposite end of the table, needing to retain the distance between us. He puts in my passcode that he knows by heart.

After a second, he looks up. “You didn’t even try to ring the AA. Were you with this man? Did you let him touch what is mine?” His voice has deepened, his face glowing red; the first familiar signs he’s starting to lose control.

“No! Of course, not!” I deny it as forcefully as I can, while still trying to keep my voice relaxed. If I show my fear, he’ll interpret it as guilt. “It happened just the way I said. He pulled up before I could get a chance to ring anyone, and I wanted to get home to you as quickly as possible. I thought it was the fastest way. I didn’t want to be late, Ethan. I know how that disappoints you.” My heart’s beating so frantically I think it’s going to jump out of my chest. I’ve tried like I always try, but whatever the truth of the matter I know that he’ll choose not to believe me. What he thinks could have happened is sufficient for him. I start to feel sick, the small amount of food I’ve managed to swallow churning inside of me. How bad will it be?

“You didn’t tell me about him. You left that little tidbit out, didn’t you? You tried to keep it from me. Now that makes me very suspicious, Zo. Very.” His words come out fast as he stands up and marches to my end of the table, pulling me roughly to my feet. Without giving me time to prepare, his fist goes hard into my face; I hear a crunch, and see stars. Jesus! Has he broken my nose?

I reel, but he holds me tight, not letting me go. Hanging onto my arm he drags me towards the door. Once there was a time he was much more careful about leaving marks where people could see them, not wanting others to see the damage he’d caused, but recently his brutality has been growing steadily worse. Now he no longer cares, and right at this moment, I’m about as scared as I’ve ever been.

I should know better after all this time, should be aware that making any protest or trying to fight the inevitable will only enrage him further, but maybe the blow to my head dazes me. Instead of giving in and letting him take me where he wants to, I yell, “No!” and put my free hand on the door-jamb, holding onto it with all my might as he tries to pull me through,.

I could have so easily missed the glint of glee in his eyes as he lets go of the heavy door, pushing against it to slam it closed. The thick wood smashes against my wrist, and I let out a blood-curdling scream as I’m immersed in pain so bad I pass out for a fleeting moment. When he opens the door, he’s laughing as he starts to haul my almost limp body across the floor, out into the hallway. No, not now, please, I can’t take it! Full senses returning I protest, “Ethan, please, no!” My voice is a wail as I cry out through my tears.

He ignores my pleadings, dragging me with one hand while the other extracts a key from his pocket. In my agony, I’ve no option but to go with him downstairs to the basement, to that dreaded room he calls his play room, the place I’ve come to call my torture chamber. Opening the door, he manhandles me inside, throwing me across the spanking bench, but not tying me down. He doesn’t have to; I’ve no fight left in me. All I can do is hope that what he’s going to do won’t be unbearable.

Reaching round my waist he undoes my button and zip, yanking my trousers down to the floor and ripping off my lacy underwear. Cruelly his hand crushes my naked mound, his fingers invading me, “This is MINE! You let another man touch it.” He smacks his hand down hard, once, twice, and then again.

“No, I didn’t!” I scream out, “He didn’t touch me!” But it wasn’t worth my breath to voice the denial. As one firm hand holds me down, I try in vain to struggle knowing he’s not going to believe my innocence. It suits him not to credit the truth.

Another harsh spank, his palm hitting with enough force to bruise, “You’re MINE! This belongs to ME, no one else. I’m going to remind you of that,” he tells me, then adds, as I hear him lowering his zip, “I’m taking what belongs to me.”