Leah
I'm crying. I want to make myself stop, but right now I just need to feel it. I'm desperate to be able to breathe and feel my emotions without having to feel like I'm being tested. How is it that even though Jacob is not here, it is like the weight of that, of when he'll return, is stressing me out even more? I need to be able to have a modicum of expectations. I'm angry as hell, and I know it is totally irrational.
How could I feel safe when I'm owned now? My father set expectations for me as his property by utterly ignoring me. Having me homeschooled and keeping me sequestered away from the whole world. So, of course, that wasn't preferential to my current situation. But at least I knew what to expect then.
I get myself angry enough that I realize I don't have to keep crying. I wipe my tears away and look at the blood rushing to my face, making me flush and making my eyes blaze. This fortifies me somehow, and I'm grateful. I am not going to be Jacob's fucking sex toy. I am more than that. I know that he technically owns me, but he cannot fucking own me. I'll bide my time, and I'll figure out a way out of here. I'm not going to get anywhere by not at least playing along if I can stand it. But I don't have to focus on that. I'll do what I can to cope, and I'll not think about how conflicted his touch makes me feel. I'll concentrate on this fire that I feel now, and I'll figure out a way to get out of here. It makes me think about my phone. I have to get it back, as I assume he's not planning on letting me go free, no matter what he says. He says he's giving me a position at his company. A salary. That I'm not in a cage. We'll see about that. I'm not willing to believe that a man who can buy a human being, accept them as payment in a business deal, has any idea what he's saying when he makes those promises. Jacob Renaud owns almost everything in the world, but he's not going to own me. I can see his smug grin in my mind, and I know that he won't even expect it. All he knows is he made me come. So what? That doesn't give him any right to my body.
Now that my strength is summoned, I look in the mirror, and I feel bold. Powerful even when I look at my body. I know how much he wants to touch it. How much he values my body. He loves that I'm a virgin. He'll love changing that.
I push back how I want him to be the one to change it.
He's at the door, and he walks in. "My chef has made everything for breakfast," he announces. The tone is passé, but the statement so isn't. Jacob Renaud is so wealthy he probably owns more restaurants than most people have even seen in their entire lives. So he must not be skimping on his own chef. My hunger in the morning is never picky, but I have to admit I'm thrilled to have choices. I couldn't be picky at home. I wasn't allowed to shop for groceries, and I was to eat what I could find. My father ate outside the home most of the time, and there wasn't always much to go on. I wonder for a moment if I tell this to Jacob if he'd take me out for breakfast one day. I've never eaten breakfast in a restaurant. I've been to a few dinners, even a couple of lunches, but never have I eaten breakfast that I didn't forage for in the kitchen when my father wasn't around. I never left my room when I might run into him.
It was part of what made running into Jacob so jarring. I almost never saw another person. I look at myself in the mirror, summoning my self-awareness to keep the surreal feeling I have from overtaking me.
"Fantastic, I’m starving. ," I say, not bothering to stifle my enthusiasm. Let this be the false olive branch. Better my stomach that the rest of my body to make Jacob feel like I'm not plotting how to get as fucking far away from him as possible. Nothing can stand in the way of my freedom. Not even the truth. "I...do you have my clothes?" I think back to the negligee still on the bathroom floor.
"I actually thought you'd like some new clothes. My maid, Tatiana, she'll help you with that today while I'm gone. I have some of your clothes in this wardrobe for now." He walks to the opposite end of the room. I follow him to see my clothes all hanging, pitifully only a few outfits, in this massive wardrobe that opens into a huge room where I could store thousands of outfits. Hundreds of shoes at least. I feel like I'm in a funhouse version of a mansion, I'm so shocked by how much space is in the room. Fuck, I knew he had a lot of money, but this is just too much. I bristle. "I'm fine with my clothes," I say, and I think I'm probably just mad that he put me in some fancy lingerie and now he's acting like my admittedly pathetic clothes aren't good enough for him. I'm not some doll for him to dress up.
Maybe I'm being irrational. Or maybe he's the ass who thinks he owns me. He can't take over my life like this. I can't let him. Even if my shitty clothes don't make me happy, they're at least mine. I got them one day when I left the house because I didn't want the trashy stuff one of the women my father fucked had left there at that house. That's not home to me either, but that was where I lived, and that was what I had to put up with. I don't want to have another person who thinks of me as property getting to dictate what I'm to wear.
I grab something to wear and I close the closet door behind me, him on the other side of the door. I want a modicum of privacy. I can't take the way his eyes are looking at me. Thinking about all the things he's going to do to me. If I'm honest...I'm thinking about those things, too, and I don't want to deal with the weight of his gaze for just a few seconds. He doesn't open the door while I'm dressing, and when I step out to see him standing there, I'm frustrated but grateful I had the bathroom and this stolen moment in the closet alone. He pulls out his phone and answers a few pinging messages -- I'm not surprised how busy he is as I've read about his prolific business nature -- but he looks up at me, taking in the sight of me in my very crappy jeans. He looks like a million bucks...he may be wearing something that expensive as I know he wears Brioni. The fabric is so damned astounding to look at; I'm a little in awe. He's the only person I've seen, online or in person, I thought could adequately wear something that expensive and make it look just at home on him. He fucking exudes power. It wafts off him and envelops me in the air around us. I can practically see a thick cloud of silvery gray fog wrapping me up and strangling me like spider's silk. I feel powerless next to his presence. How will I ever escape him? The nerves I felt before are minuscule in comparison to how I feel in these clothes. It feels demeaning to look this shitty in front of him. But I can't let him know that. I put my chin up a little higher than I feel like doing. I have to stay strong. Find my fire. Because the only fire I'm feeling is his. The heat around us that he brings. The dark power, the danger he emanates, is snuffing me out. I feel my lip tremble, just slightly. I curse my weakness because he notices. He brushes his thumb over my lip.