Wrapping myself in a thick, white bathrobe I quickly dry my hair, then pad over to the walk-in closet. I glance at the armchair and I can almost see myself writhing under him. I exhale slowly. I have to stop this.

Thorne is waiting for me. My eyes scan the massive closet. I have no idea what would be deemed appropriate for a dinner with a man who is holding me captive and using me as his sex toy. Then a stray thought enters my head: I want to look nice for him. The thought irritates me and I scowl. Why am I thinking these things?

He can own my body, but never my mind or my heart. That he must never have. Nobody will ever have that.

I walk over to the section of the closet with dresses, and I impatiently pull out the first dress in the row. I hold it up. Cream with a high neckline it is cut to be form fitting until it tapers and gently billows out at the hips. I step into the silky dress and zip it up. Then I walk to the mirror to look at myself.

Wow! It’s beautiful and suits me perfectly.

I choose a comfortable pair of cream shoes with gold heels. I open a drawer and gasp. There are all kinds of accessories. Earrings, chokers, necklaces, bracelets, watches, scarves, metal belts. When Anabel said I should find everything I need here she wasn’t kidding. I choose some simple gold balls for my ears, and an antique gold watch to match. Going to the dressing table I break the cosmetics out of their packages. They are not the cheap and cheerful brands I buy, but the colors are the ones I would normally go for. My look is complete when I put my dark brown hair up into a high bun.

I give myself a once-over in the mirror, but I do not let my eyes linger. I don’t want to stop and think about how much money my outfit must have cost, or the fact that Thorne bought it for me. There is a gentle knock on the door. Theresa is a tiny slip of a girl. She has large anxious eyes and actually curtseys as if I am royalty or something. When I tell her to call me Chelsea, her eyes almost bulge with surprise. I want to be friends with her. Otherwise, my stay in this vast house will be difficult.

She opens the door to the dining room, then backs away the way servants of yore used to do when leaving their master’s presence. I sigh. Nope. I don’t think we’re going to be friends. She is determined to see me as her better.

I look around me. The dining room looks like it has held many state dinners. The table is a long mahogany Munich table with about 60 dining chairs to match. Each chair has a dark purple cushion with intricate patterns in various shades of purple. The chairs that are on both ends of the table have armrests with a carved lion lying and resting. I can see that the walls of this grand dining hall have golden wallpaper on the top half. The wallpaper is striped, with some areas as matte gold and the others have a nice bright sheen. There is crown molding and carvings of cherubs and muses along the ceiling that lead to three crystal chandeliers that hang high above the dining table. The bottom half of the wall has a similar white molding with carvings all along it.

I see that the dining chair farthest from me has table settings, and I walk over to it. Just then, Thorne’s butler steps out from a doorway nearest to the chair that I am about to sit in. He pulls out the chair for me, and I sit.

“Mr. Thorne apologizes for his absence, Miss Appleby,” the butler says.

“Oh? He won’t be joining me?” I try to hide the disappointment in my voice.

The butler smiles. Long enough for me to notice, but no longer, then he shakes his head. “No, Miss Appleby. Mr. Thorne is busy, but the Chef, Mr. Parchment, has prepared what Master Thorne believes are some of your favorite dishes.”

I am stunned. What an incredible memory the man has. I only ever remember mentioning foods that I liked in passing while we were talking about an email that required us to state our food preference for a conference we were attending, and that was more than two years ago. This must be how he beats his competitors all the time. Details and control are his business. It suddenly dawns on me; that’s his thing. Control.

“Thank you so much, Mr. …,” I trail away, as I realize I never got his name when I first arrived at the house.

“Just James,” he says, with a slight bow of his head.

“Thank you, James.” I smile at him.

He nods politely. “May I bring you an aperitif? I believe Mr. Thorne mentioned you might enjoy a dry martini.”

I exhale slowly. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

He nods and disappears behind the door from whence he came. I drink my perfectly shaken drink while standing by the window and looking out into the dreamily-lit formal garden. There is a massive fruit bowl filled with all kinds of ripe fruit. I look at the nectarines and feel my mouth begin to water. I haven’t eaten since I’ve arrived and now I’m starving.

Afterwards, he serves me my favorite dishes. The Chef is superb and he manages to make leek and potato soup and shepherd’s pie not only taste better than any I have had, but also look like they should be served in a top restaurant. The chocolate brownie is warm and gooey in the center, and the ice cream is homemade, and of course, it is to die for, but the whole time the thoughts that are most prevalent in my mind are:

Where is Thorne?

And why do I care so much that he is not eating with me?