Chapter Two
ASHLEY’S ARMS ACHED; her fingers tingled as the silk straps tied around her wrists and the carved bedpost cut off her circulation. Arms over her head, she stood beside the bed, her naked body stretched with her back pressed to the cold, hard wood. She didn’t feel the crisp winter chill in the room from the open window anymore. Another small but effective means to torment and degrade her. Numb from the inside out, she stood before her captor, indifferent to whatever he did next.
After all this time, what did it matter?
Every escape attempt futile and foiled.
Every plea for mercy unheeded.
Every day another day of torture to endure.
She didn’t know how long she’d been here. The days and nights blurred into one big never-ending nightmare. She stopped wondering if anyone was looking for her, or even cared that she disappeared. She didn’t think about the life she’d lost back in L.A. She didn’t dream of her future, or regret all the might-have-beens that would probably never be.
She endured each and every day with only one thought in mind: survive.
Some days, like today, she didn’t know why she bothered. Last night, she’d made a mistake. Miscalculated her captor’s tenuous hold on sanity. Or maybe more accurately, his need to inflict pain and have his fantasy play out just so. It had to be flawless, the illusion only he saw in his mind but expected her to play to perfection.
Illusion was her stock-in-trade.
She’d earned three back-to-back Oscar nominations, winning the third for making people believe the characters she portrayed.
Until now, she’d refused to become the character her captor demanded, wanted, craved.
And she’d paid dearly for it the last many months she’d been here, but most especially last night. Her ribs and back still ached from the beating. Every breath felt like sucking in fire. Her cracked ribs would heal in time. She wasn’t so sure about her fractured mind.
It had finally come to the point where she understood, believed she was his—to do with as he pleased.
She would never escape this hell.
“I hope tonight will be different.” Brice pulled the ice-blue gown from the closet. The elegant dress swished as he draped it over his arm to show it off. She’d worn such beautiful things on dozens of red carpets. But the thought of putting that on for him filled her gut with dread and pushed bile up her throat, choking her with fear.
Not that one.
Not Aurora from Flame in the Night.
Any other character. Any other movie she could play out for him again and again, but this one only ended badly.
Last night’s beating would seem like a trip to an amusement park. He wanted to punish her for holding out, holding back day after day, night after night. She’d reached the end of his patience and endurance.
He wanted what he wanted.
And he meant to get it from her, even by force, despite the fact that he knew the only way it would ever be perfect was if she gave in, gave up, and committed to giving him the dream: her, wholly and completely immersed in character and in love with him.
Before tonight her mind screamed never.
Now that voice sighed its last breath in defeat.
Until tonight, she could not pretend to be the woman he wanted, a made-up character on-screen, a woman who adored him with undying love. She could not pretend that she’d find a way out of here. She could not pretend this was all a terrible nightmare.
She could not do this anymore.
She won the Oscar with her portrayal of Aurora, a woman who falls for a rich and powerful businessman disillusioned with people and the world until he meets her. Aurora reignites his passion for life. The love they share is something neither of them expected.
A modern-day fairy tale set in New York. Duncan living alone in the penthouse of his skyscraper castle. Aurora living on the lower floor, taking care of her ailing aunt, wishing for excitement and a less lonely life.
The movie instantly became a classic romance, one that would probably stand the test of time and be adored by one generation after the next.
Brice wanted that love story to be his. He wanted Aurora to be his real-life lover. He wanted to have a love like no other. He wanted her to bring that fantasy to life.
But he didn’t know how to love. He’d never felt that in his life. Within himself. Or from another.
She didn’t think he felt anything at all. Not really. Which is why he tried so hard to feel something.
“You brought on what happened last night. If only you’d stop holding back, we could have the life we both want. We would be the envy of all of Hollywood. The world.”
Yes, fans all over the world clamored for every scrap of information about her personal life. They devoured every picture and video of her on TV, the internet, and splashed across tabloid magazines. Didn’t matter if the stories were true or not. Didn’t matter if the man she was with was just a friend. People imagined an epic love story because that’s what she’d given them on-screen.
Just like everyone else fantasizing about being a movie star and living the perfect life, Brice wanted to live the dream that she knew was nothing more than illusion.
The backhanded slap across the mouth brought her out of her head and made her present in the moment.
“I’d hoped last night taught you to respond when I talk to you.”
Unsure if he asked her a question, or said something that even required comment, she stared at him, hoping for some kind of hint.
None forthcoming, her silence continued, and Brice’s face contorted with anger at her perceived insolence. He tossed the beautiful gown across the bed and punched her in the ribs to get her attention. Her body bucked and contorted with the force of the smacking blow. Reflex made her try to pull her arms down for protection, but the silken straps held her arms above her head, her body unprotected. Flesh pounded into flesh as another fist socked her in the side, connecting with her already-screaming ribs. She didn’t cry out at the sickening crack or the excruciating pain that followed. She focused on trying to get her breath, her back pressed to the post behind her, and the feel of the wood against her skin.
Instead of focusing on the roar of pain, she lost herself in her mind and the dream she’d created by the rippling river: the cool water flowing over her bare feet, the sun warm on her hair and shoulders, the sound of the wind whispering through the pretty green trees all around her. Peace.
A trick she’d taught herself weeks into her captivity because she couldn’t escape her gilded torture chamber, but her mind could take her anywhere she wanted to go.
Lately, a man joined her there at the river, his dark hair and narrowed eyes filled with pain and regret she recognized. Every time she reached out to him, he got farther away, but still she held her hand out and ran toward him, hoping to catch him and feel his strong, protective arms around her.
If only she could reach him.
“You will scream for me.”
And with those words, her sweet illusion vanished.
Yes, she would scream. The beating wouldn’t stop until she did. If she screamed too soon, he’d beat her for being weak. Too late, she might not be able to scream at all. The game had to be played. She knew the rules and the fine line she walked every second of the day.
She’d play her part, or he’d bring on the pain.
He liked to hurt her.
One day, she’d find a way to hurt him.
She’d find a way to escape.
She’d save herself.
And the boy he called son, but treated like an unruly dog that needed to be beaten into submission.
If only he’d make one mistake. Give her one small opening. She’d find a way to overcome the crippling fear of more pain and certain death, and take it.
But that day would never come. She knew that now.
The riding crop lashed across her bare thighs, once, twice, again and again as her body absorbed the punishment like a sponge does water, taking it in like memory. Bruises faded, cracked and broken bones mended, but every beating remained a part of her, darkening her mind and heart, leaving an indelible mark on her soul, never evaporating like water from the sponge.
Who would ever have guessed the guy everyone thought funny, charming, and warm was actually a coldhearted bastard with a sick fascination with torture and pain.
His hand clamped onto her jaw, holding her face in his tight grip. She tried to stay in that place by the river in her mind, fighting to get to that dark-haired man with the reluctant grin he sometimes gave her, but Brice got in her face, demanding her undivided attention. With him this close, his body pressed to her naked one, she could only focus on him and the overwhelming fear twisting her gut. The anticipation vibrating through him rocked through both of them, dilating his eyes with a passion he couldn’t fulfill no matter how hard he tried.
She paid dearly for his inability to fuck her. As much as he wanted her, without her devoted performance of his fantasy, he couldn’t get what he needed to get it up and find satisfaction. So he found it in the excitement inflicting pain gave him.
She knew exactly what would happen if she finally gave in, gave him what he wanted and he still couldn’t take her to bed and finish his fantasy. He’d kill her for giving him everything he wanted and blame her for his not being able to be the man, the lover, who fulfilled her every erotic need.
“The sacrifices I’ve made for you. The things I’ve done to please you.”
He’d cut his thinning, graying brown hair short and styled it like the young actors and rock stars did these days. That messy bed-head look with an edge. He kept his beard trimmed short, though it didn’t grow in evenly. Across his cheeks and jaw, the patches were varying shades of brown, gray, and white. It didn’t make him look distinguished or youthful. He looked ridiculous. Especially now, when he was dressed in a black skinny-leg suit, white shirt, and gray tie. He tried to attain the slim, ripped physique of the men she played opposite in the movies, but with his advanced age, his penchant for fine wine and decadently rich foods, he’d never have the physical perfection of some twenty-something man again. Thirty-six years her senior, he deluded himself into believing a young woman like herself would see a sexy, distinguished, worldly man. All she saw was a delusional old man, trying to be something he’d never been even in his youth.
“You have everything you need here.”
A beautiful room filled with antique furniture, thick carpets over gleaming hardwood floors. Priceless floral art on the walls. A plush bed with silk sheets. An all-too-inviting Jacuzzi tub in the marble bathroom. Velvet drapes over embroidered sheers.
Bars on the windows. Locks on the door. And the converted walk-in closet that served as her cell with its hardwood floor and heavy metal doors with the wood veneer to hide what lay behind on her side of them. No light. No window. An empty, dark box. A place to hold her until she gave him what he wanted.
The rest of the room a temptation she didn’t dare want.
But she did, especially when she lay on that cold, hard floor aching from yet another lesson in pain and endurance.
His hand clamped over her breast in a punishing squeeze. She hissed out a pain-filled breath, but he took it for excited passion. “This is what you want.”
She wanted it to be over. She didn’t want to spend another minute in that black box. She didn’t want to hurt anymore. She didn’t want to feel anything anymore.
All she had to do was become his living fantasy and it would all be over.
What started as psychological torture and rare outbursts of physical abuse had turned into increasingly dire beatings. The gnawing ache of hunger her constant companion. Every breath hurt. Every bone and muscle ached. Every second she spent alone and lonely and desperate and sad in her cell had become one too many. She couldn’t do this anymore.
She wanted out.
She needed out.
One way or another.
Living in hell, she decided to walk right into the fire and end this once and for all.