Edmond steps back, hissing out atskbefore he spreads both arms out and gestures to both our plates. “Chef has prepared a bourbon and balsamic caramelized rib eye with?—”
I get lost in his words, entranced by the food on my plate with half a notion to snatch up my fork and knife and dig in. If I had a knife. I glance around my plate for one. Nope. Part of me wonders if one of the girls tried to fight her way out of here.
Leaning forward, I curl my hand near my fork, twitching to touch it. Edmond is still droning on about dessert, and I catch the congressman watching my knuckles turn white.
In a quick and sudden move, he holds up his hand to quiet Edmond’s diatribe.
“Oh, uh, please eat.” Edmond offers half a bow—spine straight, one hand resting behind his back—and inclines his head.
I pluck the fork from beside the plate, pile it with mashed potatoes, and shove it without propriety into my mouth. It undoes me. Warm, fluffy, rich—they melt across my tongue like the very velvet curtains that opened to put me here.
I can’t help the sigh that comes out of me, and my eyes flutter, closing as I swallow too fast. It’s not even halfway down, and my body’s begging for more.
Makes tonight almost worth it.
I gasp and pause. I hate myself for thinking that.Never ever think that again.
The loaded bite I took churns in my empty stomach, and suddenly I’m nauseous. I can’t believe getting some food has already made me drop my guard.
I fling the fork, and it clatters to the side as I push the plate back, swallowing the thickness in my throat.
The congressman, who has yet to touch his food, studies me. I want to smack the curious look off his face. To kick, scream, and run. I want to tell him to stop playing with me. Stop feeding me like he’s preparing me to endure him. That awful pinprick sensation tickles behind my eyes.
Say something! Say something!
But no matter how loud I scream at myself, or how loud the voices in my head prompt me to stand up for myself … I can’t.
“Is there something wrong with your food, miss?” Edmond approaches my side, and all I can do is shake my head and fold in on myself.
My shoulders turn inward. I slouch, spine curving as I pretend I’m okay. Deep somewhere, my mother’s words blare then fizzle out.
“Miss?”
“I-I’m not hungry.”
Edmond glances back at the congressman, who gestures to the paper on the table. He stands, picks up his plate, and exits the room without a single word or sparing me a look.
Edmond reaches in front of me and picks up my plate. For a second, I want to stop him, to grab at his wrist and demand he leave it. Only … I watch it go. He sets it out of the way and pushes the piece of paper in front of me.
“I will have the kitchen keep this warm for you. Perhaps your appetite will return once we go over this.” He turns it over, picking it up to hand to me.
The paper trembles in my hands, though I try to keep my grip steady. One page. One heavy stock page with a clean, professional letterhead. From the office of Congressman Slade DuPont.
Slade. My eyes catch on his first name, but then the words non-disclosure agreement glare at me, and I skim the first few paragraphs. My heart thuds in my chest as I do. Between the lines of standard NDA language, it’s cold. Precise and unapologetic.
He wants confidentiality. Irrevocable consent. I can’t disclose information “verbal, written, or otherwise obtained” during my time at the lake house.
I-I don’t understand. But as I read, the wording sharpens.
This Agreement applies to any knowledge of activities, substances, individuals, or conversations witnessed or otherwise discovered on or near the property identified herein.
I swallow hard.
Including, but not limited to, ingestion of gamma-hydroxybutyrate (GHB), and the parties present during said occurrence.
My thumb tightens around the corner of the page. What is GHB? Ingestion? I glance at the vial on the table.
Oh god. My stomach flips.
