Why is this so formal? They’re protecting trade secrets. Not someone’s body. Not mine.
The Receiving Party shall not disclose or reference said information to any third party, including but not limited to legal counsel, law enforcement, media outlets, or immediate family. Violation of this agreement will result in immediate legal recourse and potential criminal prosecution, including pursuit of financial damages and injunctive relief.
“What is this?” I whisper, the words barely leaving my throat.
Edmond sighs. “Congressman DuPont would like this signed. Anything that happens in the twelve hours you’re here is not to be disclosed to anyone. That includes the other girls.”
My lips tremble and my chin quivers. What’s he going to do to me?
I toss the paper down.
“Thea, please find comfort. Slade DuPont will not force anything from you this evening. You are free to eat, shower, and get a good night’s rest. The non-disclosure agreement is for this.” He reaches for and snatches the clear liquid off the table.
“What is that?”
“GHB. Gamma-hydroxybutyrate. More commonly known as the date-rape drug. However, it can also help you.”
I blink, scooching away from the vial he still holds in front of me.
“It is a central nervous system depressant that causes drowsiness, lowers inhibitions, confusion, and unconsciousness.”
“And what am I supposed to do with that?” I ask. Drug myself to forget?
“I’ve already explained too much. If you’d like to know the rest, Slade—er, Congressman DuPont—requests you sign the NDA.”
I stare at the verbiage on the single page, my mind spiraling. Eat. Shower. Rest. Three magical words that are singing to me right now. Louder and louder, overpowering the rich scent of meat and potatoes lingering. Louder than the whir of the chilled air blasting into the room. And louder than the pounding of my heart.
Why would he need my silence? It’s not like I could tell anyone even if I wanted to. Unless … unless he plans to let me go someday? My pulse trips over the thought. It could be a trick, another leash wrapped in the legal ink most politicians use to further their agenda. Or … or maybe this is a way to keep me alive.
I want to know, I realize. I need to know, to find out, right?
My eyes scan the signature line.
What kind of girl signs her silence away to know the secrets of the monster who made her need it in the first place?
CHAPTER EIGHT
THEA
I’m not in Chicago anymore. I can’t be. Not when my surroundings look like this.
My toes curl against the porcelain tub, ripples spreading from my knee as I study the arched doorway leading into the bedroom. White stone tiles stretch the length of the arch, wall to wall, and a seagrass heated tile floor that brings shame to the hardwood spread throughout the rest of the house. The massive, jetted tub with a white stone edge sits beneath a towering picture window framing the night like a painting. Beyond the glass, the lake is barely visible. Just the faintest shimmer where the moonlight touches the lapping water.
The soft glow of the recessed lights overhead catches the steam as it rises in lazy swirls, dissolving before it reaches the three-sink marble vanity—something you’d expect to find at a weekend spa retreat, not in someone’s home.
But he’s not just anyone …
Slade DuPont.
The name at the top of the contract pulses through my mind while the hot water cradles my weightless body. It wasn’t my plan when Edmond escorted me to “my” room, but when heopened the door to the guest bedroom, the room radiated coastal elegance.
He mumbled something about Elliot stopping by to bring paperwork to Congressman DuPont and then scurried off, leaving me shaking, dumbfounded, and holding a tiny bottle of drugs.
A palette of sea-glass blues, sun-bleached whites, and sandy taupes bathed the space, drawing me in. So different from the muted browns and faded yellows of my parents’ home. After my mom died, the house was musty, smelling of stale alcohol and rotting dishes.
But here …
Sheer curtains billow over the French doors opening onto a private patio, surrounded by trimmed hedges and overlooking the lake. The same driftwood-type hardwood creaked as I gently padded into the room and spun around. Once, twice, three times …
