I like to control, and what better use of my time than to control another human being. It will keep the demons at bay, and I can’t believe I haven’t thought of this sooner.
She edges away from me, her head resting on the window, and her sadness rolls off her like the raindrops on the glass outside. Beautiful melancholy. She is a vision, and as soon as I can, I’ll paint her. It’s another creative outlet for my rage, and my studio is full of canvases that reveal my inner madness. I will add her to the pile, using her, abusing her and ruining her.
Suddenly, I have a purpose and I’m impatient to get started. As my car stops outside my front door, I prepare myself for a new beginning.
Spencer opens the door, and I’m abrupt as I order her, “Follow me. Honey we’re home.”
Her curiosity replaces disdain, and with a small gasp she whispers, “Your home is amazing.”
The smart townhouse in the heart of Belgravia is a particular jewel in my crown. My neighbors are mainly Arabs, some princes and a few politicians. I surround myself with potential contacts and live a life many only read about on the internet and dream about at night.
I am the king of Belgravia and sought after at parties and social occasions. Tiffany will soon learn exactly why I prefer to live in London, because this is where I am most at home.
“Mr. Ravera.”
Mrs. Harrington is waiting as instructed, and I nod, offering her a small smile.
“It’s good to be home.”
She nods respectfully.
“It’s good to see you, sir.”
I jerk my thumb toward Tiffany, who is gazing around her with wide eyes, appearing small and shrunk inside my coat as she peers around with interest.
“Miss Zaferelli requires freshening up. Show her to the guest room at the top of the house.”
Mrs. Harrington appears stunned, and yet masks it well and nods, a flicker of distaste passing through her smile. To anyone observing, she is nothing but respectful, but I am a studier of humanity and miss nothing. She is right in her distaste because the guest room at the top of the house affords no luxury. It’s almost a forgotten addition to an otherwise grand space. The walls are bare, the window is small and the furnishings are sparse. A single bed occupies the space, and the bathroom is set down the hall.
There are no luxuries in the guest room at the top of the house, which suits my agenda perfectly.
Mrs. Harrington nods and smiles at Tiffany.
“Please follow me, Miss Zaferelli.”
The lady in question shrugs out of my coat and hands it to me with a small smile.
“Thank you. I appreciated the gesture.”
It reminds me that I must arrange her closet, and as she moves away, I watch her go with a thoughtful expression. I’m excited. The possibilities are endless, and as she progresses up the grand staircase, I almost wish I could witness her reaction to a space more like the convent she left than the luxury of my home.
As soon as they are out of sight, I turn to Spencer, who, as always, remains by my side, ready for my instruction.
We walk toward my den, and I issue them on the way.
“Research Priscilla Van Der Hudson. Find out why she left her daughter with Enrico and made no attempt to reunite with her. Then check the list of visitors to the convent. Instruct Mrs. Harrington to summon Harriet Soames this afternoon and arrange for the chef to prepare a meal for Tiffany. Basic rations only.”
He is wise not to speak because I’m being deliberately cruel and he knows it, but Spencer doesn’t have a clue why. First, I must break my project down in order to rebuild her and fancy wine and meals will not achieve my objective.
I reach my den, loving the scent of polished wood, the faint trace of my aftershave lingering in the air. Blending with the aroma of bourbon and the faint trace of a cigar. My one guilty pleasure as I contemplate my next task.
My chessboard rests on the low-slung table by the fire, the next move beckoning as I consider the plan. Not many people play chess on their own, but my board is merely strategy, and it’s interesting that my eyes are drawn to the queen. A shiver of expectation hits me as I imagine her near future. Then my gaze falls to the king in the perfect place to destroy the pawn in hispath. My nerves resurface, and the pain sears my spirit, and I snap, “Arrange for Su Yin to visit within the hour.”
He nods, clearing his throat as my words hit home. He never asks, but must have many questions, and yet he will never hear the answers.
Nobody will when it concerns Su Yin. I need her more than I need to breathe, which is why she is my top priority right now.
As Spencer heads off to his den in the room beside mine, I am confident he will carry my instructions out to the letter.
