"Three days and not a drop to drink," Patrick's voice observed clinically. "Most would be barely breathing by now."
I remained silent, squinting against the painful brightness. Hunger and thirst had become a dull constant. My skin felt filthy, hair matted against my scalp.
Patrick set something on the floor—a tray, I realised as my vision adjusted. A glass of water. A small plate of food. His immaculate appearance contrasted obscenely with my degradation.
"Are you thirsty, Beatrice?" he asked, voice gentle as though speaking to a child.
I refused to answer despite my body's desperate craving.
"You may have water," he continued in that same disturbing gentleness, "when you say: 'I belong to Patrick O'Brien, body and soul.'"
I stared at the glass, calculating how long before severe dehydration caused organ failure. Not much longer in my current condition.
"I belong to Patrick O'Brien, body and soul," I recited, each word bitter ash on my tongue.
He nodded approvingly, lifting the glass to my lips but allowing only a small sip before withdrawing it. "Now: 'Alexander Moore means nothing to me.'"
I hesitated, weighing physical need against something deeper.
Patrick's expression hardened. "Say it, or the water leaves with me."
"Alexander Moore means nothing to me," I lied, the words hollow.
He rewarded me with another sip, the water going down painfully past my parched throat. Thus began a grotesque training session—water and food provided in tiny increments, each morsel requiring a specific phrase of submission, each phrase designed to break my will more thoroughly than any physical violence.
After providing just enough sustenance to keep me conscious, Patrick produced silk ropes from his pocket—Hermès scarves—my scarves—tied together, I noted distantly, recognising the distinctive orange-red shade even in the dim light. The expensive material contrasted obscenely with the filth on my body as he bound my wrists behind my back.
He forced me on my knees on the bed, and it was tough to stay in my position because all I wanted to do was keel over.
Patrick sensed this and grabbed my arm, squeezing, which was the only thing holding me up. A touch to lean on, a touch that wrecked me.
My mind detached from my body because I knew Patrick was far from done with me. He knew how weak I was still, so he held back… but still he wouldn't leave me alone. I was forced to play the game from the depths of my humiliation.
"Say his name," Patrick demanded, his voice strained with exertion.
I remained silent.
His hand closed around my throat, pressure increasing until spots danced in my vision. "Say his name," he repeated.
"Alexander," I whispered.
"Again."
"Alexander."
With each utterance of Alexander's name, Patrick tore the clothes from my body while still holding me by the neck with one hand. He destroyed item by item, until I was naked, surrounded by tatters of expensive designer wear. Meanwhile, he described in methodical detail how he would mutilate Alexander if we were ever caught together, his voice flat, even, in contrast with the grotesque imagery.
What Patrick couldn't understand: my repeated saying of Alexander's name wasn't breaking my obsession but sanctifying it. Each utterance transformed it into something beyond the bastard's comprehension—not mere fixation but sacred purpose.
Naked and more vulnerable than ever, my resolve strengthened. I would destroy the Flanagan's business at Ashford, and I would make Alexander mine.
Blessedly, Patrick thought me too pathetic to fuck right then. I'd lost some weight in three days, and he wanted me completelylucid when he broke me over and over. So he released me with a smirk and let me fall back on the bed.
"Pathetic bitch. I'll visit again when I'm ready. Tonight, I might get myself a couple of whores to do what you cannot."
I wished he'd bloody well choke on his dinner and die tonight, but I did not react for that would be the stupidest thing ever. When he finally left, his expression held the satisfied certainty that he'd broken me at last. The door closed, locks engaged. I remained motionless, allowing my expression to maintain the vacant surrender he expected until his footsteps faded completely.
Only then did I move, my hatred rising to the surface. Patrick's arrogance had finally enabled a fatal error. In his arrogance, Patrick had grown careless. The phone had slipped from his pocket during his assault, sliding partially under the bed's metal frame. His satisfaction with my apparent surrender blinded him to his mistake as he left, convinced I was too broken to notice anything beyond my own misery.
