Page 168 of Captive Ruin

She didn’t gatecrash the dance, she was fucking invited. No wonder Van Wyk merely danced with her. All this fuss is a smokescreen; she’s married to someone in the Company.

It’s a test. Van Wyk is playing games, testing me.

Why? What is he trying to achieve?

“I don’t care about the money anymore.” And it was never about that anyway.

“Really?” she asks. “Why not?”

“Because we can’t fucking spend it.” Money can’t buy happiness, but it sure as hell can buy freedom. Yet not in the form of retail therapy with Tony dogging my every step. “Not in any way that makes a difference.”

“What would make a difference, Amelia?” she pushes. I don’t know what she’s after, and I don’t care. I’m so done with this. “Clothes? Cars? Travel?”

It’s like she can read my mind. I’d fly away if I could.

“Getting somewhere?” she says, leaning forward. “Seeing someone?”

My sister. Sierra. But it’s all just too complicated.

I don’t know why he’s sent her, but I’ve had enough of being tormented by this woman.

“Stop,” I snap. “I know what you’re doing. You’re part of it, aren’t you? You’re one of them. One of the system.” The damn Company, whatever it is. “You can tell my husband that I passed his test. I’m not trying to leave any more, all right? I’m not…”

Fine.

Is that what he wants to hear? Is that why he sends a private investigator, in lieu of a goddamn therapist? Or maybe no one in the Company is married to a therapist.

I can’t imagine why.

Vicky is staring at me, and I compose myself with a breath. It’s surprisingly easy, my numbness returning without any effort.

“My apologies,” I say, playing the game. “That was a little sharp. I mean that I wouldn’t dream of going anywhere without Lukas.” I stand up, knowing I’m being rude and still not caring. “Now, if you don’t mind, I think I might go for a nap.”

Vicky leans back, her mission apparently accomplished. “Yeah, you should do that. Sleep well.”

I walk into the bedroom and close the door. Sit on the edge of the bed. Set my glass of wine down on the nightstand.

I’m trembling. Not just my hands; all of me.

What the hell was that?

At the dance, he told me to engage with her. That whole dialogue with Bastien about her being a PI, right as I turned away.

It was a goddamn setup. Some convoluted attempt for me to trust her, perhaps? So that I’d open up to her?

Van Wyk pulling strings, because he knew I wouldn’t talk to him.

Is nothing sacred anymore?

I’m so tired of it all. So unbelievably exhausted.

My eyes land on the bottle of Ambien. Sleep doesn’t really solve the problem, but it postpones it.

I unscrew the cap, tipping one out. But my hand trembles, and several fall into my palm. Neat little salmon-colored ovals.

What would happen if I took more than one?

I shake the bottle again, and the rest spill out. The act is almost mesmerizing. Strangely compelling, yet dissociative. Like it’s the behavior of someone other than me.