Page 181 of Captive Ruin

His head tilts to the side. “Did I pass?”

I can’t look at him, or answer. Tears fill my eyes, and I’m not even sure why. He so desperately wants my acceptance, and I can’t bring myself to give it to him. I don’t know if I’m broken, or justified. I’m too tired to tell.

“Just… sit down,” I mutter.

He makes his way back to his chair, his steps stronger. Sits down. Crosses one knee over the other and rests his hands on top, back straight, like he’s found a reservoir of energy, his confidence restored. “I’ll stay with you forever if you’ll let me.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll do anything it takes to change your mind.”

Maybe that was supposed to be romantic or reassuring, but coming from him, all I hear is the threat.

“And if you can’t?” I whisper, not really wanting to know.

“Then I’ll try something different until I find what works.”

That’s more the Van Wyk I know, making declarations he can’t possibly uphold like they’re gospel, and then pulling it off anyway.

It’s familiar, it’s safe. And I like it.

Fuck, I’m so screwed.

Forty

Amelia

Three days later, I’m back at his house and sitting in the sunroom. The house is quiet. With the Volkov threat gone, Tony and Jorge have left us. They might’ve been my jailers, but I kind of miss them.

Everything feels subdued, or maybe it’s me. Linda tiptoes around me like she’s scared I’ll snap at any moment, and it’s wearing. She started to apologize for giving me the Ambien, but thankfully stopped before awkward became unbearable.

As for me, I no longer want to feel numb, so that’s something. What I really want is to get my life back, but I don’t know how. I have no gallery, no income, just the money from the insurance in my bank account.

I’ve let my apartment go. Paying rent made no sense when I’ll never live there again. Van Wyk happily arranged for my things to be shipped here, but I’ve not unpacked the boxes, not even for my mementos and pictures of my parents. I can’t bring myself to get them out. How can I even look at them knowing how disappointed they’d be in me?

The house feels different. It’s still my prison, but the ghosts of Juliette seem to have settled. Or maybe it’s knowing the truth. Van Wyk has promised he won’t leave again, and promised me freedom—so long as it’s not a divorce. But I don’t know what freedom looks like, so I don’t know what to ask for. What do I do, get a job? We’re ninety minutes from NYC, and my husband is worth a fortune.

I miss my gallery. I miss my sister and my friends, but I don’t feel strong enough to see them yet.

I am stronger, though. I no longer want to swallow a bottle of pills. Instead, I want to yell and scream at Van Wyk, my anger never far away. Yet it’s tempered with memories of him with red-rimmed eyes and wrinkled clothing, promising me change.

I’ve barely seen him since we got back. He spends all his time in the office, often on the phone. So I’m not abandoned, I’m just… alone.

And I’m waiting for him to do whatever it is he’s going to do, waiting for my life to begin again, waiting until I can decide what I’m going to do.

Buy some books and get them shipped, for a start. Someone must know the address of this place.

The next day, he walks in wearing a morose expression, and flops into one of the other chairs.

He doesn’t usually disturb me when I’m in here. I raise an eyebrow in curiosity, but he merely stares at the floor a few feet in front of his chair.

I try to focus on my book, but his brooding presence is distracting.

“Are you all right?”

“A man I know was killed.”

Jesus, that’s out of the blue. “I’m so sorry, Van Wyk—”