12
CORA
I wake up to silence. No one is standing over me with an ax and a ghoulish smile. No one is dangling my best friend’s fate in my face. No one bursts in and rips my curtains open and orders me here and there.
That all comes as somewhat of a surprise.
Half of my night was spent tossing and turning, imagining the torture that was waiting for me in the morning. Would Mikhail come back and try groping me again? Maybe I’d wake up with Alexander sitting on the edge of my bed, stroking my hair away from my forehead like a stepdad from a Dateline episode.
But there’s nothing. Just the sound of birds singing outside my window.
“We fucking get it,” I mumble at the sparrows, rolling over and pulling the covers over my head. “You’re happy. Don’t rub it in.”
I stay buried under the covers for as long as I can until finally, I sigh and get up. I didn’t bring any clothes with me, but someone clearly prepared for my arrival. All of my favorite clothes from high school are still hanging in my closet. But next to those is a stash of brand new items with tags attached. They’re all in my current size. One pair of jeans, a few t-shirts, and hanger after hanger after hanger of demure, girlish dresses.
I try not to think about what it means that someone bought these clothes, knowing I’d be held prisoner here. Whoever it was had some skewed expectations. No way I’m pulling a June Cleaver and showing up to breakfast in a floral print dress. If that’s what Alexander wants, he better get out his lobotomy equipment.
But even prisoners need to eat. So after I steel myself for whatever my captors have waiting for me, I creep down the stairs towards the kitchen for something to eat. Coffee, at least.
I don’t see anyone in the sitting room and I can’t hear any voices. Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll pour myself a cup of coffee and grab a banana without being seen. A few more hours alone in my room sounds nice.
But luck hasn’t been on my side recently. Actually, Lady Luck has been a stone-cold bitch who seems to get her shits and giggles from kicking me when I’m already way down.
So I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that, the moment my toes touch the hardwood floor of the entryway, my name is called from the dining room.
“Cordelia,” Alexander says like he has been expecting me. “We’re in here.”
I don’t know who “we” is, but I don’t want to be included in the group. It is firmly Me versus Them.
Caffeine-less and stomach growling, I stand tall and walk into the dining room.
Then my past wallops me over the head with a chair.
“Mom…”
My mom is here. She’ll save me.
Except my mom is wearing a string of pearls around her throat that might as well be a dog collar. She looks at me with a pleasant smile on her face. No concern. No fear. She just smiles at me blankly, like some kind of robot hand-programmed by a psychopath.
After the hellish twenty-four hours I’ve had, there isn’t a mother in the world that would do anything but run to their kid and hold them in their arms.
But my mother doesn’t move.
She isn’t going to help me do a goddamn thing.
I clear my throat and try to take in the rest of the room through the sheen of tears. “Good morning.”
Alexander smiles and gestures for me to take the seat next to him. The seat between him and Mikhail.
“It’s a full house today,” I mumble.
Mikhail stands up and pulls out my chair. “We’ve been waiting for you to start breakfast.”
“No one told me. I slept in. Yesterday was… hectic. I needed the extra rest this morning.”
He shoves my chair up to the table a little too hard. My ribs pinch against the edge and I have to slide away to catch my breath.
Without warning, Alexander claps his hands.
I jolt in surprise, but no one notices because the door to the kitchen opens and three maids hurry out carrying trays of fruit and pastries. Another has pitchers of milk and orange juice in her hands.
“Wow.”
Alexander’s smile slips. “What is so surprising? Was Ivan not feeding you breakfast?”
My mom is staring down at her lap and I get the sense I’ve done something wrong. But I’m not sure what.
“No, we had breakfast. I just don’t remember there ever being a full kitchen staff here first thing in the morning. We always ate—”
“That’s what happens when you don’t keep in touch,” he snaps. “Things change.”
Yeah, and apparently, the main thing that must have changed is the number of zeroes in Alexander’s bank account. When I last lived here, he would hire temporary staff to impress dinner guests. After that night, I’d never see them again. Now, there are three—no, four women dishing out sliced fruit and pouring glasses of milk.
Mikhail is looking from me to Alexander with a slightly puzzled furrow between his brows. Is this little show for his benefit?
Maybe my two co-abductors aren’t as honest and open with each other as I thought.
I file the information away for later and grab a croissant from the center of the table. These people may be monsters, but nothing can get between me and a flaky pastry.
We eat in silence. Alexander waves his hand and requests a coffee refill. My mom picks at the three strawberries on her plate for fifteen minutes before she dares to grab a spoonful of blueberries for seconds.
The only time Mikhail says anything is to make a comment under his breath as I reach for my third croissant.
“You haven’t had any fruit, Cordelia.”
Without breaking eye contact, I pluck a banana off the table and peel it. He finally looks away when I wrap my lips around the tip of it.
I know I shouldn’t play with fire. Not after what happened in my room yesterday. But after years of freedom, it hurts to feel the invisible chains around my wrists again.
Speaking of chains, I look over and see my mother staring wide-eyed at my wrist. At what her husband and Mikhail did to me.
I didn’t exactly have access to a first aid kit last night, so I did my best with hand soap and bits of a washcloth I ripped into strips. They fell off while I was sleeping and I woke up with no bleeding, so I didn’t bother covering them up. Now, I’m glad I didn’t.
If my mother has deluded herself into thinking I’m here by choice, then hopefully, my scabbed-over injuries can be a wake-up call to her.
“Is something wrong, Mom?” I ask.
She blinks and looks towards Alexander in a panic. But he isn’t looking at her—he’s watching me.
Mikhail pushes my arm under the table and wraps his hand around my raw wrist. He squeezes the freshly-closed cuts until a whimper is forced out of my throat.
Then he chuckles to the rest of the table. “Cordelia has forgotten her manners while she was away.”
“I hate how—” My mom stops and clears her throat. “I always hate the adjustment period after being away. The week after a vacation, I’m always a mess. It’s hard to get back into a routine.”
I’ve never had a great poker face. This moment is no different.
I just stare at my mom, mouth open because I can’t believe what she just said.
Is she comparing me fleeing my home in the middle of the night and changing my name to protect myself from her husband… to a vacation?
I pick my jaw up off the floor and push away from the table. “Yeah, I agree. Such a strange transition. It’s a bit of a culture shock to go from being your own person and having freedom to being forced into—”
“Cordelia!” My name rings across the table. Alexander doesn’t quite have the bass necessary for his shout to be truly intimidating. Not the way Ivan can make it feel like the world around you is thundering without even raising his voice. But he gives it his best shot. It’s enough to interrupt me mid-sentence.
My mother drops her eyes to the table. She has never looked less impressive to me. So small. So meek.
Before I left, I had some compassion for her. I viewed her like a person trapped in a cult. Someone with the best intentions who couldn’t see the damage being inflicted around them.
But she can see it all now… and she’s still here. Even when her own daughter is collateral damage.
I run my tongue over my teeth and turn to Alexander. “Yes?”
“I’d like to speak to you in my office,” he grits out. “Now.”
“I’m not finished eating.”
I reach for another croissant, but Mikhail grabs my wrist again. He jerks my arm back and twists. We knock over a glass of juice and a bright orange stain spreads across the white tablecloth.
“Let her go,” Alexander orders.
Mikhail squeezes harder. “I’ll let her go when she shows me that she can behave herself. I might have to carry her in—”
“Let. Her. Go.” There is no question in my stepfather’s voice. No request.
It’s an order.
And Mikhail follows.
He drops my arm and slowly settles his hand in his lap. But he doesn’t take his eyes off of me.
Alexander walks to his office at a fast clip. I follow, feeling Mikhail’s gaze on me the entire time.
Whether they know it or not, they just revealed a gaping crack in their facade. I make a mental note to poke at it later.