Chapter 12
Christian
September 14th, 2020
Christian digs the pocketknife into his palm, steadying his hand as he makes shallow cuts while he participates in the video conference call. He stares at the monitor on his standing desk, nodding periodically. Expressionless. No moan or mention of the pain escapes his mouth as he listens to his publicist, Mckenna, the current VP of an elite public relations firm.
"Reporters don't work hard enough. We need to help them," Mckenna, says. "We've sent our content to multiple publications, highlighting the facts. The numbers should help. Christians donated over $2 Million Dollars in the last 6 months to charities that benefit historically disadvantaged groups."
The blood start pulsating faster, dripping down Christian's palm. He stops cutting. Not wanting scars. He uses his clean hand to turn off his video and examines the parallel cuts. Not deep.
Satisfied with his control, Christian places the bloody knife on his desk, wrapping his hand up with a tissue. It soaks through leading him to take it off and let the wound heal itself. Ignoring the blood, he walks towards his shelves and admires his home office setup. Perfection. The combination of cool and warm lighting in the room calms him, as he scrutinizes the room's artwork. The modern photographs give the flat wall dimension.
Listening to Mckenna strategy, he decides returning to GEH's headquarters isn't worth it. They should move to permanent telework. Dealing with people isn't worth the price. All she cares about is His getting more press hits. A donation there. A statement here.
Christian turns down the volume on the call and moves towards his shelving unit. Mckenna doesn't realize. Nothing changes the past.
His eyes rest on the odd piece of paper sticking awkwardly from the upper shelf. Pausing, he picks it up with his clean hand and pauses. The brochure he pocketed from his night with Ana. The cheap inn. He reads the unsophisticated advertisement and a familiar self-loathing that fills him.
"Christian," Andrea says, her sharp voice loud enough to get his attention, despite the lowered volume. "Do you approve of Mckenna's strategy? She said she'd send you the list of definitive statements."
"I approve," Christian says. "Thank you Mckenna. I look forward to the list. I have another appointment. Andrea please wrap things up and report the findings to Ros."
"Will do," Andrea says, as he hangs up.
How much did Jack's viral tweet cost him? Thousands of dollars. Christian scowls, suspecting more people were involved than Jack. There's no way he had many followers. Sock puppet accounts, bots…something's missing here.
Crumpling the brochure, Christian tells himself he could escape this misery and immigrate to another country. Restart GEH there. No. This will be over soon. The news cycle will forget about it. Just like Ana did. He'll start fresh in 2021. He won't make the same mistakes again.
Christian finds the white papers he saved to his electronic files. Holographic gaming, digital drivers' licenses, or sensor social distancing. Nothing interests him.His drive, his gut instinct towards profitable ventures has disappeared over the past two weeks. The propellent he uses to steer his focus areas and invest for the long term – it's missing.
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Christian stands in the empty playroom, fully clothed and alone. He couldn't work and the room drew him in. The mirrors, the chains, the exotic toys from France. All unused. Without a submissive, this room feels wasteful. He should destroy it.
Striding towards his file cabinet, he opens one of the drawers. He should never have kept this thing. A stupid choice. He goes through the files of his submissives, reading the detailed logs. Treating his personal life like his business life–another failure.
Christian stops when he reaches Leila's file, his last submissive. The one who continued to call him even though he's blocked multiple numbers. He could have her again. She's obedient. Uncomplicated. Unlike Ana.
Plowing in the file, he looks for their old contract. But he finds her file empty. Only her pictures remain. Who took her file?
"Oh shit," Christian curses. Ana. His heart thuds in his chests. How would these files, look to her?
Christian sits on the large four poster bed and stares at the burgundy wall. The simplest explanation is clear. This…this is what scared her off. Not the news.
Standing up and walking out the room, he decides to call Ana again and get Taylor to check on her. The answer to getting his energy back is her. Missing her must be dragging down his mind.
Her Fear. This is where to put energy. He must remove it like it's a brain tumor bringing cancer to an otherwise healthy organ. A doctor first diagnoses.
Christian opens the door and climbs down the stairs. A cabinet of files on women. All brunettes just like her. Nude pictures. Long complicated contracts. She must think he's a serial killer. Winning her back needs to follow a similar process to changing the media's narrative- change the "facts".
Christian reaches his living room and an internal voice unsettles him. What if he's addressing the symptoms and not the disease? No. There's no time for analysis paralysis.
He resolves to focus on practical matters. Calling Ana and the white papers.
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Anastasia
I'm sitting in a styling chair in an empty salon in rural Montesano, waiting for Ginny, my stepdad's girlfriend. Should I let her give me bangs? I touch my hair, trying to imagine the fringe. Nope. I'm not sure they'd go well with a face mask.
Ever since the COVID restrictions loosened, Ginny started working again as an in-home hair stylist. Her customers are older, so it makes them more comfortable. I've been helping her with both marketing and supplies since I moved back here two weeks ago.
Montesano. Who would have thought? But after finding Christian's "files" and losing my new job, it was the best option. My phone vibrates. Christian's calling again. I hit ignore to his call.
I need to call back. But I want to protect myself. He's so good at explaining things, yet maybe he can't explain his way out of this. The playroom, the contact, the nude pictures. Plus, if I called him back, I'd have to tell him I lost my job because of him.
"Oh, look he left a voicemail," I say out loud. Should I listen to it? No. I'm not ready.
I go into my email to find my termination letter. It's attached to what would've been a welcome email from my almost employer. Reading it again, I see the irony. Losing a job, I never started. "An inclusive workplace is fundamental to our culture."
Kate told me to file a lawsuit for wrongful termination. She had said, "you can't get fired by association." She wanted to do a big media blowup where we got a petition signed. But I stopped her. Stupid games. Stupid prizes.
I swivel the black styling chair away from the mirror, not wanting to see my pale face, covered with red blotches. Even thinking about him, gives me a physical reaction.
Not able to stop myself, I listen to Christian's voicemail. My heart beats faster as soon as I hear his voice. "Ana, we need to talk. I'll explain everything. I know you saw the files."
My stomach tightens, as I play the voicemail again, to hear his voice one more time. The unfairness hits me, and I feel the goosebumps line my arm. It's not even cold here. But I have the chills.
What if I'm what Hardy warned against? A strong woman throwing away her strength, worse than a woman who was never strong. What if I'm no better than my almost employer? Condemning Christian without giving him a chance to explain. Or what if I'm being practical. It's unclear.
I swivel the chair again to face the mirror. My mother's bone structure evident in my face, showing our shared genetics. I'm like her. I don't want to make her choices. My mom's latest string of project husbands. They didn't change. Why would Christian be different? If he's into disciplining women and long-drawn-out legal agreements outlining the minute details of his possession, why would he change now?
"Women think men will change for them, and then they don't," I say out loud. I can get through this. Start over.
"Everything okay, dear?" Ginny says, opening the salon door. "You're talking to yourself again. Everything is going to be fine sweetheart. Trust me and forget about Seattle."
"Thanks Ginny," I say, trying to smile. "There's a lot on my mind."
"It's going to get better honey. Your here now," she says, coming up behind me and tousling my recently blown out hair. "Are you ready to mix up some treatment? Ten new customers called after I started the social media roots challenge. You're a genius!"
"Of course. I'm glad the campaign worked."
"By the way, I told all my friends about you! They can't wait to get your help!"
I smile, recalling the grass is still green as we start mixing up home-brewed conditioning treatments. I sprinkle the lavender in and wonder about my future. There could be a life for me here in Montesano…right? I suppress the inner voice telling me I'm running away. Hiding from reality. Like mom.
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Christian
Christian's doorbell rings, the dinging sound resonating throughout the room. Check the security cameras. No, ignore it. The person will go away. Focus on finishing up. The privacy implications of sensor technologies. What do they mean for GEH? The dinging sound continues and Christian reaches for his phone to call Taylor.
Staring at his phone, Christian sees five missed calls from his mother. She must be here. Sighing, Christian heads to his front door. Grace won't take no for an answer.
He declined family dinner, telling them he and Ana were on a break. No need for them to meet her. Mia messaged him earlier, spilling the beans – the whole family's disappointed.
"Mom," Christian says, opening the door for Grace, who embraces him in a hug.
"You're the safest one to be around these days, with your antibodies," Grace jokes. Her hair is pulled back into a bun, and she's wearing scrubs.
"It's not a good time," Christian says, wanting to avoid an interrogation. "I'm in the middle of a research project."
"Did you know they fired her?" Grace says, striding towards his kitchen. "Ana. Fired. For being associated with you."
Christian shrugs, as he takes in the information. He trudges behind her as she pulls water out of his fridge. "She'll find another job. How was work?"
"I only know about the firing due to her friend, Kate Kavanagh. She takes after her father, the media mogul. I'm proud of her. She knows how to stir things up and get justice. She's dating Elliot by the way…thought you should know. Supposedly, it's a coincidence. They met at the protest."
"Elliot's dating her roommate?" Does Ana know? She never mentioned it.
Grace eyeballs him, expecting an explanation. "That's why we were having dinner. All together."
"I'll reschedule. Ana will come to," Christian says, making an open gesture when Grace grabs his hand.
Taking his palm in hers, she examines the parallel cuts, her eyes filling with tears. "What have you done?"
"Nothing." Christian says, wiggling free from her grasp.
The wrinkles on her forehead grow prominent. This has happened before. Years ago. She called for help last time.
"Don't."
"But, Christian."
"It won't happen again," Christian says, his eyes narrowing, before changing topics. "I'll fix it and Ana's job."
"It's a lot to handle alone. The media, Jack's statement, the focus on your past. It's too much Christian. The pressure to be perfect. You need a vacation. Friends. People who care…"
"I'm fine." Christian interrupts.
"I hope so," Grace says, eying his hand. "In the meantime, I'm getting you some help."
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Anastasia
September 29, 2020
I'm driving to a pumpkin farm. The elderly owners need some help with marketing. They're afraid of lawsuits and don't know how to follow all the COVID regulations.
Millie said, "Okay hun, we'll try, if you'll help us."
I take a deep breath. The farm's profit margins are tight. I hope I can help. The family farm has been operating over 20 years, and they've never lost a season.
My engine keeps putting creaking sounds out as I drive on the empty rural highway. I start cranking down my window, trying to get some air flow in the stuffy car. After letting some air in, I decide against it, putting the window back up. The sky's tinted red and the air quality isn't great.
A car swerves around me, not giving me a chance to go to the slow lane.
I breath out. It's okay. I should be grateful. I have work and a new apartment. I moved into a furnished owner's unit which allows me to rent week by week. It's comfortable. Clean. Ray tried to stop me, but I insisted, telling him the owners reduced my rent.
I slow my speed down, after another suspicious noise from Wanda, knowing I'll still make it to the appointment in time. I left early.
"Play The Fighter podcast," I say out loud pressing the tiny button on my phone. The rest of the drive will have to be in the slow lane. I'll need a distraction.
Kate told me about this podcast, and I'm addicted. Ben Flanagan, the guy who does daily interviews is trusted from audiences on both sides of the political spectrum, and he's funny. I could use a laugh. The stereo is the one modern feature of this car. I turn down the volume once the advertising starts, knowing it takes a good five minutes.
José installed the stereo. Years ago. We've been talking on the phone for the last couple of days. He claimed he was checking in on me because he was worried about the job loss. There's more to it though, he's interested in me.
Jose keeps dropping hints that he wants to visit Montesano. Should I let him? I can't friendzone him forever. Maybe I should give him a chance…break up with Christian officially and move on to something healthier. I'm mulling it over, when I realize the episode has probably started.
I turn up the volume. Ben Flanagan has started the interview. Who's he interviewing?
"Cancel culture is so God damn crazy. The hot take is…" Ben says, in his typical flat tone.
I snort, not listening to Ben, as I recall my own cancelling experience. Timely.
"I won't give him that satisfaction," Ben's interviewee says.
Christian. My heart skips a beat and I almost slam my breaks. I can't concentrate. Hearing him overwhelms my senses. I feel the heat between my thighs. My attraction hasn't gone anywhere. It's disorienting.
"My foster brother, we were living in the same home together. For about two years. It was mostly amicable until the adoption papers were signed. Then, things got rough. He was older, had a physical advantage over me." Christian continued.
"Right, here's the counterpoint, he called you a racist, saying you called him an ape. You PR team put out an official statement, but we haven't heard your story. How did your relationship with Jack morph over time? You were what six when you knew him?" Ben asked, in his prodding tone.
"About five years old," Christian acknowledges. His voices getting deeper.
I consider pulling the car over, as I grip the steering wheel.
"What happened?"
"Jealousy. I got adopted. Jack didn't. We both wanted out. Jack used to beat me up, leaving bruises on my chest, my arms. I have him to thank for my negotiation skills. He taught me how to use words as weapons."
"So, there's more to the story." Ben pushed.
"I don't blame him for what he did then. I had an opportunity. He didn't. But his actions now, well speech has consequences. The words were taken out of context. There's something I need to announce." Christian continues.
I turn the episode off. I can't listen anymore. The contracts, the specifics, outlining what can and can't be done. It makes sense. His need for control. He's traumatized.
Can I even help him? As a partner or a friend? The first step is to return his call.
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Christian
Bending his wrist, Christian gazes down at the legendary racecar design of his vintage watch, while pretending to reflect on Flynn's question. Five more minutes of therapy.
A smile forms. His creative energy is back. Ana texted him last night, saying she wanted to schedule a time to meet next week. There's no more need for this therapeutic intervention. He's back to his routine. Five new potential acquisitions.
Feeling his heart beat faster, he accepts his stupidity. He didn't realize the power Ana held over him. The desire he had for her approval. Not caring about the implications, he'll focus on what's useful to GEH – whatever it takes to get his life back in order. He doesn't need BDSM. He needs her.