Jennie
When I woke this morning, in a strange bed, in a strange house—in Lisa's house—I tried to pretend I was in a bad dream. You know, one of those dreams that seem real but isn't. A nightmare that would end as soon as I stretched the sleep from my limbs. Didn't happen. What did happen was a serious pity party as I laid in bed staring at the wall. Is this really my life? People bossing me around, parading me around like brainless arm candy, kidnapping me. Seriously, when I get away from here, I don't even want to look at another one. Especially Lisa.
I realize now, a little too late, I had romanticized her over the years. Made her into this untouchable hero who could never do anything bad.
Today, after I dined with her for breakfast, where she refused to answer any of my questions, she returned me to this room and locked the door. I don't know how I'm going to get out of here, an escape will be next to impossible, but I won't give up.
Not like I did with my father. Living the life of a zombie, fulfilling every wish my father had with little resistance. When Kai told a reporter, we would be starting a family soon after the marriage, it was at that moment my eyes opened. Wide open. Like a dam lifting, and all my stupidity came pouring out.
I never questioned anything before, when I should have been questioning everything. Obviously, as I reached my twenties, my father couldn't keep me under lock and key anymore, that would look too weird. A man trying to fly under the radar—trying to look legitimate—doesn't want that kind of spotlight. So, with the help of Delilah, who has some very shady connections of her own, I devised the plan to get as far away from my father as I could.
I never expected to land in the arms of Lisa.
A knock sounds on the door and the knob turns ever so slowly. A smiling sandy-haired woman, wearing a black skirt and white dress shirt, enters with a small bag in her hands.
"I'm Rosé," she announces as if it's perfectly normal I'm locked in a room.
Briefly, I contemplate racing past her, but she quickly closes the door, and it locks from the outside as soon as it shuts.
"I guess we're both prisoners now," I tell her.
Undeterred by my gloomy attitude, she continues toward me like a beam of sunshine. "I've got all kinds of things for you."
"Do you have the key to that door?"
She doesn't falter from whatever her mission is. "Lisa instructed me to give you these."
"Why?"
She shrugs. "Being stuck in a room can get lonely. You'll need something to keep you occupied."
Hmm. I don't want to take the bag extended out, but she did answer my question which no one else seems to do. Maybe this could work to my advantage.
Smiling, I take the crisp brown bag from her hands. "Thanks."
After informing me she'll be checking in on me every day, she leaves.
I study the bag in my hands, equal parts repulsed and curious. This all feels very surreal. With nothing else to do, I sit cross legged on the bed and pull out what I least expect… a notebook, sheets of self-folding heavy card stock and drawing pens. The good ones. It's a lot messed up that I feel any sense of gratitude over Lisa's gift. She remembers. My mind can't rationalize the juxtaposition of sentiment with the fact it was given to me because I'm her prisoner. No, I shouldn't feel grateful at all. Fear is the emotion I should feel.
Before I completely melt down, I move to the desk in the corner and draw.
Once I start, I can't stop.
When the sun fades in the sky, and no longer pours through the curtains, my stomach grumbles just as the door opens. She's here, looking like she stepped out of a hottest executive's ad, dressed in tailored navy slacks and a white dress shirt.
"What do you want?" I ask, irritated that I'm noticing things about her appearance.
She doesn't say anything for a while, just lets her presence fill the room until it's impossible to breathe anything except her scent. She smells like a lifetime of regret waiting to happen.
"It would be easier if you didn't resist me," she finally says in a low voice.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
She moves closer and sits on the bed. "I just mean things would be smoother if you didn't try to fight me at every turn."
Frustrated she's acting as if we didn't spend a good chunk of our lives as friends, I continue trying to break through her armor. "What happened to you?" I have so many questions. "Why did you leave?"
She breathes in deep and lets out a smooth, controlled breath, running a hand through her dark hair.
She's not going to answer me, and my heart deflates a bit.
"Well, since there wasn't a lot else to do," I pick up the card I've been working on and hold it out, "I made this for you."
Her fingers brush mine when she takes it from me. I watch as she studies the smiling princess on the front, wondering if she remembers our childhood game.
"Thanks for not killing me today," she reads on the inside. She looks back at me. "You forgot yet."
She looks very serious about that, but I'd like to believe she hasn't completely crossed to the dark side.
She pockets the card. "You hungry?"
"Yes," I answer at the same time my stomach growls.
"Come with me." She holds her hand out and I take it.
Her hand is different, strong and harsh, not like when we were kids. It's possessive now, like she owns my tiny hand in hers.
On the walk through her spacious home, my eyes memorize everything, and I hurry my steps to keep up. We pass through immaculate, sophisticated rooms with vaulted ceilings and shiny hardwood floors. Black leather couches with deep red pillows and not a lot of anything else is the theme. It isn't warm and friendly, instead, it's polished and unlived in. She turns a sharp corner and leads me down a long corridor filled with Art Deco paintings that brighten the white walls. And so many doors.
Of course, there are guards at every entrance, and I'm sure, cameras everywhere.
We enter a formal dining room with a long mahogany table surrounded by seating for ten. The smell of something delicious makes my stomach growl again.
"Sit," she directs, leading me to a chair at the end of the table.
She takes the seat right next to me. And when I say right next to me, I mean right next to me. Her thigh brushes mine. "I hope you still like Beef Wellington," she drawls out.
My mouth waters. I'm a little ashamed that my body is so concerned about food under the circumstances.
Rosé sets two white plates in front of us, overloaded with Beef Wellington and a white mountain of creamy mashed potatoes. But... there is only one set of cutlery.
Her hand reaches it before mine, and she gives a short laugh. "You don't think I'd give you silverware you could use as a weapon against me, do you?"
Damn it. What a brilliant idea. I suck at escaping, because that thought never crossed my mind; I just wanted to dig in. "Well how am I supposed to eat this?"
"I'll feed you," she answers, cutting into the food on my plate.
When she brings the fork to my lips, I almost don't want to open for her out of pure defiance. But, whore for Beef Wellington that I am, I open wide happily.
My moan is audible when the tender filet hits my tongue. Briefly, her eyes fall to my mouth before she looks away and takes her turn.
"You don't think it's a little gross we're eating from the same fork?" Now that I know I could possibly use the utensils as a weapon, I decide to pull from my vault of memories and remind Lisa of her aversion to eat or drink after anyone when we were younger.
The fork tines, supporting a hefty dollop of mashed potatoes, stop at her full lips and then she slides it in. "Nope."
I nod. "Ok, well I just remember you saying stuff about germs." I smooth the napkin in my lap. "I just recently got over a really nasty cold."
She loads up the fork and moves it back to me. "I'll take my chances."
"This is crazy," I tell her, before accepting the offered bite. "I'm not going to fork you to death."
"Just eat."
The rest of the meal is finished in silence, and for the next few days, the routine remains the same: breakfast together, lunch in my room alone, and then dinner, where she feeds me like the child she's always seen me as.
My disdain for the new Lisa grows as the words between us lessen. She barely even looks at me.
One night, after dinner, my anger and resentment hit an all time high when she holds my arm on the walk back to my room. I wiggle free.
"You don't have to hold onto me. I'm clearly not going anywhere," I spit out.
"I'll do whatever I damn well please."
She opens the door to my room, and I step over the threshold, facing her. "I hate you for leaving." I slam the door shut in her handsome face, and the lock clicks loudly against the silence in the air.
She pounds her fist into the hard wood, shaking it on its hinges. "I hate you for staying," she shouts.