Part II: The Healing

Chapter 4

Jennie

"Lisa, do you have a minute?"

Entering my wife's office, I walk over to her desk. She looks up to greet me, and I marvel yet again at the tremendous progress she's made in her recovery over the past six weeks.

Her arm cast is gone now, as are all the bandages. Lisa tackled healing the same way as she approaches any goal: with single-minded ruthlessness and determination. As soon as Dr. Goldberg approved removal of the cast, Lisa dove headfirst into physical therapy, spending hours each day on exercises designed to restore mobility and function to the left side of her body. With her scars beginning to fade, there are days when I almost forget that she was so badly injured—that she had gone through hell and emerged relatively unscathed.

Even her eye implant doesn't seem jarring to me anymore. Our stay at the clinic in Switzerland and all the procedures cost Lisa millions—I saw the bill in her inbox—but the doctors did a phenomenal job with her face. The implant matches Lisa's real eye so perfectly that when she looks at me straight on, it's almost impossible to tell that it's fake. I have no idea how they managed to make it that exact shade of brown, but they did, right down to every striation and natural color variation. The fake pupil even shrinks in bright light and dilates when Lisa is excited or aroused, thanks to a biofeedback device Lisa wears as a watch. The watch measures her pulse and skin conductance and sends the information to the implant, allowing for the most natural-looking responses. The only thing the implant doesn't do is replicate normal eye motion . . . or allow Lisa to see from it.

"That part—the connection to the brain—will take a few more years," Lisa told me a couple of weeks ago. "They're working on it now in a lab in Israel."

So yeah, the implant is remarkably lifelike. And Lisa is learning to minimize the weirdness of only one eye moving by turning her entire head to look at something straight on—like the way she's looking at me now.

"What is it, my pet?" she asks, smiling. Her beautiful lips are fully healed now, and the fading scars on her left cheek add a dangerous, yet appealing edge to her looks. It's as if a bit of her inner darkness is visible on her face now, but instead of repelling me, it draws me to her even more.

Probably because I need that darkness now—it's the only thing keeping me sane these days.

"Monsieur Bernard just told me that he has a friend who'd be interested in displaying my paintings," I say, trying to sound like world-class art instructors give me those kinds of news all the time. "He apparently owns an art gallery in Paris."

Lisa's eyebrows rise. "Is that right?"

I nod, barely able to contain my excitement. "Yes, can you believe it? Monsieur Bernard sent him photos of my latest works, and the gallery owner said they're exactly what he's been looking for."

"That's wonderful, baby." Lisa's smile widens, and she reaches over to pull me down into her lap. "I'm so proud of you."

"Thank you." I want to jump up and down, but I settle for looping my arms around her neck and planting an excited kiss on her mouth. Of course, as soon as our lips touch, Lisa takes over the kiss, turning my spontaneous expression of gratitude into a prolonged sensual assault that leaves me breathless and dazed.

When she finally lets me come up for air, it takes me a second to remember how I ended up on her lap.

"I'm so proud of you," Lisa repeats, her voice soft as she looks at me. I can feel the bulge of her erection, but she doesn't take it further. Instead, she gives me a warm smile and says, "I will have to thank Monsieur Bernard for taking those photos. If the gallery owner does end up displaying your work, perhaps we'll take a little trip to Paris."

"Really?" I gape at her. This is the first time Lisa's indicated that we might not be staying on the estate all the time. And to go to Paris? I can hardly believe my ears.

She nods, still smiling. "Sure. Al-Quadar is no longer a threat. It's as safe as it's ever likely to be, so with sufficient security, I don't see why we can't visit Paris in a bit—especially if there's a compelling reason to do so."

I grin at her, trying not to think about how Al-Quadar stopped being a threat. Lisa hasn't told me much about that operation, but the little I do know is enough. When our rescuers raided the construction site in Tajikistan, they uncovered a tremendous amount of valuable information. After our return to the estate, every person even remotely connected to the terrorist organization was eliminated, some quickly and others slowly and painfully. I don't know how many deaths took place in recent weeks, but I wouldn't be surprised if the body count is well into the triple digits.

The woman who's holding me right now is responsible for what amounts to a mass slaughter—and I still love her with all my heart.

"A trip to Paris would be amazing," I say, pushing aside all thoughts of Al-Quadar. Instead, I focus on the mind-boggling possibility that my paintings might be displayed in an actual art gallery. My paintings. It's so hard to believe that I ask Lisa cautiously, "You didn't tell Monsieur Bernard to do this, right? Or somehow bribe this friend of his?" Since Lisa used her financial clout to get me into the highly selective online program at Stanford University, I wouldn't put anything past her.

"No, baby." Lisa's smile broadens. "I didn't have anything to do with this, I promise. You have a genuine talent, and your instructor knows it."

I believe her, if only because Monsieur Bernard has been raving about my paintings in recent weeks. The darkness and complexity that she saw in my art early on is even more visible now. Painting is one of the ways I've been dealing with my nightmares and panic attacks. Sexual pain is another—but that's a whole other matter.

Not wanting to dwell on my fucked-up mental state, I jump off Lisa's lap. "I'm going to tell my parents," I say brightly as I head for the door. "They'll be very excited."

"I'm sure they will be." And giving me one last smile, she turns her attention back to her computer screen.

My video chat with my parents takes close to an hour. As always, I have to spend a solid twenty minutes assuring my mom that I'm safe, that I'm still at the estate in Colombia, and that no one is coming after us. After I disappeared from the Chicago Ridge Mall, my parents have become convinced that Lisa's enemies are everywhere, ready to strike at a moment's notice. If I don't call or email my parents daily nowadays, they go into complete panic mode.

Not that they think I'm safe with Lisa, of course. In their minds, she's no different than the terrorists who kidnapped me. In fact, I think my dad believes Lisa is worse—given that my husband stole me away not once, but twice.

"A gallery in Paris? Why, that's wonderful, honey!" my mom exclaims when I finally get around to sharing my news with her. "We're so happy for you!"

"Are you still focusing on your classes?" my dad asks, frowning. He's less enthusiastic about my painting. I think he's afraid I will abandon all thoughts of college and become a starving artist—a fear that's beyond illogical, given the circumstances. If there's one thing I don't need to worry about these days, it's money. Lisa recently told me that she set up a trust fund in my name and also named me as the sole beneficiary in her will. This way, if anything happens to her, I'll still be taken care of—by which she means I'll have enough money to run a small country.

"Yes, Dad," I say patiently. "Don't worry—I'm still focusing on school. I told you, I'm just taking a lighter load this quarter. I'll make up for it by taking a couple of classes in the summer."

The lighter load is something Lisa insisted on when we returned, and despite my initial objections, I'm glad she did. For some reason, everything feels harder this quarter. My papers take me forever to write, and studying for exams is exhausting. Even with the lighter load, I've been feeling overwhelmed, but that's not something I want to tell my parents. It's bad enough that Lisa is worried.

So worried, in fact, that she brought a shrink to the estate for me.

"Are you sure, honey?" my mom asks, peering at me with concern. "Maybe you should take the summer off, relax for a couple of months. You look really tired."

Shit. I was hoping the dark circles under my eyes wouldn't be as noticeable on video.

"I'm fine, Mom," I say. "I just stayed up late studying and painting, that's all."

I also woke up in the middle of the night screaming and couldn't fall back asleep until Lisa whipped and fucked me, but my parents don't need to know that. They wouldn't understand that pain is therapeutic for me now, that I've grown to need something I once dreaded.

That the cruel side of Lisa is something I've wholeheartedly embraced.

As we wrap up the conversation, I remember something Lisa promised me once: that she'd take me to visit my family when the danger from Al-Quadar subsided. My heart jumps in excitement at the thought, but I decide to keep quiet until I have a chance to ask Lisa about it at dinner. For now, I just tell my parents that we'll speak again soon, and log off from the secure connection.

There are now two things I need to discuss with Lisa tonight . . . and both will be somewhat tricky.

"A trip to Chicago?" Lisa looks vaguely surprised when I bring it up. "But you saw your parents less than two months ago."

"Right, for all of one evening before Al-Quadar kidnapped me." I blow on my cream-of-mushroom soup before dipping my spoon into the hot liquid. "I was also worried sick about you, so I'm not sure that evening counts as quality time with my family."

Lisa studies me for a second before murmuring, "All right. You may have a point." Then she starts eating her own soup while I stare at her, hardly able to believe she would agree so easily.

"So we'll go?" I want to make sure there's no misunderstanding.

She shrugs. "If you want. After your exams are over, I'll take you there. We'll have to beef up the security around your parents, of course, and take a few extra precautions, but it should be possible."

I begin to smile, but then I remember something she told me once. "Do you think our going there would put my parents in danger?" I ask, my stomach twisting with sudden nausea. "Could they become a target if you're seen as being in close contact with them?"

Lisa gives me an even look. "It's a possibility. A remote possibility, but it's not completely out of the question. There was obviously much greater danger when the terrorists were out for blood, but I do have other enemies. None so determined—at least as far as I know—but there are plenty of individuals and organizations who'd love to get their hands on me."

"Right." I swallow a spoonful of soup and immediately regret it, as the creamy liquid makes me feel even more nauseated. "And you think they might use my parents as leverage?"

"It's unlikely, but I can't completely rule it out. This is why I've had the security detail on your family from the start. It's a precaution, nothing more—but it's a necessary precaution, in my opinion."

I take a deep breath, doing my best to ignore the churning in my belly. "So would our going to Chicago increase the danger to them or not?"

"I don't know, my pet." Lisa looks faintly regretful. "My best guess is no, but there are no guarantees."

I pick up a glass and take a sip of water, trying to get rid of the sickeningly fatty taste of soup on my tongue. "What if I go by myself?" I suggest without much thought. "Then nobody will think you're in any way close to your in-laws."

Lisa's face darkens in an instant. "By yourself?"

I nod, instinctively tensing at the shift in her mood. Even though I know Lisa wouldn't harm me, I can't help being wary of her temper. I may be with her willingly now, but she still has absolute control over my life—just as she did when I was her captive on the island.

In all the ways that count, she's still my dangerous, amoral kidnapper.

"You're not going anywhere by yourself." Lisa's voice is soft, but the look in her eyes is hard, like steel. "If you want me to take you to Chicago, I'll do it—but you're not stepping a foot off this estate without me. Do you understand me, Jennie?"

"Yes." I take a few more sips of water, still feeling the aftertaste of soup in my throat. What the hell did Ana put in it this evening? Even the smell of it is unpleasant. "I understand." My words come out sounding calm rather than resentful—mostly because I'm feeling too sick to get angry at Lisa's autocratic attitude. Downing the rest of my water, I say, "It was just a suggestion."

Lisa stares at me for a few moments, then gives a minute nod. "All right."

Before she has a chance to say anything more, Ana walks into the room, carrying our next course—fish with rice and beans. Seeing my nearly untouched soup, she frowns. "You don't like the soup, Jennie?"

"No, it's delicious," I lie. "I'm just not that hungry and wanted to save room for the main course."

Ana gives me a concerned look, but clears off our dishes without further comment. My appetite has been unpredictable since our return, so this is not the first time I've left a meal untouched. I haven't weighed myself, but I think I've lost at least a couple of pounds in recent weeks—which is not necessarily a good thing in my case.

Lisa frowns also, but doesn't say anything as I start playing with the rice on my plate. I really, really don't want food right now, but I force myself to pick up a forkful and put it in my mouth. The rice also tastes too rich, but I determinedly chew and swallow, not wanting to have Lisa focus on my lack of eating.

I have something more important to discuss with her.

As soon as Ana leaves the room, I put my fork down and look at my wife. "I got another message," I say quietly.

Lisa's jaw tightens. "I know."

"You're monitoring my email now?" My stomach roils again, this time with a mix of nausea and anger. I guess I shouldn't be surprised, given the trackers still implanted in my body, but something about this casual invasion of privacy really upsets me.

"Of course." She doesn't look the least bit apologetic or remorseful. "I figured he might contact you again."

I inhale slowly, reminding myself that arguing about this is futile. "Then you know Jackson won't leave us alone until you give him that list," I say, as calmly as I can manage. "Somehow he knows that you got it from Frank last week. His message said, 'It's time to remember your promise.' He won't go away, Lisa."

"If he keeps harassing you via email, I'll make sure he goes away for good." Lisa's tone hardens. "He knows better than to try to get to me through you."

"He saved your life and my life," I remind her for the dozenth time. "I know you're mad that he disobeyed your orders, but if he hadn't, you'd be dead."

"And you wouldn't be having these nightmares and panic attacks." Lisa's sensuous lips flatten. "It's been six weeks, Jennie, and you haven't gotten any better. You barely sleep, hardly eat, and I can't remember the last time you went for a run. He should've never put you in that kind of danger—"

"He did what was necessary!" Slapping my palms on the table, I rise to my feet, no longer able to sit still. "You think I'd be feeling better if you died? You think I wouldn't have nightmares if Majid mailed us your body in pieces? My fucked-up head is not Jackson's fault, so stop blaming him for this mess! I promised him that list, and I want to give it to him!" By the time I get to the last sentence, I'm full-on yelling, too angry to care about Lisa's temper.

She stares at me, her eyes narrowed. "Sit down, Jennie." Her voice is dangerously soft. "Now."

"Or what?" I challenge, feeling uncharacteristically reckless. "Or what, Lisa?"

"Do you really want to go there, my pet?" she asks in that same soft tone. When I don't respond, she points at my chair. "Sit down and finish the meal Ana prepared for you."

I hold her gaze for a few more seconds, not wanting to give in, but then I lower myself back into my chair. The surge of defiant anger that came upon me so suddenly is gone, leaving me drained and wanting to cry. I hate the fact that Lisa can win a fight so easily, that I'm still not fearless enough to test her limits.

Not over something as minor as finishing a meal, at least.

If I'm going to defy her, it will be over something that matters.

Dropping my gaze to my plate, I pick up my fork and spear a piece of fish, trying to ignore my growing queasiness. My stomach churns with every bite, but I persist until I finish nearly half of my portion. Lisa, in the meantime, polishes off everything on her plate, her appetite obviously unaffected by our argument.

"Dessert? Tea? Coffee?" Ana asks when she comes back to clear off our plates, and I mutely shake my head, not wanting to prolong the ordeal of this tense meal.

"I'll pass too, thanks, Ana," Lisa says politely. "Everything was wonderful, as usual."

Ana beams at her, clearly pleased. I've noticed that Lisa has made it a point to praise her more often since our return—that in general, her manner toward her is slightly warmer these days. I don't know what caused the change, but I know Ana appreciates it. Rosé told me the housekeeper has been all but dancing on air in recent weeks.

As Ana begins clearing off the table, Lisa gets up and walks around to offer me her arm. I loop my hand through the crook of her elbow, and we head upstairs in silence. As we walk, my heart starts beating faster and my queasiness intensifies.

Tonight's argument only confirms what I have known for a while: Lisa is never going to see reason on the issue of Jackson's list. If I'm to keep my promise, I will have to take matters into my own hands and brave the consequences of my wife's displeasure.

Even if the thought of that literally makes me sick.