When Alba woke up, it was in a soft bed, propped up on puffy, plushy pillows. The sheets felt soft and smooth beneath her fingers, and she knew immediately that she couldn't have been dreaming because she wasn't at home (the linens on her own bed were nowhere near as posh). When she tried to open her eyes her eyelashes stuck together, as though she had been asleep for a long while. She reached up to rub the crusties from the corners of her eyes and blinked owlishly, taking in her surroundings.

The bed she was propped up in was obscenely large, a four-poster monstrosity in deep, rich wood, overflowing with an abundance of pillows. Next to the bed, a matching wooden night stand hosted a small hurricane lamp, currently the only source of light in the small room. Across from the bed was an armoire, and it was the only other piece of furniture in the room besides the bed and the night stand. The bed took up almost the entirety of the room, but in spite of this the space felt more cozy than it did cramped. She climbed carefully out of the bed, holding onto one of the posts as she did. Her legs felt watery when she put weight on them, but when she let go of the post she didn't go plummeting to the floor, so she very carefully made her way around the corner to the little alcove of the room with the single window. When she stopped to lean against the wall, she noted with mild amusement that the tiny flowers in the pattern were little blue roses. When she reached the window, after what felt like an eternity, she pushed the curtains aside with her hand and looked out on her surroundings with great interest.

Wherever she was, it was high up. A vast and unfamiliar cityscape unfurled beneath her window, and towering skyscrapers reached toward a night sky that was purpley-black and dotted with dozens and dozens of bright white stars. She couldn't help but inhale sharply, the sight was so startling and beautiful. After a while, she thought to leave the window to try the two doors on the opposite side of the room. One of the doors was locked, and only rattled in its frame when she pulled on the handle. The other door opened up into an ensuite with a mammoth and domineering claw-footed bath tub. Towels were folded on a rack above the toilet, a toothbrush and toothpaste were in a cup by the sink, and an abundance of toiletries were scattered across the counter. Weird. She picked up the bottles of cream and perfume, opened and sniffed some, set them back down. The last thing she remembered she had done before going into the show room had been to take a shower, but that felt like aeons ago. Her hair was matted against her skull, and she felt sweaty and sticky, the patina of long-sleep clinging to her body. Thinking she had nothing else to do, she decided to draw a hot bath.

She poured some essential oils from the counter into the bath water-sandalwood, vanilla, and jasmine, just a little bit of each. When the tub was full, she stepped carefully into the fragrant, steamy water and sank down slowly, letting the water come up to just below her chin. Eyes closed, she let the hot water work on loosening her stiff muscles. She tried not to think of her mother, or home, or what might have happened to her mother after she'd been taken. She assumed her sale on the slave exchange would settle her mother's debts, but she had no way of knowing for sure. The water flowed across her face, covering her mouth and nose and ears as she sank deeper into the tub. For a moment, she imagined she was drowning. When she opened her eyes again, dark brown ones were hovering above, peering back at her through tortoise shell frames.

She gasped, almost aspirating a mouthful of water in her surprise. Sitting up quickly, she self-consciously brought her hands to cover her breasts and crossed her legs at the waist. Though he had obviously seen her naked before, she felt compelled to try and preserve the very last shred of her modesty. "Do you mind? I thought I was alone, you startled me," she said breathlessly.

"Sorry, I just came to check on you. When you weren't in the bed, I had to make sure you hadn't tried to drown yourself in the bath tub."

"No. I was thinking about it, though, honestly. I've heard stories about the kind of blokes that frequent the exchanges, what kinds of weird kinks and fetishes they have. What did you bring me here for?" she asked.

He brought his hand up to trace the shell of her ear with his fingers and she shivered a little, unsure if it was the chilly air or his touch doing it to her. She was appalled at the idea of being physically attracted to her captor, but none the less, there was something about him that was charming, compelling even. He was staring at her, and again she got the feeling that he was looking at her as if he knew her. But of course that was impossible, so she tried to shrug it off. He just had a very intense gaze, one that made her skin break into gooseflesh. She supposed if she had to have been bought by anyone, she was glad it had been this man, as opposed to one of the other dozens of skeezes that had manhandled her back at the exchange.

"When you are finished bathing and dressing, you can meet me in the library. We can discuss the ground rules there, but one of those rules is that I ask the questions. Let's not forget which one is master and which one is slave," he said lightly. He got up from where he was sitting crouched on the floor, and slipped out of the bathroom. She stared after him, his words echoing in her ears.

When her skin started to wrinkle and the water started to grow cold, she pulled the rubber stop and watched the water and oil swirl away down the drain. Taking care not to slip on the slick porcelain surface, she patted herself dry and climbed out of the tub. She took her time combing her hair, gently squeezing the excess water into the basin of the sink. She slowly and carefully pulled the damp strands into a messy French braid, securing it with an elastic she'd found tucked inside one of the drawers. It was weird how he had exactly everything a woman would need to get ready. Either he was extremely diligent, very prissy, or a woman had been living there recently to have left those things behind. She had to believe there were no other women living here currently, though. It didn't seem practical, bringing home a black market slave when you had a wife or girlfriend about. Unless you were a swinger, which she supposed was entirely possible. Once you accepted the existence of the slave exchanges, other proclivities seemed less extreme and much more plausible. Something told her though that this wasn't the case.

She trimmed her nails, even put a quick coat of dark red varnish on them. She let her fingers sit in a basin full of ice cold water for a full five minutes to let the polish set, and decided maybe she'd put on some rogue and eyeliner, too. All these extra steps, all this effort to doll herself up wasn't because she found him attractive, she told herself, but was an effort to buy herself more time before having to face him again. She was frightened, no sense in pretending otherwise. In the mirror, she applied mascara, and her eyes looked wide and doeish, even to herself. Almost as an after thought, she applied perfume to her wrists and elbows, and the hollow of her neck. She took one long, final look at herself in the mirror before shutting the light off and slipping out of the bathroom. The next time she looked in a mirror, it might well be at a completely different person.

Opening the armoire, she was dismayed but not wholly surprised to find that everything in it was posh, expensive, and not in the least bit casual. She had grown up in a steady stream of second-hand jeans, hoodies and trainers, and the most casual things in the armoire were probably night gowns. Her fingers lingered over sumptuous silks, luxurious laces, and dresses that looked so intricate she figured you'd need a team of people to help you into them. It was all lost on her, and beginning to feel a bit desperate, she hastily chose a black lace chemise and threw it on over her head. This time when she tried the second door it was unlocked, and she padded quietly out into a dark hallway. He hadn't told her where the library was, just that she should meet him there. She scanned both sides of the hallway and saw only darkness and closed doors, save for one half-open door at the end of the hall, from which the quiet tinkling sounds of classical piano were coming. An irregular flickering and dancing of shadows hinted that the room beyond was lit by firelight, so Alba crept carefully towards it and pushed the door open.

Directly ahead of her sat her captor, back turned to the door and seated at a baby grand piano that was slightly to the left of a large stone fireplace. The room, which had impossibly high vaulted ceilings, was lined entirely with library shelves crammed full of books, save for the West wall, which was all glass and gave yet another breathtaking view of the city below. He even had one of the old-fashioned library ladders on sliders rigged up, so you could reach the shelves closest to the ceiling. In spite of the high ceilings and large windows, the room still felt quite warm, although she supposed it could be her nerves making her palms sweat. He was playing Beethoven now, and his fingers were flying over the keys with the ardor of a man possessed. She could only watch him play, afraid to interrupt.

When he finally finished the piece he sighed heavily, and turned to face the doorway. The sight of her leaning there seemed to catch him by surprise, and she heard his breath catch in his throat. The appraising look he was giving her now was more unnerving than the way he had looked at her when she'd been naked, and she got the distinct impression that he was undressing her with his eyes. The look passed though, and he got up from the piano to sit on the loveseat in front of the fire. He patted the space beside him, indicating she should join him there. Heart beating like a hammer in her chest, she crossed the room to take a seat next to him. He could've moved a bit to the right to give her more room, but as it was they were sitting thigh pressed against thigh and she didn't see him making any motions to rectify that situation. He was wearing a different suit, blue with rust stripes. The jacket was thrown over the back of an over-stuffed armchair along with his tie, and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows. He was holding a half-empty highball glass in his right hand, and his eyes had the glimmer of someone who'd been slowly seeping in it all day.

"Don't suppose it'd be too cliche to tell you that you look ravishing in that," he said, the ice clinking in his glass as he gestured at her for effect.

"I guess that depends on whether you were actually planning on ravishing me or not," she said, bolder than she felt.

He cocked his eyebrows at her, and grinned in such a way that it made her guts turn cold. "I hadn't decided yet, honestly," he said, and she knew that he was not likely being facetious. "I guess that depends on how this conversation goes."

She shivered again, involuntarily, though if he had noticed he said nothing. The hand not holding his drink was resting on the back of the loveseat, though it was inching closer to her bare shoulder. "You said you wanted to discuss the rules, so let's discuss them. What am I here for, what do you expect of me?"

"Well you're all business, aren't you? What's the rush? There's all the time in the world for business, and even more time for pleasure," he slurred, resting his hand on her shoulder. That time she did jerk away from him, and she thought she saw a flash of murderous reproach in his eyes.

"Sorry," she stammered, trying to think of an excuse to keep from offending him. "Your hands are just so cold, maybe you should warm them over the fire."

"I can think of other hot things I'd rather warm them over," he replied, reaching for her.

"The rules?" she interjected, hoping to get him back on track. "The reason why I'm here?"

He sighed, drained the rest of his glass, and set it down on the floor next to him. "You are here because I'm finding myself in need of a wife."

"I'm sorry?" she asked, thinking she must have heard him wrong.

"A wife. I need a wife, or I lose access to all my money. Or my family's money, I suppose I should say. I have an inheritance, but the agreement is that I had to be married by my thirtieth birthday or I'd be cut out," he said dryly, getting up to pour himself another drink. "Would you like one?"

"Yeah...sure," she replied, knowing it was a bad idea. She needed to be in control of her faculties right now, but she was so nervous that if she didn't do something to take the edge off she was going to rocket straight out of her seat and into outer space.

He must've seen the bewildered expression on her face as he handed her the drink. "What? You thought all the men at the exchange were a bunch of deranged fetishists who want to take body shots off your kidneys?"

She couldn't help but laugh at that. If it had been an attempt to disarm her, it was kind of working. "Okay, yes, I did kind of think that. But honestly...if a wife is all you're in a need of, why not obtain one...in the usual fashion? You're a handsome man, you can't tell me you don't get attention from women."

He frowned at her. "My career is my focus. Finding a wife requires courtship. Courtship requires time. There are other things I'd rather be doing, and I don't need or want a wife to answer to."

"So you couldn't have put an ad in the paper or something, wanted: wife? I just...I guess I just don't understand why you had to go to the slave exchange route."

"Anything legal is traceable, Alba. That's why. I'm nothing if not overly cautious. This way, everything is on my terms, and that's how I like it. I'm a bit quirky, a bit fussy and a bit precise, if you hadn't noticed. I like things how I like them, and I'd like you to play the part of my fake wife. To your incentive, if you successfully help me carry the scheme off, I'll give you a percentage of the money and you'll be free to go. In the mean time...you stay here and have contact with no one from your old life. I will make sure that your mother is taken care of it, and you'll be free to do as you wish here in my home, so long as it doesn't involve contact with the outside world. When the members of the trust show up to visit, you'll act as my doting wife. Otherwise, you cook, you clean, and do…iother/i wifely things, whatever I decide they may be, and we'll have no problems. You can go wherever you like up here, except the locked room at the top of the stairs. That's my office, and I keep a lot of important and private files in there, so it's strictly off limits. You're not a prisoner though, not quite. Think of it as more of an...indentured servitude, or a temporary business arrangement."

And there it was. 'Other wifely things'. Alba had to figure it would've come into it at some point, the other reasons why he'd gone to the exchange instead of getting a Russian mail order bride like any other decent sociopathic freak. She couldn't bring herself to ask what those things might be though, not quite yet.

"So how long do you think you'll need me here?" she asked instead.

"As long as it takes to convince them that our love is genuine, and the only fertilizer our love garden needs is money," he said, his tone indicating his growing impatience with her questions.

"Oh. Right," she said lamely, taking a couple large sips of her drink. The alcohol burned its way down her throat, setting a warm fire in her belly. Maybe this was going to be okay. Maybe. And then it occurred to her… "I don't even know your name."

"Most people just call me the Doctor," he replied, his breath warm and boozy in her ear.

"Doctor who? If you're supposed to be my husband, I can't just run around calling you 'the Doctor', now can I?" she laughed.

"No, I suppose not," he said, pushing himself up from his partial slump and adjusting his glasses, which were slipping over the tip of his nose. "So call me John Smith then. Doctor John Smith."

"John Smith. Really?" she asked, and now she was the one cocking her eyebrows at him.

"No, not really. But there's absolutely no reason or need for you to know my real name, and that one will do as good as any. That's the alias I used at the slave exchange, and that's the name you'll use to address me. Which brings me to my next point...your name isn't Alba any more, at least not around other people. Just in case you end up on the missing person's list, don't want any red flags or anything."

"No, we certainly wouldn't want that," she said, completely deadpan. 'So what shall my new name be?"

He smiled at her again, a different kind of smile, one that was much more warm and genuine than the creepy and wolfish one he'd given her earlier. That was the sort of small that could thaw a heart of ice, she thought...but why was she even thinking that?

"A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, so how about Rose?"

"Rose," she repeated. "Rose. Yeah, that's nice. I could get used to being a Rose, I think."

"Ah, except you are much more beautiful than a simple flower," he said, lifting his hand to brush her fringe out of her eyes. He let his open palm linger on the side of her face perhaps a moment longer than necessary, and she felt her heart begin to pound again.

Please, not this, not now...I'm not ready...I can't she thought feverishly as he tilted his head closer to her own. Before she could really react he was pressing his lips against her own, thrusting his tongue hungrily into her mouth, crushing her against him. Startled by the sudden intrusion, she reacted by biting his lower lip, hard. He pushed away from her, wiping his fingers across his lips and seeming surprised to see that they came away wet with blood. The look that he gave her then was completely unreadable, and she was suddenly terrified.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, though he didn't seem to hear her. He was staring at her, rubbing his thumb over the place where her teeth had broken his skin.

"You sure you aren't part vampire bat? You've got quite a bite on you," he said with a chuckle. Relief flooded her then, as she knew he wasn't angry.

"I'm sorry...I'm just, everything is very overwhelming right now. I wasn't expecting all that," she said, feeling the need to explain again.

He flapped his hand dismissively at her and gave her another one of those smiles that made her insides feel all squirmy. "But he who dares not grasp the thorn should never crave the rose."