— Catherine Lacey
April 26th, 2018
Danial Burgundy's study was off limits, attached to the library where the girl spent a large chunk of her youth drowning herself in escapist fiction; it was a near-constant temptation to throw open the heavy, double doors and take a quick peek. She never thought she would get the opportunity, not in these circumstances, at least. But as she sat across from her father, taking in her surroundings, she was surprised by how comforting the space felt.
The modest-sized room was bathed in an array of ebony and dark oak. Bookshelves lining the walls were filled with memorabilia and small trinkets. Everything about it was sharp and precise. Every object and its placement had a meaning and purpose, meant to intimidate or overwhelm.
Despite that, she could sense a slight affection behind the arrangement of some items. The throw blanket draped across the leather Chesterfield sofa had her mother's touch imprinted on every stitch. The chess set collecting dust on the side table held many late-night memories of her father and mother playing while the girl and her brother watched. Little things easily overlooked amongst the distinct yet meaningless articles unless someone looks for them. A children's book—The Cat In The Hat—poorly hidden between volumes two and seventeen of The Harvard Classics. The first book she learned to read.
"Have you eaten?" Danial Burgundy asked his daughter after a moment of tense silence. He seemed to be nursing a drink, taking small, measured sips every so often.
"No. Not yet." The girl surprised herself by how steady her voice was. She decided she would not be afraid of Danial Burgundy any longer.
He nodded his understanding and gestured to a guard by the door. "Ask the cook to prepare breakfast. Tell her to make it light; I have an early lunch meeting after."
The guard departed with a nod, and the father and daughter were left alone.
"I want to see Mama," the girl exclaimed in an attempt to control the narrative. She was sure all would be resolved if she could only speak with her mother. Eleanor Burgundy must not be aware of her husband's antics.
"Not possible," Danial replied, dismissing the idea.
"I want to speak to her," the girl demanded once more, willing her voice to turn steel.
"Not possible," her father repeated, and his nonchalant manner irritated the girl.
She clenched her fists tight against the armrest and watched her knuckles turn white in an attempt to maintain her composure. "I won't discuss a thing with you unless you let me see her first."
Danial cursed under his breath, something low that sounded like a "so fucking stubborn." She ignored it, focusing instead on getting him to agree to her condition.
"I'm not listening to a word of yours until—"
The sudden smack of palm against wood stunned the girl to silence. She flinched when her father rose from his seat to tower over her. He said her name in a low warning and fixed her with a hardened look. "Not. Possible," he managed between gritted teeth.
If the girl wasn't scared and nervous to the point of delirium, she might have noticed the slight tremor in her father's lips or the shine in his eyes. But she was tired and confused. And she wanted her mother, who she hadn't seen in five years.
"Why?" she asked. Her own eyes were starting to shine with despair. "Why won't you let me talk to her? Why won't you let me see her?" Gone was the level-headedness the girl had started the day with—"If I could just—"
"That's enough!" Danial exploded, though the girl persevered.
She was being governed by desperation now. "You didn't even let me talk to her that night! Is that why you won't let me see her now? As some sort of punishment?"
Danial froze in place, fingers tightening around the edge of his desk, though the girl did not notice. A shudder seemed to pass through his body, easily presumed to be a trick of the mind if anyone observed. "Which night?"
His distress went over her head. "You were there. You would know."
Danial ignored the marked accusation in his daughter's voice and instead focused on something different. "Me? You heard me?"
Anger and desperation slowly made space for confusion. The girl shook her head with puzzlement and replied, "Yes. I heard you say my name, then tell Mama to end the call."
"When?" he demanded with a rising voice.
The girl huffed in annoyance. They were there to discuss the reason he brought her back home; she couldn't understand why he was so stuck on this one detail.
Her hands waved in the air with frustration. "I—I don't know. Sunday? I woke up in the middle of the night and tried calling her, but she didn't pick up. Then when she did, you were—why does it even matter?" she asked. "What does this have to do with anything?"
"What did your mother say to you?" Danial asked instead.
"Nothing!" the girl cried. "I haven't talked to her in weeks. Please let me see her."
Danial fell back to his seat. He finished the rest of his drink in a single sip and ran a hand over his face. "She doesn't want to see you," he muttered.
He left his daughter speechless for the first time since he brought her back home. The colour drained from her face, leaving her yellow and sickly looking.
"What do you mean, she doesn't—"
"It was Eleanor's idea," Danial interrupted her. "Your marriage to James Barnes was her idea."
"No," the girl denied, shaking her head vigorously. "You told me yesterday she never wanted this for me."
Danial nodded. "I know. I lied."
"You lied?" Panic started spreading through her gut, screaming at her to take action. But what could she do except prove her father false? "No, she would never do that. I don't believe you! She wouldn't."
"Eleanor felt guilty. She said she wouldn't be able to face you."
"No. Let me talk to her just once," the girl pleaded. "There has to be some mistake."
Danial sighed deeply and rolled his eyes. "She's not home."
"Okay, where is she?" the girl asked. Maybe her mother was out on an errand.
Danial leaned an elbow on his desk and grabbed his head in annoyance. "Bahamas."
"The Bahamas?" his daughter questioned.
"Yeah, the Bahamas," Danial clarified.
"What is she doing in the Bahamas?" the girl inquired incredulously.
"Staying away from you," he retorted.
His words went over her head, unwilling to settle as truth. She ignored his tone. "When will she be back?" the girl grilled him further.
"I don't know."
She stared at her father in disbelief. "You don't know?"
"Indefinitely!" Danial shouted, on the verge of losing the last of his sanity. The girl froze, going rigid. "Once all my affairs are in order, I'll be joining her there," he continued. "A couple of weeks after the wedding." Then he drove the nail in. "She's not coming back. There's nothing left here for us anymore."
Danial almost regretted his words—almost—when he saw the haunted look in his daughter's eyes. He had seen it once before, her little body clutched in his arms while he carried her away from the raging inferno behind them. He would never forget that look—The look of a dying soul.
Danial steeled himself. He could not afford such thoughts, could not afford regret. He made a choice, and he had to stick to it. He would stick to it.
The girl stayed quiet. She thought things could not get worse for her. How foolish could she be? She was being forced into a loveless marriage to someone she did not know, who was most likely one of the most dangerous men in New York since Joel Rifkin or Son of Sam. Her best friend's life was under threat. And now, for the cherry on top. The worst possible thing that could have happened. Her mother, who she trusted most in the world, was the person responsible for her unfortunate fate.
"So, you see, dear daughter," Danial began once he was sure the girl would not interrupt him, "you may not speak with your mother. You may only speak with me."
Danial tried his best to ignore his child's tear-streaked face. But when a couple of hot tears travelled down her chin and landed on a document perched precariously on the edge of his desk, he couldn't help but wince.
"The wedding's on Thursday, a week from now." Danial shuffled some papers on his desk until he found one he was looking for.
"No!" the girl cried, momentarily breaking out of her stupor. "I have a month! You gave me a month!" She wiped her nose with her sleeve.
Danial fixed her with a glare. "Now, you have a week."
Her bottom lip quivered. "That's not fair. I didn't do anything."
"Life isn't fair," Danial retorted. "Keep this up, and I'll drag you to church right now. James wouldn't mind, I'm sure."
She successfully fell silent.
"As I was saying, the wedding is on Thursday," Danial continued. "You met Fleur already. She'll go into detail with you regarding your schedule." He cleared his throat. "There's a dress fitting and hair appointment. There's no time for a bachelorette party, but if you want one, just tell Fleur, and she'll handle it." His eyes skimmed through the file he was holding, seemingly reading off it from memory. "You leave for the honeymoon next Friday after the reception."
The girl was unable to process her father's words. Dress fitting? Bachelor's party? Honeymoon? She would leave on a Friday and return to an empty house and no parents. Wait. Would she even get to come back home again, or would she stay with her betrothed?
"Now, my expectations are as follows. You will marry James," Danial began to list. "You will keep him happy and satisfied—fulfill all his needs. You will make sure he wants for nothing, and when the time comes, you'll give him an heir."
She felt bile rise in her throat.
"In return, he will give you love and protection."
The girl wasn't sure how a man with no heart was supposed to love her. Maybe he too would pretend.
"Nod, if you understand," Danial demanded after a moment of silence.
Her response was robotic, automatic even. She nodded.
"Also, the Barnes' don't know of your lack of—" Danial paused, considering his word choice, "Enthusiasm, regarding the marriage—"
Lack of enthusiasm. A very kind way of saying, "manipulated and forced against your will."
"—And I want it to stay that way. So, for all intents and purposes, you love James, James loves you, and I don't want to see any different. Understood?"
The girl nodded.
"You're going to smile and not let anyone suspect this is anything but a farce. You'll talk about how happy you are, how you've waited for this day for the longest time. You're not in any way, shape, or form to jeopardize this deal."
A deal. Is that all the girl was to her father? And if she were in any doubt before, she wasn't anymore. Danial Burgundy had no heart. In place of beating muscle was a mass of ice that poisoned everyone around him. He poisoned her mother, inducing her to betray the girl. He poisoned her brother, too, before his passing. Now, he was poisoning her.
The taste of it was bitter on her tongue.
She nodded without being asked.
"There's a lot of men depending on me for this deal to go through. Did you know that? You have someone depending on you too. Don't give me any reason to remind you."
As if she needed one. Her previous rage toward her father melted away, replaced entirely by a numbness she wasn't familiar with. There was no hope for her, no chance of escape.
She nodded once more, finally desensitized to all that transpired.
Danial opened a drawer on his desk with a key he procured from his pocket. He shuffled about a moment before retrieving a small velvet box from its depths. He opened the artless object and pushed it toward her.
"Your engagement ring," said Danial. "James picked it himself."
The ring in question was pretentious at best. It was big and shiny—a white-gold colour. Diamonds were diagonally set all around the band, covering every corner. It was heavy in the box. Big and flashy.
Everything she never wanted.
It would sparkle against her skin, contrast against everything she wore, and she would never be able to ignore the weight of it against her finger, a constant reminder of her predicament.
She stared at the offending diamond, briefly wondering how expensive it was. Her father didn't push her to wear it right away. He was simply happy she wasn't arguing anymore.
Danial hummed, letting a satisfied smirk overtake his face. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his ankles leisurely. "Now, let's discuss what's expected of you after the marriage."
April 25th, 2018
There was sand everywhere. Sand in his shoes and in his pockets—he even found some in his goddamn ears. His clothes went straight into the garbage. He didn't have time to get them dry-cleaned. The shoes, however, were a gift—Italian Leather. Those he gave to Harold, his chauffeur, to polish.
Now, after his second shower of the night, Bucky Barnes felt as clean as he could, given the circumstances. He still found sand in places sand should never be, but at least the blood was gone. Bucky didn't like the feel of dried blood on his skin.
After a light meal, he sat down to finally take a crack on the phone he had retrieved. Granted, it would've saved him a lot of time to get someone more tech-inclined to bypass the code barring him entry; Bucky did not want any potential information he might receive from the device to leave the room.
One could never be sure who to trust.
The screen was cracked down the middle but still usable, so Bucky began the long process of randomly entering numbers before deciding to take a more logical approach. Birthdays, anniversaries, lucky numbers. Paranoia tended to show up in obvious ways. Bucky knew so from experience.
He typed in a plethora of numbers, arranging them around until, a couple of tries later, the screen changed to indicate his success. Bucky smirked, checking the time. It had taken him under fifteen minutes. "Dumbass."
Bucky settled deeper into his chair, twisting around to keep the rising sun from casting a glare on the LED. The screen's layout was organized—just as he expected after meeting the owner in person—and arranged alphabetically. Bucky immediately went to the messages, clicking on the app with unconcealed excitement. What would he uncover?
Just before he could dive in, the phone rang. He looked down at the device in alarm before realizing it was his phone, currently driving a hole through his head. He winced. Maybe he should've gone to Doctor Banner, after all, to confirm he didn't have a concussion.
For the moment, Bucky put his project out of sight and retrieved his phone from the counter. "This is James."
"Son," greeted George Barnes on the other end.
The younger Barnes straightened in attention. "Dad. What's new?"
His father snorted in response.
Oh, so it was that type of call. Bucky visibly relaxed.
"What do you think?" George retorted. "Your mother and sister have been going crazy planning for the wedding. Your mother's calling me every other hour for ideas. And I think Rebecca went to Milan on Monday for 'inspiration,' as she called it."
Bucky snickered at that. "Sounds like something Becca would do."
George made a sound of agreement on the other end. "Yet, I can't help but feel that out of everyone, you're the least excited about your upcoming nuptials."
Bucky ran a hand over his face. So, he was wrong. This was a work call. "I'm excited about the bachelor party."
"Is that right?" George questioned sarcastically. "I couldn't tell. In fact, a little birdy told me that while the women were busy with preparations, you were out hunting." A pause. "In Canada. Now, does that sound like something an engaged man would do weeks before his wedding?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," replied Bucky coolly. A tense moment of silence passed between the father and son.
"So there was no hunting?"
"No," Bucky lied through his teeth as he felt the evidence of it behind his ear when he went to scratch it. "As you said, that's not something an engaged man would do weeks before his wedding."
George Barnes hummed in consideration. "My little birdy must be wrong, then."
Bucky smiled. "Must be." He eyed the drawer where the retrieved device was hidden. "Is that all?"
"Hmm. Miss Burgundy arrives in New York today."
Bucky could hear the smile in his father's voice despite the poor service, thinking he had caught his son by surprise. "What? Really?" Bucky questioned, playing the part.
"Yes, she should land in a couple of hours. I'm going to meet them on the tarmac. Welcome her home."
Bucky arched a brow. "Should I come with?"
"No," his father refused, much to Bucky's chagrin. "I spoke with Danial earlier, and he's not ready for you two to meet."
"I was hoping to give her the ring in person."
Suddenly George began to laugh, picking up on Bucky's annoyance. "Don't worry. I'll make sure she gets it. Just send it over with someone. You have weeks to get to know each other before the wedding. There's plenty of time."
Bucky merely grunted, unable to find an adequate response. If only he knew how untrue that was.
The sound of the door opening cut off George's next words. Bucky could hear some, but not all, of what transpired on the other end.
"early flight." "uncooperating." "no visitors."
Bucky had no clue what to make of the conversation. However, before he could begin to ponder, his father returned.
"I have to go," George said curtly.
"Of course," came Bucky's swift reply.
George hesitated. "Stay busy, will you? I don't need to remind you what we have riding on this union."
"Of course not."
"And for God's sake, buy a tailored suit before the weekend!"
Bucky ended the call with a huff, stretching his arms above his head. He put on a new pot of coffee and grabbed the cracked phone, settling in to analyze its contents. His thoughts briefly travelled to his fiancé, upset that he couldn't see her.
"Just for now," he consoled himself.
"Soon."
And he got to work.