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I pull out the copy of Meditations, at least happy to know now that I can take a closer look at it, that it is actually a real book. The mechanism to open the secret passage isn’t this specific book, it’s the location of the book, which sits snuggly on top of a small pressure lever. When the pressure is removed by the removal of the book from the bookcase, the bookcase door on the other wall slides open.
There’s a light switch on the wall just inside the secret door, and this one I do turn on. There’s no way I’m descending into whatever this is in the dark. A staircase spirals down to a large underground room. There’s a second desk and chair in here, and several tall dark wood cabinets lining the walls. I scan the room for indications of cameras, but I can’t find any. It doesn’t mean there aren’t any here, but I doubt Aidan feels the need to have heavy security in a secret passage room, particularly when his house is so heavily guarded.
I go through the drawers, again, not knowing what I’m looking for. I don’t think I’m actually looking for anything, not really. I just… want to know what Aidan keeps behind a secret door. I’m curious that way.
Once again, I’m disappointed not to find any secret villain plans or criminal schematics. What I do find is a very ornate looking, very large stiff envelope addressed to Aidan. The postmark is December 13th of last year. The return address is only an address, no name: 30 Avenue Montaigne, 75008 Paris, France.
I don’t know what I expected to find inside, but what I do find is more shocking to me than any crime plans. It’s drawings of my wedding dress!
The drawings are done with colored pencil on a high quality mildly translucent vellum paper. “House of Dior” is engraved in gold at the top, and it’s signed by the designer as though the drawing itself is a piece of art meant to hang in a museum. A handwritten letter on much smaller sized paper—a fine creamy stationery—flutters out onto the desk. I read.
* * *
Dear Mr. Stryker,
* * *
Congratulations again on your upcoming nuptials! Enclosed is the final wedding gown design. As requested we avoided white in the gown to reflect Miss Prescott’s nontraditional preferences.
I think your bride will find the beige and pale pink to her satisfaction. Given the exclusive nature of our designs, I appreciate your understanding in our not wanting to send these images over the internet. We received the clothing you sent and have determined Miss Prescott’s exact measurements and created mannequins in her proper size.
When the gown is complete, we are happy to work with Stella on this. Since this is to be a surprise, we’ll fly our tailors in for the fittings and adjustments as needed. We thank you for understanding that we simply can’t allow someone not of our house to tamper with one of our couture gowns. Given the expense of the gown and your extreme generosity in our dealings up until now, we’re happy to fly the tailors in on our own dime.
Stella should expect the gown via overnight delivery by no later than March 26th. Please let us know if this works within your own timeline.
* * *
Warm Regards,
* * *
Sebastian Moreau
Head Couturier, House of Dior
* * *
I reread the letter several times as I allow all of this to sink in. Aidan didn’t relent to letting me have the most expensive gown in Stella’s shop. He specifically commissioned it for me, and it was the most expensive because it was commissioned—and with Dior no less. And how did he know I wouldn’t want a white dress?
He knew I’d ask for the most expensive dress to try to punish him. He set me up. I struggle with the wave of conflicting emotions running through me. I can’t decide how to feel about this. Should I feel angry and manipulated? Is it somehow romantic or sweet? He didn’t hold it over my head after all. He didn’t want “credit” for doing this. It’s not like it was some secret plot to get into my panties. Unless he somehow meant for me to find this secret room. He did leave me alone in his study.
But then he locked the door. Did he anticipate I’d take a crash course in lock picking also? I look at the drawings for several more minutes. What will he do with them? I mean… I kind of do want them framed and hanging on my wall. They would look great in my walk-in closet, but then Aidan would know I’d been down here. I sigh and carefully put the drawings and letter back inside the envelope and return it to the drawer.
There’s nothing else interesting in the desk. I decide while I’m down here I may as well look and see what’s in all of these giant cabinets. I let out a low whistle when I open the first one to find rows of guns. Okay, for sure Aidan did not plan for me to find this room. There’s no way he’d give me access to weapons. I open all the cabinets. Two cabinets are stocked with ammunition.
I could escape.
I could use one of these weapons to force them to let me go while Aidan isn’t here. I let the fantasy play through my mind—the imaginary scenario where I’m a straight-up badass from an action movie. But there is a betraying part of me that doesn’t want to leave.
I have the means right here in front of me, but do I have the will? I should. I’m trying so hard to hold onto the way I was so unattracted to Aidan when we were kids and how weird I thought he was and how his constant lurking gave me nightmares.
I’m trying to hold on to being forced to marry him against my will, not even knowing he was the guy from the alley.
But then there’s… the guy from the alley, and how attracted I was to him… how gentle he was with me in the car, and practically every single interaction since then. There is one quality that Aidan has displayed consistently since we were children… patience. He’s dangerous but he doesn’t feel out of control to me.
He hasn’t tried to force himself on me, despite the fact that I know he feels somehow entitled to have me. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have forced this marriage on me. And now this dress thing. And that Medusa statue. And the fact that he kept his mother’s Jane Austen books—all that juxtaposed against the money and the power and the tattoos and the good looks. How am I supposed to resist all that? I’m only human, here!
Maybe… maybe I could give him a chance? I hate myself for thinking that. He doesn’t deserve a chance… he thinks it’s okay to stalk and surveil and lock me up in his house.