Page 25

It’s the Forster Mansion. More like a castle really. It was built on this island by Alex’s forefathers god knows how many years ago. Built to show off their wealth and grandeur. Their status. To ensure the entire world knows how untouchable they are.

My stomach turns again and for a second, I think I might hurl up right here, over their precious floorboards.

I need to pull myself together. I need to get control. To figure a plan out.

But as I force myself onwards another vision flashes in my head. A memory.

Sebastian.

He’s lying there, within touching distance, only my limbs are too broken, too damaged for me to have the ability to reach out.

And I can see it, the look in his eyes, that vacant haze where once life was so visible.

He’s dead.

And they were the ones who killed him.

I don’t know how I know that fact. I don’t know why I’m so certain when everything else in my head is a fog of confusion, but I know it’s true. I know it. The Forster’s killed my brother. They caused the car crash. And they brought me here.

But why?

Why would they need to do any of that?

Footsteps in the distance make me freeze.

Is that him, is that Alex? It feels like an entire bucket of ice-cold water is suddenly tipped over me.

I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I swear I’m hyperventilating.

I’m in complete meltdown, but whoever it is, whoever they are, they don’t turn down this corridor.

Instead, they walk on, and only the passing shadows tell me that they’re real, that they were there, that it wasn’t some awful hallucination.

I feel like I’m going crazy. I feel like I’m on the cusp of a complete breakdown – but that’s exactly what they want, isn’t it? That’s what he wants. He wants me to believe that I’m insane, that I’m sick, that I’m some sort of invalid completely dependent on him.

God, how long have I been here?

How many months have I been lost in my own head, trapped in this bullshit lie, believing every word, and blindly trusting that the Forster’s have my best interests at heart when the reality is the total opposite?

In my frantic state I start walking with no sense of direction, no record of what turns I make, what passages I walk down, where I end up.

I find myself in a room, in a tower. The view from the window is both hypnotic and horrific. All I can see are those brutal waves, that dark stormy water that keeps me, keep this entire island, cut off from the mainland.

Goosebumps erupt over my skin as I absentmindedly rub my forearms. It feels like some sort of insect crawls right up my spine.

There’s a dozen canvasses, all on easels, all spread out at different points. The way the light catches them makes them look like more than just the white blankness, but I know that’s just a trick too. An illusion.

They’re blank. Untouched, just as the brushes appear to be. Just as the paint is.

Is this my studio?

Is this some space Alex set up for me, so I’d be lulled into some false sense of security, of complacency? My art was always my sanctuary, my safe space, my way of switching off from the world and escaping. That bastard has even taken and manipulated that.

I snarl, hurling a paint pot across the room and because the lid was clearly not on properly, it splatters over one of the canvasses, covering it in bright viridian before it lands on its side, dripping more paint onto the floor.

My chest heaves as I glare at the drips, practically daring them to do something.

If modern art were my thing, then this could be quite something. Jackson Pollock eat your heart out.

I shake my head, wondering whether my humour is actually a good coping mechanism, or whether it only further pitches me over that cusp of insanity. But my eyes snag on something. A tiny piece of white.

I fall onto my knees, snatching it up from its hiding place, realising it’s another of these ‘so-called notes’, a cryptic message that maybe one day will all make sense, but right now it’s as good as useless.

“Keep going. He will help you.” It says, as if that is meant to mean something.

Who is ‘he’? The question echoes in my mind, like some sort of flickering light, some beacon of hope in amongst the darkness.

Before I can ponder further, the door creaks open.

I turn enough to glance over my shoulder as Vincent steps inside. The sight of him sends a jolt of terror through me, a visceral reminder of all the violence he’s inflicted upon my body.

“I thought I’d find you in here,” He says with a hint of what sounds like amusement in his voice.

“What, what do you want?” I ask, getting quickly to my feet. I’m not going to show weakness. I’m not going to leave myself in a vulnerable position. If I have to fight, if I have to use my fists, then so be it, but I’ll do it standing.

He runs his eyes over me, and that disgust in my belly grows.

It’s like the two of us perform some sort of dance. He takes a step towards me, and I take one away. That distance remains as we circle one another, but the entire time I know exactly where the door is, where the exit is. Where my escape is.

“I thought you’d be painting.” He says, picking up a brush, running the bristles over his lips like it’s something sensual, something sexy.

My stomach twists at the sight, and it’s all I can do not to turn my face up in disgust.

“You used to love to paint so much, Scarlett.” He says like that’s some sort of taunt.

I shake my head, taking another carefully measured step.

Five more. Five more steps and then I can be out of here, away from him.

“Do you remember that exhibition you did, those oil paintings? I’d never seen anything like it.”

“No?” I murmur, unsure what the hell his point is.

“The detail, the drama…” His lips curve into a smile. “You poured your emotions onto those canvasses in a way I’d never seen.”

I meet his gaze but say nothing. Two more steps. Just two more and then I can run for my life.

“I wonder what you’d paint now if you were able to,” He muses. “What delights your hands could conjure in your current situation.”

My heart seems to stop at the tone he uses. It’s as if something shatters in me, something erupts. I stumble back, darting for the door and he snatches at my wrist, throwing me back into the room like I’m a rag doll.

“Do you think you’d paint your anguish?” He sneers as he tightens his grip, as he drags me up until I’m practically nose to nose with him. “Do you think you’d paint your pain too? Wouldn’t it be beautiful to witness it, to see all the trauma inside you, expressed in such vividness.”

“Fuck you.” I hiss back without thinking.

He lets out a chuckle. “If you insist. I won’t have anyone saying I mistreat my daughter-in-law, that I don’t give her everything she desires.”

He pushes me back even as I scream, even as I fight, and he’s forcing me to my knees, shoving me face first over the bench. I’m too weak, too low on energy for anything I do to have any meaningful effect.

I grab at nothing, I kick out and meet only air.

All the drugs they’ve pumped into my system render me useless, render me defenceless.

He wrenches my dress up over my hips and groans as my bare arse is exposed.

With one hand he pins me in place as the other he runs up over my thighs, hooking into my thong and he pulls it out of the way.

“Such a sweet cunt.” He taunts. “I’ll admit, I never anticipated Lionel’s daughter to be as delectable as you are, but your mother was always a looker. I guess it’s a good thing you inherited her looks.”

“Don’t…” I’m not sure if I’m begging him to not do what he’s about to do, or simply wanting him to shut the fuck up about my parents. It doesn’t matter either way, because the man’s a sadist. He always was.

His fingers trace down my labia, making me shudder in revulsion.

The way he’s savouring every bit of my flesh, it’s disgusting, it’s so much worse than his aggression.

Why is he even being gentle right now? I know from the diary entries that this man is the complete opposite of that.

That he delights in forcing himself on me in the most brutal of ways.

“Such a pretty cunt.” He says. “Considering how many cocks you’ve taken, I still can’t get over how good you look.”

“Fuck you.”

It’s not a great response. It’s not even a good comeback. He and Alex love to taunt me about my past, about the fact that I wasn’t a virgin when Alex and I started dating but for fucksake, what twenty-four-year-old is?

He pushes his fingers right against my clit and I hiss.

“Will you be a good girl and come for me?”

“I’d rather fucking die.” I snarl.

He chuckles again, and his warm breath hits the skin on the back of my neck. “All in good time, Scarlett.”

What the fuck does that mean? My heart hammers against my chest, my breath comes out in rattling gasps.

They’ve said that before, hinted at my mortality before.

Is that their plan? To fuck me until my body gives up, to fuck me until I’m nothing more than a corpse?

Alex has life insurance on me, I know that much.

Maybe that’s the game here, use me until they’re ready for their nice little payout.

I can’t take a moment to truly contemplate that because he shoves himself into me, shoves his fingers as deep as they’ll go, stretching them out inside me like he thinks his dick needs the space.

I jerk away, trying to buck him off and he grabs me by my hair, wrenching my head back before he slams me face first into the wood.

Pain explodes behind my eyes, stars dance in front of them and a warm trickle escapes my nose, filling my mouth with that only too familiar taste of my own blood.

“You want it rough?” He spits. “You want to be a little bitch about it, then fine.”

I’m too dazed to move. Instead, I just lay there, limp and pathetic, as he forces his hand, his fist into me.

Pain explodes inside me. More pain than I thought possible.