Page 26 of Fixation

HARPER

“ A nd that’s about it,” Emersyn says, her voice lighter as I flip through the mail.

She’s glad to finally talk to me on the phone, after days of holding down the fort mostly on her own.

I’ve been available—me, or Anderson—but it’s not the same. Not like a real call, where she can talk through her worries and ask a hundred follow-ups.

Especially since her relief is totally understandable.

This has never happened before. In LA, I was always within reach. We used to share an office. Two doors between us, always open.

Until I moved out here.

Then, I was basically kidnapped.

But my business survived. Other than being late on a few custom orders, Harper’s has been doing just fine.

It terrifies my soul to say it, but…a lot of it is thanks to my doctor. My captor.

The man who let me go only a couple of hours ago.

He let me go.

My eyes drift to my window. It’s a beautiful day out.

The skies are blue. Trees are a lush shade of green. The pavements are clean.

And I share a wall with a psychopath.

An unhinged man who took care of my mail. Anderson placed it in neatly organized stacks on the dining table: bills to the right, personal letters in the middle, and ads to the far left.

My phone was waiting for me here too. Logically, it shouldn’t be.

I shouldn’t be here.

Anderson couldn’t have guessed that I’d change my mind about him. That I wouldn’t press charges as soon as he let me go.

I resisted him, I told him no . Tried to escape.

Except I didn’t mean any of it. Deep down, staying there had been a nourishing experience.

His mind games, his touch, his persistence, they worked. He predicted they would, which is why I’m here.

Freed.

Emersyn goes on, telling me about something she forgot to mention. A new silver supplier emailed her proof that his product is of top quality. He offered us a competitive price for the chance to work with Harper’s.

I listen to her opinion and the research she’s done on them.

Halfheartedly.

The heaviness in the pit of my belly steals my attention.

Anderson has been watching me. He’s been studying me.

I wish I could say he’s superficial and shallow. That what matters to him is how I look and sex.

That isn’t the case.

He cares.

It’s in the small, unhinged things that no one would’ve noticed but him. My clothes, my shampoo, how I write my emails…everything.

Including my deepest, darkest desires.

The ones I haven’t even admitted to myself.

The ones forced on me.

A shiver wracks through me. I resist it, pushing down the need and fear he’s planted in me before standing up.

There’s laundry to wrangle. A business to run. A life to live. It waits for no one, especially me.

Oh, wait. It has.

Thanks to Anderson.

“…we aren’t bound by an exclusivity contract with our current supplier.

” Emersyn’s warm yet determined voice filters into my thoughts as I kick off the flip-flops Anderson gave me.

“And yes, we hardly get any returns. However, this could be an opportunity for us to offer them better-quality products. We could start small, as always, then…”

She continues while I consider Anderson’s flip-flops.

While I think of him.

Wondering what he’s doing right now is a bad. Really bad. Loving the fact that he bought flip-flops in my size and my favorite color, black, is just as awful.

The wheels in my head start spinning, design ideas bursting in little explosions before my eyes.

They’re not exactly the ideas I had during my time with Anderson.

They’re more vivid. More alive.

Silver pieces with black stones. Not like the flip-flops. Like his eyes.

Something dark and mysterious. Yes, it could totally work. Summer doesn’t have to mean bright, happy colors. Or bright pastels.

If Anderson can convince me that his cruelty is something to be thankful for, I can pull this off.

Really, Harper? Really? You couldn’t run fast enough out of there, and here you are, obsessing over him? Immersing him in your designs?

He’s controlling you.

Just to prove a point to myself, that I’m still a free woman, I walk over to the kitchen and dump the flip-flops into the large trash can.

“So, what do you say?” Emersyn sounds hopeful.

I picture her back in our tiny L.A. office — blonde hair pulled into its usual tight bun, jade-green eyes steady as ever, keeping track of all the emails and orders I’ve been neglecting.

Oh, and my refunds. I remember her saying she’d compensate our customers. Of course she did.

Which reminds me. That transfer I got on one of my cash apps from Anderson came out to exactly what we paid back.

I declined it the second the notification popped up.

Twisted as it is…it was almost sweet.

Still twisted. And too controlling.

When he pushed the money through a second time, I finally stopped fighting him, then donated it all.

Anyway. Emersyn. She was fooled by Anderson. By a predator.

Anderson is a conniving predator. He’s been studying me. Reading my emails.

Learning how to talk like me.

Terror and unease settle into my bones. I shiver as a hint of excitement joins the party.

My mind is as screwed up as it’s ever been.

I mean, look at me. I’m not hurt or traumatized or crying over what happened in his basement. Being kidnapped by him doesn’t feel bad in any way shape or form.

I don’t even care about the cameras he installed in my home anymore.

I need clarity, and for that, I need some time for myself.

Good thing this important business call is about to be over. I have piles of laundry waiting for me, so I go upstairs to get my hamper.

After I’m done, I’ll start working on my custom orders. The bride’s necklace and bracelet are the most important. The A-lister’s earrings and ring for her next month’s premiere are second.

The other, less urgent ones, will come later. I’m eager to sketch the designs for my new collection. Those that float inside my head thanks to him.

Yes, thanks to Anderson.

“Harper?” Emersyn calls my name. I must’ve spaced out. “You there?”

“Send me their offer and the information you have on them.” I clear my throat, trying to sound more like myself. “I’ll go through it, and we’ll see from there.”

“It’s in your inbox as we speak.” A vibration in my phone notifies me that she sent it.

Except her email is the last thing on my mind. I barely hear Emersyn talking about the two new employees the factory just hired.

The second my eyes land on my bed, my jaw drops.

The sheets are clean. The bed has been made.

Shock transforms into acceptance, and then…

Fuck.

Gratitude.

A knot forms in my throat. My heart warms and expands in my chest.

While I tremble with fear.

This is so fucked up. So wrong, that Anderson’s left his mark on every inch of my home.

He invaded my privacy.

Unable to resist, I lean in, inhaling the scent of my detergent on my sheets. The faint woodsy smell of my doctor is there too.

I hate him.

And…

The man is an ER surgeon. He has to work long hours, has a stressful job.

Yet he found the time to take care of me. To come here and change my sweat-stained sheets. To make my fucking bed.

“Oh, I forgot, they even brought us samples,” Emersyn chirps while confusion makes my temples throb. “I shipped them to your house. They should be there tomorrow.”

“Great.” The word sounds flat. My tongue is heavy.

“Hey, are you okay?” My VP hears it in my voice. “Do you need another day or two off? I’ve got this, you know. I’m good, promise.”

“I’m fine.” Physically, yes. On the inside I’m a mess. I force myself to go to the bathroom. Laundry, I’ll focus on that. I’ll be better soon. “Thank you for the samples. I’ll have fun testing them,” I say what’s expected of me.

It’s all I can do not to gasp.

My hamper has been emptied. My vanity is spotless. Creams, lotions, liquid soap, razor. It’s all still here, right where I left it, just better.

My bathroom is pristine.

Thanks to Anderson.

I don’t know whether to feel violated or grateful.

“One last thing. Really last this time.” Emersyn huffs a laugh while I dash to my closet.

He dressed me in my clothes today, sure, but I never imagined he’d done the laundry.

Confusion claws at the back of my throat. I’m questioning myself, him, and basically everything that went down in that basement.

My mouth goes dry at the follow-up question that arises. Did he? Kidnap me?

An unhinged laugh bubbles from my chest, and I snap my hand over my mouth.

Yeah, he stole my sanity, all right. He went through the trouble of taking care of me while I was out, so I’d become this lost and unstable person that I’d need him again.

What does he expect in return? What’s his endgame?

Seriously, how could he let me go?

There’s evidence that he’s been here. His fingerprints must be on my clothes. My washing machine. My mail.

I wouldn’t have to work hard to prove my case to the cops.

They’d find the cameras that he hid. They have the tools for the job.

You’ll walk out of here today with your cunt sore and your head a mess. With your heart belonging to me.

The ghost of his words rakes down my back. My teeth lock. I flatten a hand against the wall for balance.

I want him. I need him. I—fuck.

“Boss?”

Deep breath. “What is it, Emersyn?”

“Werner emailed you this morning. Asked if you could call him. Said it was personal. You want me to call him back for you?”

Werner, Werner, Werner. Who the fuck is Werner?

Right. My website designer.

Where has my mind gone?

To Anderson, that’s where.

Sigh.

“No, email him through my account.” This is the worst time to deal with another man. “See what he wants.”

“You got it.” She starts typing. In slow steps, as if I’m playing hide and seek, I leave my bedroom, heading to my studio on the other side of the hall. “Hey, boss?”

“I’m here.”

“Good to have you back.” Emersyn ends the call before I can tell her that I’m not actually back.

The old me, who had no obsessive thoughts over a man, who didn’t get off on rough sex and cold stares, is gone.

Anderson put that girl to rest. He shaped me into a new one, a woman who’s a stranger and who somehow feels so much more like me.

For some reason, I don’t mourn her.

My blood boils as heat pools between my legs. This isn’t right. This isn’t okay.

Work. I promised myself I’d focus on that, and that’s what I’m doing.

As I predicted, as soon as I step into my studio, my anxiety lessens. Being here feels like a homecoming.

It brings me peace.

Nothing was touched in here. My sturdy workbench is in the center of the room where it’s always been. My tools and blow torch are in the same organized mess I know and love.

Anderson let me keep a part of myself.

He likes this part of me.

I ball my hands into fists, refusing to care what he likes or doesn’t like.

I like myself. Isn’t that good enough?

It is.

It has to be.