Page 46 of Frat Row

As the plane descends, he steps ahead of me and offers me his hand, and I take it as he helps me down the stairs, careful not to trip in these heels.

I take in his mansion, or should I say compound.

There are three different houses with huge gates, some made of iron and some of concrete.

Some people like their privacy; I cannot fault him for that.

The landscaping is lush and full of vibrant, colored flowers, and the lawn looks well-kept.

I try to commit my surroundings to memory and see if anything looks familiar.

For all I know, we could be in an entirely different country.

Moving through paved pathways, dimly lit by motion-sensor lights, we walk beside one another to the mid-sized home.

We pass through another antique-looking iron door, and it opens into a beautiful courtyard, where the front door to the home awaits.

Martin opens it with a wave of his hand. It must be a smart home that is chip-activated. I look up, and there are cameras scattered all over the place. I am not entirely surprised.

Walking into the home, it is a very cozy Victorian feel. There is exposed brick on one of the walls in the front room, featuring large leather cigar sofas and a thick burgundy wool rug in the center, alongside an old-looking fireplace.

Suddenly, I stop walking. Martin notices and looks at me as he says, “The kitchen is right through here. Do you like chocolate or strawberry?”

Suspiciously, I answer the opposite of what I would normally say, “Strawberry.”

He smirks and heads through the double oval archway. Cautiously, I follow him through and gasp in awe at the beautiful kitchen.

I take in the green cabinets, marble countertops, and the two islands in the middle, each with a beautiful butcher block atop it. This place looks like a home you would see in Architectural Digest.

He opens the fridge door and pulls out what looks like a strawberry cheesecake, freshly made on a serving dish, and places it on the island nearest to him.

He slides open a drawer and reveals two spoons, waving them in my direction, then points with them to a barstool in front of him. “Sit.”

Without hesitating, I move to sit down, and he glides a spoon in my direction.

“This was freshly made today by my private chef; it is one of my favorites,” he informs me, casually leaning his hip into the island, already poking the spoon at the cake.

Copying his movements, I bring a spoonful to my mouth and close my eyes, savoring the delicious taste as the sweet strawberry flavor bursts on my tongue.

“Oh my god,” unexpectedly falls out of my mouth, and I quickly move my spoon back toward the cake for another bite.

Martin chuckles. “Tell me your name.”

Apprehensively, I take him in for a moment and say, “They already told you my name.”

“But I want to hear it from you,” he replies softly.

“Cassidy, but my friends call me Cass.” I have no idea why I shared that personal information with him.

“Hmm, well, Cassidy, tell me what you were studying in school.”

“Statistics,” I tell him promptly, perking up as my passion spills over as if this is all normal.

“So, I take it you must really love numbers?” He raises his eyebrow at me.

“You could say that.”

“Do you want something to drink? I always like milk with my cake.”

“Milk is fine.”

Martin sets off to a different side of the kitchen, and I watch as he opens a cabinet door with glass paneling. I can see that this is where the crystal is on display. He plucks two beautiful glasses and fills them both with milk precisely at the same level, taking his time.

Holding the cold fancy glass in my hand, I down the milk straight away, not letting up for air as I gulp it down.

Placing the glass down in front of me, I notice Martin sipping on his.

“Do you want a tour of this place?” He grins in a friendly manner.

“Sure,” I respond indifferently, still feeling really unsteady about this entire situation, but at a loss for what my new life will hold.

He looks at me darkly and vehemently says to me, “Is that any way to reply to your master?”

Color drains from my face; is this a Jekyll and Hyde situation? Not wanting to upset him further, I obediently say, “Yes, Master, that would be very kind of you.”

He sets off walking me around his house, or rather, his museum. There are seven grand bedrooms, five and a half bathrooms that any woman would eat her left arm to have, a theater, a gym, and a library.

At the end of the tour, we make our way back to the kitchen, and the wine must be hitting me because I feel a little buzzed, and my vision is blurry.

“I haven’t shown you my favorite part of the house,” he says coyly.

“Well, you brought me back to the kitchen, so I’ve seen it.”

Martin throws his head back and laughs. “That is most people's favorite part of the house, but it is not mine.”

Not wanting to say the wrong thing, I stay silent.

“No, not the kitchen for me; it’s the wine cellar,” he says with a twisted grin on his perfectly shaped face, pointing coolly to an older-looking Italian door with brushed glass that I hadn’t noticed before.

He gazes at me, his eyes devoid of emotion, which I haven’t seen yet. Fear washes over me.

Sauntering arrogantly over to the door, I follow him, indulging him in this tour that I could give two shits about.

I just want to get some sleep. I convince myself that this is just another room, and I need to go since I plan on escaping at the first opportunity, and therefore, need to familiarize myself with every inch of this house.

Swinging open the door, he says, “Ladies first.” His expression is deadly, eyes glinting full of excitement

Straightening my spine, I manage to muster courage I don’t feel. This seems off, but in the back of my mind, I attempt to calm myself down; he could just be a wine enthusiast. After all, it is a wine cellar.

As we descend on a black iron spiral staircase, my mind drifts to Martin, reasoning with myself that he is an extremely attractive, fit older man who comes off as charming if you are into that sort of thing.

And he buys women to keep as his property.

He made me forget that fucked up character trait for a moment.

Hardening my expression, I steadily walk down the steps, not wanting to fall.

The light is very dim, and I take in the fact of how far this underground cellar really is. The coldness trickles through me.

“I custom-built this so I could ship the finest wines from across the world and store them down here.”

He rattles on about the different countries the wine he owns originated from, and I zone out, not meaning to.

The wine has hit me in a way alcohol never has; it could be because I went without it for a while and had barely anything on my stomach for days.

Everything is swaying. He cuts me off on the staircase, now leading the way down the stairs, and I weakly follow, worrying about being able to physically stand much longer, let alone walk for however long down here.

“I own a few vineyards in Europe and produce my own wine as well,” he continues as we reach the concrete floor at last. There is a wall near me, and I flail my hand out, reaching for it, attempting to balance myself and stop my double vision.

Martin comes over to me and looks me over with genuine care in his eyes, “Are you feeling alright?”

“Yes, yes, I am fine. It must be the wine and the speed at which I drank it after not having a drop of alcohol for so long,” I explain, pushing him away from me in case I vomit.

“You don’t look so good,” he says, leering over me.

My legs give out underneath me, and I fall clumsily to my knees. Soon after, the rest of my body goes slack, and I stare up, panicking and puzzled at what is going on.

Martin towers over me, straddling my head as he bends down, laughing. “We’re going to have so much fun together,” he purrs as he captures my lip with his teeth and bites down firmly.

Everything turns black.