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“Why me? Is it because you’ve been so alone and bored these last few months that you were ripe for a distraction?”
“Hardly,” he said, finishing off the last of his omelet. “You have to know that you’re hardly the first person to have approached Quinny for an interview since the accident? He could have picked anyone else, if that were the case.”
“So, to Mr. Quinn, I was only some court jester to amuse his prized client out of the doldrums? What about the interview? He knew you didn’t want to do it, but he sent me here regardless? Where would that have left me? Professionally?” The magnitude of Hunter Quinn’s manipulation was staggering and infuriating.
“I don’t know how Quinny expected this to go. I don’t believe he thought it all the way through. But it is telling that he arranged for it to take place right when he was uncontactable,” Trystan said, but Iris wasn’t sure if she could trust him to tell the truth right now.
“Is this what rich and powerful men do for kicks?” she asked, her voice bitter. “Manipulate ordinary people like puppets?”
“Iris, if you’re referring to yourself as ordinary, I beg to differ.”
“You know nothing about me, Trystan,” she pushed her half-eaten plate of food aside and surged to her feet. “You’re so far removed from the real world and real people that I’m some kind of novelty to you. But that will quickly wear off and you’ll get bored. I’d sooner skip ahead to that part, if you don’t mind… it’ll save us both a whole lot of awkwardness. Thanks for breakfast. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to be alone.”
twelve
Iris didn’t wait for Trystan’s reply instead she turned and left the kitchen. It was still dark outside, but for once it was silent. No wind and no rain. The quiet was so unfamiliar it was eerie, and gooseflesh skittered up and down Iris’s spine as she retreated to her room.
She had no intention of staying there—the traumatic memories of the last few days were still too fresh in her mind for that—but she needed her laptop, some underwear, and leggings. She’d been walking around in just the thigh-length hoodie, and no underwear. She’d tried not to think about it, even though she couldn’t help feeling awkward as hell since she knew that Trystan had to have been aware of her lack of panties. After all, he was the one who’d omitted her underwear when he’d brought her the hoodie.
Then again, maybe he’d been reluctant to sift through her undies. Some men were squeamish when it came to things like that.
She hastily dragged on a pair of panties and some thick leggings, before grabbing her headphones, laptop, and charger, and fleeing from the room again.
It was only as she settled into what looked like a solarium that she thought about her phone.
She’d taken it with her last night but hadn’t seen it since. She had a sinking feeling that she’d lost it somewhere in her mad dash toward the river. She’d have to email her parents to let them know she would be out of touch for a while.
She did that and shot one off to Evan too. She hadn’t heard from her friend in a couple of days, and wondered if she was okay. The other woman liked to regale Iris with the minutia of her life, and it was unusual for her to remain out of touch, especially during the week when she was bored at work and not distracted by her social life.
Correspondence done, she updated her journal, bitching about Trystan’s duplicity as well as Mr. Quinn’s manipulation. She didn’t hold back since she could be as brutal as she liked in the privacy of her journal and her entries were filled with vitriol.
As she read through the entry she’d written just hours before fleeing into the cold, wet night, it was clear from her language that she’d been spiraling.
She’d written about Trystan, spending time with him, enjoying his company, feeling optimistic that maybe he was starting to like and trust her, and then the feeling of utter betrayal when he’d locked her in that room.
I don’t know how to feel. I can’t breathe, I can’t think, I’m suffocating, choking on my fear, my skin is too tight on my body and I know it’s just a matter of time before I burst out of it. I’m scared, terrified, I have to get out of here before that happens. Before I lose myself.
Jesus. She stopped reading, shaking her head at the sheer irrationality of her thought processes. She’d been perfectly safe in that room, she’d nearly died out there in the dark, and yet she’d chosen out there as the lesser of two evils.
It scared her. She’d never endangered herself like that before. But then, she’d never found herself in a situation like this before either. She’d never before had to deal with being locked in day after day after day. And what had started as a controllable condition had rapidly escalated through the roof.
She shook her head and saved and closed her journal before opening her manuscript. The silly story she was working on was just for fun, but it was diverting and kept her mind occupied.
“What are you working on?” The deep voice dragged Iris back to the present with a jolt and she looked up from her laptop to stare blankly at the tall man who was sitting in the chair opposite the sofa where she’d set up office.
She blinked a few times, her mind still swimming with plot lines and bits of snatched dialogue between characters.
“How long have you been sitting there?” she finally asked, her voice thick from disuse… for that matter how long had she been sitting there? She’d lost all track of time—it was fully daylight now—and she felt stiff from being seated in one position for so long.
“I’ve been here, reading, for nearly forty minutes. I didn’t want to disturb you, but I thought maybe you needed a break.”
“What’s the time?” She set her laptop aside and got up to stretch her legs, wincing a bit when her limbs protested the movement.
“About eight-thirty.”
Which meant Iris had been sitting there, wholly absorbed in her writing, for nearly two-and-a-half hours. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d done that. It excited her, and all she could think of was getting back to it.
“So, what are you working on?” he asked again.
