Page 63 of Captive Ruin

Amelia

Van Wyk isn’t there when I wake up. His cuffs are loose, fastened to only one wrist.

It’s only a buckle. Impossible to open with both cuffs on, easy enough with just one.

This is the second pair he’s gifted me. The first I enjoyed destroying before I threw them in the trash. These are going too, but I’ve no doubt he has more.

Maybe he buys them in bulk.

I can’t believe he turned up last night, let himself into my apartment with keys for fuck’s sake, then chained me to my bed and joined me. Naked. Without even waking me, until it was too late.

Then didn’t even fuck me, but just… listened.

In some respects, it was more disturbing than the last visit. I found myself empathizing with him, and that’s dangerous. The man’s a monster.

So why do I find myself fantasizing about him? About what he’s done to me?

Because it’s a way of processing. Because it’s empowering. Because it keeps fiction separate from reality.

It used to be a good excuse. It’s wearing thin, now.

How the hell did he even get keys?

That’s a mystery I can’t answer, but I spend half an hour calling around until I find a locksmith willing to turn up immediately, fitting new locks at an exorbitant emergency rate.

More money I don’t have to fritter away. But if it keeps Van Wyk out, it’s worth every damn cent.

Now I have the weekend, and I’m dreading it. Van Wyk, Serranto, my gallery, the exhibition—thinking of any of them leaves me in a cold sweat.

Focus, Amelia.

I have two days to do nothing but think.

There must be a solution here somewhere.

Monday, I’m in the gallery early, sitting at my desk when Sierra walks in with coffees.

“Morning. Two days to go! So exciting!”

The worst possible greeting. Still, she’s not wrong. Just not for the reasons she thinks.

“Thanks,” I say, accepting my latte.

I should tell her, but I can’t bring myself to. I have no answers.

“You look a little drawn.” She perches on the edge of my desk. “Is it getting to you?”

It’s an effort not to break down in floods of tears. “A bit, I suppose.”

She nods in understanding. “Don’t worry, Ammy. It’ll all turn out just fine.”

With that utterly unlikely prediction, she leaves me to it.

I look back at the list of confirmed attendees open on my screen. Two hundred and twenty-seven, including Jordan Fletcher of Time Out.

They’re all going to walk in here, expecting Amiento and Quek, and all I’ll have is leftover stock. Artists no one’s heard of, work most of this list has already seen, that would stir no interest if I slapped fifty-percent discounts on everything, and made it a bargain sale instead.

With a sigh, I pick up my phone and call the first artist on the list I made late yesterday.