Sold To The Devil I Ruined

The tires of the black SUV screeched against the wet gravel, a sound like an animal in pain that cut through the roar of the storm. The vehicle hadn't even come to a full stop before the back door was ripped open.

Rain lashed into the leather interior, soaking Elenora Vang's silk shirt in seconds. It clung to her skin, cold and heavy. Before she could take a breath, a hand clamped around her upper arm. It wasn't a hold meant to guide. It was a clamp of steel meant to bruise.

The bodyguard yanked her out.

Elenora stumbled. Her heel caught on the slick stone of the driveway. There was a sickening snap, not of bone, but of the expensive Italian stiletto giving way. She went down hard. Her knees hit the mud and gravel with a wet thud that jarred her teeth. Pain shot up her legs, hot and sharp, but the cold rain was numbing it fast.

She pushed her hair out of her face, gasping for air that felt too thick with water to breathe. Through the blur of the downpour, she saw a pair of shoes.

They were hand-stitched leather. Immaculate. Not a speck of mud on them.

Elenora's eyes traveled up the sharp crease of the dark suit trousers, past the fitted jacket, until she met the eyes of Fitzgerald Woodard.

He stood under the shelter of the massive portico, dry and untouched by the chaos. He looked down at her. There was no anger in his face. Anger would have been human. There was only a hollow, terrifying void. He looked at her the way one might look at a dead rodent on the doorstep. An inconvenience.

He didn't offer a hand. He didn't speak. He just watched her shiver.

"Get her inside," he said finally. His voice was low, barely audible over the thunder, but it carried the weight of a gavel striking a sound block. "Don't let her dirty my steps."

The bodyguard hauled Elenora up by her armpits. Her feet dragged. She tried to find purchase, but without her shoe, she was unbalanced. They dragged her up the stairs and threw her into the foyer.

The transition from the dark storm to the blinding brilliance of the crystal chandelier made her squeeze her eyes shut. She hit the floor again. This time it was marble. Hard, unforgiving, and cold. The air left her lungs in a wheeze.

She lay there for a second, the water from her clothes pooling around her, staining the intricate Persian rug. She heard the soft sound of leather moving.

Fitzgerald was peeling off his gloves. They were wet from the brief exposure to the blowing rain. He balled them up. With a casual flick of his wrist, he tossed them.

The wet leather slapped against Elenora's cheek.

It stung. Not enough to injure, but enough to mark. It was a dismissal. A degradation.

Elenora pushed herself up on trembling arms. The heat of humiliation burned in her chest, warring with the chill in her bones. She looked up at him.

"This is kidnapping, Fitzgerald," she rasped. Her throat felt raw. "You can't do this."

A low sound echoed in the cavernous hall. A laugh. But it lacked any humor. It was dry and scratchy.

Fitzgerald took a step closer. He crouched down. His movement was fluid, predatory. He reached out and grabbed her chin. His fingers dug into her jawline with enough pressure to make her wince. He forced her head up, locking her gaze with his.

"Illegal?" he asked. His eyes were dark, the pupils blown wide. "You didn't read the fine print, Elenora. Your father was desperate. The collateral agreement he signed for the loan didn't just list the summer house or the cars."

He tilted her head to the side, inspecting her like cattle.

"It listed all assets, tangible and intangible. It included a personal services contract, Elenora. He signed you over to me."

Elenora's stomach dropped. She remembered the papers Gifford had signed. Stacks of them. She hadn't read them. She had just trusted that he would fix it.

She tried to pull her face away. His grip tightened.

"Let me go," she whispered, though the fight was draining out of her.

"You can leave right now," Fitzgerald said. His voice dropped to a whisper, intimate and cruel. "The door is unlocked."

He released her chin and stood up, pulling a phone from his pocket. The screen lit up his face, casting long shadows under his eyes.

"Go ahead. Walk out. I have St. Mary's Hospital on speed dial."

Elenora froze. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

"One call," Fitzgerald said, his thumb hovering over the screen. "That's all it takes to pull the plug on Gifford's life support. I own the debt, Elenora. I own the machines keeping his lungs pumping."

The air in the room seemed to vanish. Elenora looked at the heavy oak door. It was ten feet away. Freedom.

And death.

Her father was the only thing she had left. The only person who hadn't turned on her when the money ran dry.

She slumped. Her shoulders caved in. The defiance in her eyes flickered and died, replaced by a dull, aching resignation. She lowered her head, staring at the wet spot on the rug.

Fitzgerald watched the light leave her eyes. He seemed to breathe deeper, as if her misery was oxygen.

He put the phone away. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the fingers that had touched her face, cleaning them thoroughly.

"Take her to the guest wing," he commanded the guards, turning his back on her. "No one enters without my permission. Not even a fly."

The guards grabbed her again. Elenora didn't fight. She let them drag her across the marble, her bare foot squeaking against the polished stone. She looked back once.

Fitzgerald was still standing there. He wasn't looking at her. He was staring at his own hand, rubbing the tips of his fingers together, over and over again.

Elenora woke up with a gasp. Her lungs heaved, searching for air that wasn't thick with the smell of rain and expensive cologne.

She was in a bed she didn't know. The sheets were too soft. The room was too quiet. Outside, thunder rumbled, a low growl that dragged her mind back to the nightmare she had just escaped.

But it wasn't a nightmare. It was a memory.

In her sleep, she had been back at the prep school. The sun had been shining that day, bright and blinding on the manicured green lawns. She was seventeen. She was wearing her custom-tailored blazer, the crest on the pocket stitched with gold thread.

She was holding the keys to a limited-edition convertible, tossing them in the air, catching them. The metal was cool against her palm.

Around her, the circle of sycophants laughed at something she said. She didn't remember the joke. It didn't matter. They always laughed.

Then she saw him.

Fitzgerald. He was younger then. Thinner. His clothes were second-hand, the cuffs fraying. He was near the trash cans behind the cafeteria, fishing out a textbook someone had thrown away as a prank.

One of the boys next to Elenora picked up a rock. He threw it.

It struck Fitzgerald on the temple. A thin line of red blood trickled down his pale skin. He didn't cry out. He didn't run. He just stood there, clutching the dirty book, his eyes burning with a silent, terrifying intensity.

Elenora felt a twist of boredom mixed with curiosity. She raised a hand, stopping the boy from throwing another.

She walked over to him. Her shadow fell over his face, blocking out the sun.

"Hey, stray," she said. She nudged his worn-out sneaker with the toe of her boot.

Fitzgerald looked up. He didn't look away. That annoyed her. Nobody looked her in the eye.

Elenora reached into her bag. She pulled out a wad of cash. It was her allowance for the week. More than his mother made in three months.

She threw it.

The bills fluttered down like green confetti. They landed on his shoulders, in his hair, in the dirt.

"Be my bodyguard," she said, smirking. "That should cover your sick mother's meds for a while."

Fitzgerald looked at the money. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. His knuckles turned white. He was shaking.

But he knelt.

He knelt in the dirt and picked up the bills, one by one.

The dream shifted. The scene changed.

The art studio. The smell of turpentine and oil paint. Fitzgerald was standing in the corner, holding a heavy canvas. He had been standing there for an hour. His arms were shaking.

Elenora was painting. She didn't like what she had done. In a fit of pique, she grabbed the jar of dirty paint water.

She splashed it on him.

Gray, murky water soaked his shirt.

"Clean it up," she said, laughing. "That's what you're here for, Woodard. To clean up my messes."

He got on his knees and scrubbed the floor.

The dream shifted again. The rain. The muddy field. She made him carry her because she didn't want to ruin her shoes. He slipped. They fell. She slapped him.

"Useless," she screamed in the dream. "You are useless."

Fitzgerald sat in the mud, rain dripping from his nose, and looked at her. That look. It wasn't submission anymore. It was a promise.

Elenora sat up in the dark room, sweat sticking her shirt to her back. Her heart was racing.

The door to the bedroom slammed open.

Light from the hallway flooded in, blinding her. Fitzgerald stood in the doorway.

He filled the frame. He wasn't the skinny boy from the dream. He was broad, imposing, a wall of muscle and expensive fabric.

He held a tray in his hand.

He walked to the bedside table and dropped the tray with a clatter. Soup sloshed over the side of the bowl. It looked cold. There was a piece of stale bread beside it.

"Eat," Fitzgerald said.

Elenora looked at the food. Her stomach turned. It looked like slop.

"I'm not hungry," she whispered.

Fitzgerald leaned against the doorframe. He crossed his arms. A cruel smile played on his lips.

"I didn't ask if you were hungry," he said. "I said eat. Don't expect anyone to spoon-feed you."

He paused, his eyes raking over her disheveled form.

"My Queen."

The title was an insult. A knife twisting in an old wound. He threw the word at her like she had thrown the money at him.

Elenora stared at the tray. The smell of the cold soup was greasy and metallic. Rage, sudden and hot, flared in her chest. It overrode the fear.

She swung her arm out.

The tray went flying. The bowl hit the wall and shattered. Cold broth and chunks of vegetables splattered against the silk wallpaper and dripped down to the carpet. The crash was loud, satisfying.

"I am not a dog, Fitzgerald," she said. Her voice shook, but she held her chin high.

Fitzgerald watched the soup ruin the wallpaper. He didn't blink. He slowly turned his head to look at her. The amusement was gone. His eyes were flat, black pools.

He pushed off the doorframe.

He took a step toward her. Then another.

Elenora scrambled back on the bed until her spine hit the headboard. There was nowhere to go.

He reached her. He didn't strike her. He leaned in, placing his hands on the mattress on either side of her hips, trapping her.

"Your value right now," he said, his voice a low rumble in his chest, "is less than a dog."

The proximity of him brought another memory crashing down on her.

The hospital corridor. Ten years ago.

Elenora was walking down the hall, her heels clicking on the linoleum. She was wearing a fur coat that cost more than the MRI machine in the room next door.

She saw Fitzgerald. He was pleading with a doctor. His voice was desperate, cracking. He needed an extension on the payment.

Beside him stood a nurse. A student nurse. Britni Bird. She had her hand on Fitzgerald's arm, rubbing it soothingly. She looked up at him with wide, watery eyes.

Elenora felt something ugly twist in her gut. It wasn't just disgust at his poverty. It was... something else. Something that felt like possessiveness.

She marched up to them.

"Woodard," she said, her voice echoing. "Is this why you won't polish my car? You're too busy playing man for this charity case?"

Britni flinched. She hid behind Fitzgerald.

Fitzgerald spun around. He put his arm out to shield the nurse. "Elenora, stop. Not here."

Elenora laughed. She opened her clutch. She pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. She crumpled it and threw it. It hit Britni in the face.

"A tip," Elenora sneered. "Stay away from my dog."

Britni started to cry. Fitzgerald shoved Elenora. Hard. She stumbled back into the wall. It was the first time he had ever touched her in anger.

The memory dissolved.

Fitzgerald's hand was on her throat.

Reality snapped back. He wasn't shoving her. He was choking her. His fingers wrapped around her windpipe, thumb pressing into the soft hollow of her throat.

"Do you remember?" he hissed. His face was inches from hers. "Do you remember how you treated her?"

Elenora clawed at his wrist. Her nails dug into his skin, but his arm was like granite. Black spots danced in her vision. Her lungs burned.

"She... is... a liar..." Elenora choked out. The words were barely air.

Fitzgerald's grip tightened. "Shut up. You don't get to speak her name."

The pressure was immense. Elenora's vision tunneled. Just when she thought her throat would collapse, he let go.

She fell sideways onto the mattress, gasping, coughing violently. She sucked in air, her throat screaming in protest.

Fitzgerald stood up. He loomed over her, adjusting his cuffs.

"Clean it up," he said, pointing to the mess on the floor.

Elenora looked at the shattered ceramic and the stain.

"And eat it," he added.

Elenora looked up, horror chilling her blood. "What?"

"Eat it off the floor," Fitzgerald said. "Or I call the hospital and tell them to stop your father's medication for the night."

Elenora froze. The threat was a physical blow.

She looked at the floor. The soup was soaking into the rug. Shards of white ceramic glinted in the mess.

She crawled off the bed. Her knees hit the carpet. She moved toward the spill. Tears blurred her vision, hot and stinging.

Fitzgerald watched. He didn't leave. He stood there, a sentinel of cruelty.

Elenora reached for a piece of potato that had fallen on the rug. Her hand trembled. She put it in her mouth. She swallowed. It tasted like dust and shame.

She heard Fitzgerald inhale sharply. She glanced up.

He was looking at her with an expression she couldn't read. It looked like triumph, but his jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. He looked... repulsed by her submission, as if it were a mirror to his own monstrosity.

He turned on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door so hard the walls shook.

Elenora was left alone in the dark, chewing on grit and tears.