Captive Bride - Alta Hensley Page 0,14

have a lot of unread emails, unreturned text messages, and missed phone calls. My mother won’t be particularly worried yet, since she has become accustomed to me not speaking to her every day. Although my sort of girlfriend, Marissa, will no doubt think I am banging some other chick and currently be in the middle of a stream of texts ranting about what an asshole I am and how my failure to commit to her only proves I am a spoiled, silver spoon-fed momma’s boy with no hope of ever finding true happiness. It’s likely some will assume I’m on a bender, though not my work. No matter what, the workaholic in me has forced me to show up every day, meet every deadline, and act in the utmost professional manner. Odd, that it will be my employer who will notice my disappearance and find it concerning before my mother or my… well… the woman I sleep with, will.

If any one of them knew I’m actually chained up, in a cellar, held captive by a psychopath grooming me to marry his physically and mentally stunted kidnapped pretend daughter, they wouldn’t believe it. Who could believe this? I’m struggling to grasp the reality myself.

I wonder if Richard is reading all of my texts and getting pleasure in watching my life implode one angry message at a time.

My poor mother, and not for the reasons one would think. This will be all the gossip and really hurt her socialite status. The pity in the eyes of all her lunch date besties will truly eat her alive. The hushed rumors, the well wishes laced with hidden agendas just to dig for more gossip. Her invites to parties will decrease because no one wants a dark cloud to attend a gala. And of course, she won’t be able to hold a proper funeral for me where she can wear a ten-thousand-dollar designer black dress and dab her eyes with a handkerchief once belonging to some queen of another country and considered a priceless antique. She will not be able to have all eyes on her as she throws her body over my open casket declaring she doesn’t know how she can go on without her only son.

She will feel cheated that there is no body for her handsome son. I’m sure I would make for a very attractive corpse in an expensive, custom-fitted suit.

Oh yes… my poor mother.

I rub the sleep from my eyes and find it odd I’m still a little groggy.

The stew…

There must have been something in the stew Ember cooked to knock me out. No way could I have slept through the night on a cold cellar floor without some sort of sedative. Especially since I can’t remember the last time I went to bed without several glasses of whiskey and two or three sleeping pills. My nighttime cocktail is my way of life, and I don’t judge myself nor do I give a shit who does.

I do me. Do I drink more than mother dearest would approve of and pop pills like a child in a candy store with free samples? Damn straight. And when this entire nightmare is over, I will throw myself a true rager to attempt to erase the awful memories of this medieval dungeon from my mind. It may take me never being sober again to forget this ordeal.

But for now, all I can do is get off the ground to sit on my chair of dignity. It’s how I see this chair. At least I am not on the floor like some animal.

My throne.

For I am now the king overseeing the demented, the unhinged, and the stark raving madness of this depraved empire.

I notice the chain to my ankle cuff is longer. A lot longer.

This must have happened while I slept in a drug-induced stupor.

Standing up and testing the length, I can see this Richard fuck is smarter than I give him credit for. I can make it to the bathroom, which I use instantly, and I can make it around the room for the most part. But I can’t reach the doorway to escape at all. Richard will be able to stand by the door, and I can’t reach him to strangle him to death. I can also reach the wall with the window, but barely. There isn’t enough slack for me to stand on a crate or chair to look out of it. It’s like this asshole measured every single inch of this