She eyed the door to the hallway, only a few feet away and miraculously left open. Without warning, Anthony’s hand contacted her left cheek and sent her the other direction across the floor. He slowly walked to where she lay. He didn’t bother to bend down, merely looked at her from high above, and repeated, “Perhaps in time, your memory will improve. It seems to be an issue. Let me remind you again, rule number one is that you will do as you are told. If I say a discussion is over, it is over.” Picking up the napkin and placing it in his suit coat pocket, he continued, “And this written agreement states whatever is pleasing to me, means consensual, not rape.”
Still towering over her, he straightened his suit jacket and smoothed his tie. “I have decided that it would be better if you do not leave your suite for a while. Don’t worry. We have plenty of time, $215,000 worth of time.” With that, he turned to leave the suite, the sound of broken crystal echoing from under his Gucci loafers. His controlled, imposing tone terrified Claire more than his words. He spoke with such authority it left her powerless to move or speak.
“I will tell the staff that you may have your breakfast after this crystal is cleaned up.” He disappeared behind the large white door.
Claire heard the beep and the lock as she allowed herself to reach up and touch her stinging cheek. The total silence returned, and she looked at the mess before her. While a small, insignificant protest, she heard herself say, “I would rather starve than clean this up.”
With tears in her eyes and the sound of sniffles, a while later, she found herself crawling around the floor, picking up pieces of crystal. She had most of the large pieces picked up when she noticed the blood on her robe. After investigating, Claire determined that it came from a cut on her hand. She tried unsuccessfully to remove the sliver of crystal from her palm, the blurriness of her vision made the task difficult. Suddenly, the too-familiar beep made her turn toward the door, terrified of Anthony’s return.
Catherine entered, looked around, and shook her head. “Ms. Claire, let me get that cleaned up. You will end up cutting yourself.”
“I believe I already have.” Claire held out her hand. Very tenderly, Catherine led Claire into the bathroom and removed the crystal. She then cleaned and bandaged her hand. When they returned to the suite, the evidence of the previous night was gone. The suite was clean, no overturned lamps, no scarves, and the vase was gone. Sitting on the table was a tray of food.
Claire walked to the table and obediently ate her breakfast, alone. An overwhelming feeling of desperation filled her. She was trapped. She was all alone. And she didn’t know what to do. She decided to take a shower, and hopefully, she would think of something.
The trust of the innocent is the liar’s most useful tool.
—Stephen King
Chapter 2
Five days earlier . . .
The day filled with meetings served its purpose. First he met with the station manager, then endless hours with the sales team listening to budget reports followed by proposals. Truthfully, these meetings didn’t usually warrant the attendance of the parent corporation’s CEO. Judging by the way WKPZ’s executives fell over themselves to justify every expense and augment every proposal, they demonstrated that they at least had the common sense to recognize this visit as extraordinary. Truth be known, Anthony Rawlings didn’t give a damn about the two-bit television station. It already served its purpose. If he closed it tomorrow, no sleep would be lost. However, the meetings showed him that the station is profitable. And given the current state of the economy, profitable is good. When he returned to the main office, he would assign a team to investigate an impending sale. Wouldn’t that be great if he could reap both personal and monetary benefits from this acquired station?
After the conclusion of the meetings, he agreed to a social outing with the new station personnel director and his assistant. If they knew anything about him, they would realize this was completely out of character. His acceptance of their invitation came with one stipulation: they must go to the Red Wing. He’d heard it had the best fried green tomatoes in Atlanta, Georgia.
Thankfully, the two associates had families that were awaiting their return. After sipping a