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.