Page 29 of The Silent Princess

“One month. And if you don’t…”

“I will. You have my word, I…” I hide at the beginning of the stairs, eavesdropping from behind the wall of perfectly curated family pictures of the four of them in black and white, laughing at a joke that never existed. Who are the men in the living room? And why does Mara sound as if she is on the edge of tears? Steps come closer, and I hurry to the top of the stairs, staying hidden as I watch them move toward the front door. Two men. Black suits. Faces straight out of a serial killer documentary. One of them seems to be in his mid-thirties. He adjusts his cuff, revealing a large black tattoo on his right hand. A snake curled around a dagger. Waiting for his command, the other man, much younger, remains stoic. A smell of danger permeates the air, and with it comes the nauseating familiarity of a bad premonition. Whoever they are, they are the kind of men you change sidewalks to avoid at night.

Mara steps into view, her impeccable beige suit on, blood-red nails, high stilettos, and her usual perfect rolled updo. Her nose is straight, her jaw hard and snatched, thanks to the numerous beauty treatments she has been religiously doing for years. Yet when she offers her hand, I catch the slight second of hesitation. Her armor shakes. Unsure beneath the detached surface.

“Until next time, Mrs. Brooks.” The older man accepts her hand, but instead of shaking it, he lifts it to his lips and drops a kiss on her knuckles. Who are they? As if sensing the mountain of questions assaulting me, the tattooed man looks up and finds me. His eyes are black and unforgiving, undressing me on the spot, writing a promise in indelible Sharpie across my forehead. One that vows that he won’t ever forget my face.

“Who is she?”

“Her?” Mara winces, her foot shifting slightly as if she is restraining herself from stamping it. “Nobody. Just a maid.” Poker faces, they linger for a minute more, then leave while Mara holds the door, watching them go. Once I hear their car disappear down the alley, she shuts the door. Her shoulders drop, and a sigh of relief catches in her chest.

Then, without a single word, she turns and storms toward the stairs. She catches my arm in a vise, her long nails digging into my flesh. I try to fight her, but it does not work. She drags me down the stairs, each step striking my ankles as she leads me with no mercy, while my cries remain inaudible. With one motion, she opens my bedroom door, throws me inside, and stands in the doorway.

“I raised you better than that, Ella,” she murmurs, her upper lip sharp and angry.

“I didn’t mean to pry. I’m so sorry, Mara.” My hands tremble as I sign. “Who were those men?” She sighs, smoothing the sides of her updo, perfecting her façade.

“It doesn’t matter who-.” She pauses, exhaling. “What–what did you hear?”

“Nothing, I promise,” I sign fast, facing her, her stature grand and shadowed as if a devil has taken possession of her. “I heard nothing.”

She arches a brow. “You saw and heard nothing. Is that clear?” Jaw to the side, lowering her eyes to mine, she sneers, “If you say a word about this to anyone, anyone, I will make sure you remain in this very room for the rest of the week. And given your composition, I am not sure there would still be skin on your bones after a few days without food.”

“I heard nothing, truly, Mara. I’m sorry,” I sign with tears welling in my eyes, my audacity of trying to listen to her backfiring with the strength of an elastic pulled to maximum impact.

“Huh.” She looks around, her long, sharp nose lifting again. “I’m going to my facial, think about…what happened and then I will come back to open the door for you. Be grateful you still have a roof over your head.” She snaps the words, but a tremor of fear crosses her eyes, and I wonder who has more to lose here. Her, with her shady business and those men. Or me, trapped here, unable to feed myself. At least I know my fate. But does she? She turns. The door closes slowly until I hear the lock turn, the handle moving, checking the validity of her crime. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I close my eyes and go back to this afternoon with him. Back to the glances. The wind brushing my skin while he looked at me. To him telling me about how his office sometimes feels like a cage, and how I related to him, on a different level, but still. For a minute, it was as if we recognized each other, both of us chained to circumstances beyond our will.

I rest my hand on my necklace, the metal tangible proof that I did have all the cards in my hand at some point in my life. That luck was on my side before the wind turned. But if this afternoon is not proof enough of fate shooting arrows of joy in my direction, then I do not know anything anymore.

Goosebumps dance on my arm as the memory of his hand. The feeling echoes through me like a tsunami wave, crushing all my sorrows away. There was more than a walk and a coffee at that moment. There was a pull, too strong to comprehend, pulling two beings together who had no business knowing each other.

“Tristan,” I say silently, wishing I could hear the melody of his name on my tongue. Wishing he could hear it. I do not know what the next few days will make of me, or whether Mara will finally decide to lock me in once and for all one day, but there is one thing I am sure of. When she does, I will not stay in this room. Instead, I will visit a place beneath my heart made of cheesecake, trees, and children’s laughter. And there, we will hold hands and share silence like the most intimate language we have. No one will come to take it away from me. It will be my treasured room in my mind. My escape from this cage.

What a sweet place to hide when the world is crumbling down.

Tristan

“He’s alive,” Nate groans, waiting near the elevator after I texted him that I was on my way. My head is still buzzing from the presence of softness incarnated, and I crack my neck, dragging myself back to reality and to the indisputable fact that, in less than twenty-four hours, I may be in a completely different position.

“Miss me?” I ask flatly. We stride toward my office as Kathy hurries toward us, a sheet of paper in her hand. “Sir, Brenton tried to call three times, but I couldn’t get to you. He asked me to tell you it is an urgent matter.”

“Thanks, Kathy. I’ll take it from here.” I close the door behind us, Nate already placing a call to Brenton on speakerphone. The line rings twice.

“Took you long enough. I almost thought they had gutted you,” Nate mutters, arms crossed, resting against the side of the armchair.

“I just took a walk. You don’t need a babysitter, do you?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “We are about to risk men’s lives, and yours too, might I add, and you go on a walk?”

I know, Nate.

It is precisely because tomorrow could be my last day that I allowed myself an hour to remember what it feels like to be alive. To smear a bit of softness over my armor and photograph happiness in my mind, so I can look at it from hell when I no longer remember the taste of it.

“Sir,” Brenton says when the call connects.

“Brenton.” I straighten my spine, back into CEO mode.

“There has been a development. The shipment you are planning to divert will not be carried by ordinary Vodianov men. Cole will be in attendance, most likely in the same car carrying the goods. An inside source has told me that his father has designated this transfer as high-risk and intends to have his son present to make sure everything runs smoothly. This means…”