ELEANOR
Armando’s grunt pulled me from my thoughts, grounding me in the reality of what I’d just witnessed. My heart hammered as I tried to process the swirl of emotions that had forced themselves on me-a strange, nauseating blend of anger, embarrassment, and a sickened curiosity I didn’t want to admit to.
I didn’t know what to feel. Part of me was disgusted with myself for even feeling anything at all.
The whole thing was insane, but I couldn’t stop myself from feeling something.
Armando poured himself a glass of whiskey, downing it in one go, his head dropping towards the floor and his face expressionless. He seemed elsewhere, as if lost in thought.
For a moment, I thought he’d forget about me-bound and gagged on his bed, until he turned around-without a word-and tossed a wad of cash at his fling.
“Take that, go in there…” he said in a low mutter, gesturing towards the bathroom door, “…clean up, and get out.” He continued.
She blinked, then held the blanket around herself tighter, staring at him in silence.
“Did you hear me?” he said, shooting her a glance, his tone almost impatient. “Get dressed. A car’s waiting downstairs.”
She didn’t move, her eyes flicking from him to the floor, as if trying to figure out what to say.
“Sir,” she started, her voice soft but hesitant. “I thought…after tonight, I thought maybe-”
“Thought what?” he interrupted, his tone dismissive. “Take the money and leave. I don’t have time for this.”
Her expression fell, and she looked down at the cash he’d tossed her way, her fingers brushing over the notes. She hesitated, glancing back up at him.
“Come on,” she tried again, her voice barely above a whisper-almost seductive. “It’s late…I don’t mind staying, you know. We could talk, maybe even-”
“Are you deaf?!” he cut her off, his voice rising a notch. “Get out!”
Her lips trembled, but she swallowed whatever words she had left. She gave him one last look before slipping out of the bed, grabbing her clothes, and heading to the bathroom without another word.
I watched her go, noticing the way her shoulders slumped, the small sigh that escaped her lips.
A strange feeling washed over me. I wasn’t sure what it was-sympathy maybe. Or maybe just a sick satisfaction that, even for a second, she’d felt a fraction of the humiliation I had.
She went into the bathroom and after a while she came right out, now fully made up and her hair perfectly in place.
She grabbed her things without a word, her heels clicking softly on the floor as she walked out, leaving me alone with Armando.
I tried to control my breathing, every part of my body aching-from the cuffs cutting into my wrists, the rope digging into my ankles, and the gag that had turned my mouth dry and sore.
When she disappeared, Armando let out a long breath, his expression shifting from annoyance to something else. It was hard to tell.
He came a little closer to me, his eyes cold as ever, but something else lurked behind them, something unreadable. He crossed his arms, leaning down to look at me, a smirk playing on his lips.
“Enjoy the show?” he asked, his tone mocking, almost playful.
I narrowed my eyes, biting down on the gag, feeling anger simmer in my chest. I wanted to scream at him, to ask what the hell it was that was wrong with him. But I couldn’t do any of that, so I just glared.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he said, letting out a low chuckle. “I know you hated it. But I also know…” He leaned in closer, his breath warm against my ear. “… that you felt something. Or didn’t you?”
I flinched, pulling my face away, my cheeks heating up despite myself. He just laughed, clearly enjoying my reaction.
“You’d think I didn’t notice, but I certainly did.” he continued, his voice dropping lower. “The way your breathing changed. The way your eyes followed us, even when you tried to look away.”
I closed my eyes, turning my head away, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing the embarrassment on my face.
“Come on, gattina,” he taunted, his voice dripping with smugness. “Don’t play innocent. You felt something. Admit it.”
I shook my head, mumbling against the gag, refusing to give in, to let him see how much he was getting under my skin. But that only seemed to amuse him more.
He reached down, his fingers tracing along the line of my jaw, his touch light, almost gentle. “You’re a fascinating one, you know that?” he murmured, his gaze lingering on me, his smirk softening for just a second. “You pretend to hate me, to hate all of this. But you’re still here.”
His words cut through me like a knife, and I felt a wave of frustration and anger well up inside me. How dare he? How dare he act like any of this was my choice?
“Fine,” he said after a moment, his voice softer, almost thoughtful. “Keep pretending. Lie to yourself all you want. But you can’t lie to me, gattina. I see right through you.”
* * * *
Armando moved off the bed and strolled into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him. A moment later, I heard the shower start, the faint sound of water hitting tile echoing into the bedroom. My heart pounded as I lay on my side, bound and helpless, listening as he took his time in there.
Eventually, the water stopped, and shortly after, the door swung open. He walked out, drying his hair with a towel. A fog of steam trailed out from behind him, his skin still damp and glistening slightly in the dim room light. His hair was slicked back, and he looked almost…calm.
He walked over to me, his eyes meeting mine with that same unreadable look. He leaned down and, finally, pulled the cloth out of my mouth. I gasped, desperate for air as if I’d been holding my breath this whole time, my lungs filling in deep, shaky gulps.
“Take it easy,” he muttered, his voice low, almost bored. “No one’s stopping you from breathing.” He turned away, heading to his dresser, where he picked up a comb and began running it through his wet hair, studying himself in the mirror like I wasn’t even there.
Armando turned slightly toward the mirror and looked at me through our reflections, his face completely serious, giving nothing away.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice low and even.
I didn’t answer. I wasn’t about to let him pretend to care, not after everything-leaving me tied up like I was some animal and mocking as well. I just kept my eyes on him, watching him in the mirror.
His jaw clenched ever so slightly, his sharp features rigid and intense. I knew he wasn’t smiling, and somehow that made his stare feel even colder.
Then, without breaking his gaze from the mirror, he slid his hand over the dresser, nudging a gun closer to himself. It was a subtle reminder of what he held over me, what he could do if he wanted.
“I asked you a question,” he said, voice edged with warning.
“Fine,” I said, the word coming out faster than I’d meant. I swallowed, hating the way I sounded-too quick, too desperate. “I’m fine. But… I’d definitely appreciate it if you untied me.”
He held the silence for a moment, his fingers drumming against the dresser. Then, finally, he pushed the gun aside, a small gesture that felt like a release, if only for a second.
I lay there, still catching my breath, my mouth dry, my body aching in every place possible. But the relief of the cloth being gone from my mouth… that was something. Small, but I’d take it.
After a moment, he glanced back at me through the mirror, noticing my heavy breathing. A smirk crept onto his face, and he shook his head, chuckling under his breath. “You could tone down the gasping, you know,” he said, his tone mocking. “There’s plenty of air for both of us. Unless…” He turned, raising an eyebrow. “Unless you’re trying to breathe my share too?”
I glared at him, biting back any urge to respond. His casual cruelty was beyond comprehension, and I knew any response would only egg him on, give him one more excuse to humiliate me. So I just stayed silent, focusing on calming my breathing, ignoring the burning sensation in my wrists and ankles. He seemed to like that-my silence-almost as if he were daring me to snap.
He went back to combing his hair, smooth and meticulous, while I stared, my mind racing. A million things I wanted to say hovered on my tongue, but I bit down hard, not giving him the satisfaction of a single word.
“So…” he finally spoke up, still looking at his reflection. “Nothing to say now? No clever comebacks? No feisty little remarks?”
I clenched my fists, the cuffs digging deeper into my wrists. I wouldn’t play his game. I wouldn’t give him the reaction he wanted.
“No?” He laughed, soft and mocking, putting down the comb and turning to face me. He leaned back against the dresser-crossing his arms and studying me. “Funny. You’ve always got something to say, don’t you? Always throwing attitude, pushing back.” He smirked, tilting his head. “And now look at you. Quiet as a mouse.”
I stared back, my jaw tight, my heart hammering in my chest. I wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
“Come on,” he pushed, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Nothing? Not even a thank you for finally removing that gag?” He raised an eyebrow, waiting.
I forced myself to stay silent, my breathing finally evening out. The last thing I wanted was to give him an inch more than he already had.
Armando let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head as if I were disappointing him. “Oh, Eleanor,” he murmured, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. “Always so stubborn, so full of pride.” He leaned down, close enough that I could feel his breath, his gaze cold and piercing. “You know, all you have to do is show a little respect. Maybe then, just maybe, I’d treat you better. Think about it.”
He straightened, running a hand through his hair, and walked to the side of the bed. He looked down at me, his expression unreadable.
“Respect?” I mumbled, unable to hold back. The word left my lips before I could stop it, my voice weak but steady.
He paused, his smirk fading just slightly. “Yes,” he replied, his tone cold, serious. “Respect. You think you’re the only one who’s suffered? The only one who deserves sympathy?” He shook his head. “No. You haven’t even begun to understand what real pain is.”
I looked up at him, holding his gaze. “And this is your idea of teaching me?” I asked, my voice sharper than I’d meant, but I couldn’t stop myself.
He laughed-a dark, humorless sound. “Teaching you?” He shrugged, his smirk returning. “Maybe. Maybe it’s just a way to remind you who’s in control here.” He leaned in a bit, his voice low. “Me.”
I swallowed, keeping my eyes on his, forcing myself not to look away. He was right-he had control, all of it, and he wanted me to know it, to feel it. But he wouldn’t break me. Not with words, not with fear.
He watched me for a long moment, his gaze searching my face as if looking for a crack. And then, without another word, he turned back to the mirror, staring at his reflection like he was searching for something within himself.
Then out of nowhere, he spoke again.
“Tell me,” he said quietly, still watching himself in the mirror. “What would you do if you found out someone you trusted… someone close to you… had betrayed you?”
The question hit me, so unexpected that I froze. I had no idea where he was going with it, and for a moment, I couldn’t find my voice. I didn’t know what he wanted me to say, or if there even was a “right” answer that wouldn’t set him off.
He watched me, waiting for my answer, his gaze heavy in the reflection.
I didn’t want to answer, but it clicked to me that maybe, if a conversation were to lighten the mood, I’d be out of here sooner.
I swallowed, not sure where he was going with this or what he wanted to hear. “Well, I… I suppose if it was really betrayal,” I said slowly, “I’d confront them. Ask them to be honest with me.”
“Honesty,” he muttered, as if the word left a bad taste in his mouth. He let out a dark, humorless laugh. “Funny thing about honesty is that sometimes, it’s a lot easier to believe a lie.”