Empire of Lies

Meredith Now

The flames in the fireplace hiss and crackle as Michael moves the rook chess piece across the board. We’re sitting in the great room, in silence, waiting for the latest news update on my story, since the woman who the police thought was me, turned out to be someone else.

My symptoms of Stockholm Syndrome are slowly settling in, and I know, deep down, that my resistance will eventually stop. I’ve read enough books about captives who eventually adapt to the world of their captors, but I still can’t think of a single story where the captive was already in love with the captor. One where the ‘happily ever after’ was reached and ripped away by the hero himself.

I haven’t spoken to him since the night he caught me, and although I tried to refuse his offer to watch this report, I couldn’t resist. I have no phone, no laptop, no internet access. I have to take whatever rare glimpses of the real world that he offers in order to keep myself sane.

Not only that, but I’m u

Even if I always lose…

Looking over the board, I see where he’s moved his piece and move a pawn two spaces forward. His gorgeous eyes meet mine, and for the first time in forever, he looks like he’s somewhat sorry for what he’s done. Not wanting to completely believe that, I look away and focus on the television.

“Now for our special report, The Missing Heiress: The Meredith Thatchwood Story,” the redheaded news anchor smiles onscreen. “With the help of the police department and several sources, here’s the update.”

“As of today,” the anchor says, “Heiress, Meredith Thatchwood, has officially been missing for four weeks. Newly married to what her closest friends say was the love of her life—the wealthy club owner of Fahrenheit 900, Meredith disappeared shortly after returning from her honeymoon.”

My blood begins to boil at the repeat of this blatant lie, and I lean back against the couch.

“The police have had few leads, but they insist that they’re working on the case. Not that this is much relief to Meredith’s friends and family. We sat down with a few of them tonight to get their thoughts.”

All of sudden, a glittering crown appears onscreen, and then a few pictures of my face appear underneath it. Then, as if one mention of the story’s cheesy title wasn’t enough, it rolls onto the screen in a bright and golden cursive.

Seconds later, it cuts to a shot of Gillian sitting in a chair. Although she’s dressed in an immaculate grey pantsuit, her eyes are red and puffy, and she looks as if she hasn’t slept in weeks.

“Meredith,” she says, looking directly at the camera, “If you’re watching this, please know that I love you and I believe you’re still out there. I’ll be waiting until you get home, and I will use every single dime I have to make sure that whoever did this to you is punished for the rest of his or her life. I love you.”

The news anchor nods and places her hand on her chest. “That was so heartfelt, Miss Weston. Speaking of things that are missing, since you’re here, do you think you’ll ever pen a sequel to your bestselling novel, Turbulence? I really enjoyed that book, and I’m sure your legion of fans would really appreciate an update.”

Michael looks up at the TV, holding his next piece in the air.

Gillian glares at the reporter and storms off set.

“I thought that was a very good question,” Michael says to himself. “What do you think?”

I look over at him, but I don’t answer. The sound of my father crying makes me focus on the screen again. I’ve never seen him cry in my entire life, and the mere sound of it cuts me deeply. I try to hold back tears as he struggles to speak, but it’s no use.

“She and I were…” He wipes away tears as the reporter hands him a Kleenex. “We were getting on good terms, and…” His voice trails off as he breaks down. “She’s my only daughter. She’s all I have left. The police aren’t working hard enough to find her. I’ve spent millions on putting up billboards all over the goddamn country and what the hell have they done? They’re not fucking—”

The rest of his words are bleeped out, and a crew of producers walk over to console him as he burst into tears all over again.

I’m tempted to lunge across the couch and strangle Michael—to try to physically fight him, but before I can make the attempt, he appears onscreen.

What the fuck…

“I love my wife,” he says, looking tired, yet stu

From here, it looks like he’s actually been crying, too. His eyes are even redder than Gillian’s and there are bags under his eyes.

“She truly is the love of my life,” he says. “I can also promise that whoever did this will pay one hell of a price whenever we find out who you are.”

“Is there anything you’d like to say to your wife if she’s watching this?” the news anchor asks.

“Yes.” He looks directly at me onscreen as a few fake tears roll down his face. “If you’re watching this, please know that I truly do, fucking love you. I think we both knew that the first night we met.”

The camera cuts away to the police chief, and I look over at the real version of Michael, noticing the smirk on his lips.

“I think I gave a great performance for that interview,” he says. “I doubt anyone would suspect anything after watching that. Don’t you agree?”

With what little grip on reality I have left, I lean forward and swipe all his glass chess pieces off the board, shattering them to pieces. “That’s what the fuck I think.”

He clenches his jaw, glares at me as he picks up the undamaged queen piece.

“Is that all it takes for you to let me out of here?” I ask. “Fuck up your precious chess pieces?”

He turns off the television, and then he stands to his feet. I follow suit.

“I think we’ve seen each other enough for today,” he says, his voice terse. “I’ll leave you here and come back in a few days. Hopefully, you’ll behave better and be more fucking grateful.”

“Grateful for what?” I hiss. “You taking me away from everyone I know? Trapping me here without any goddamn explanation?”

“Yes. Exactly that.” He looks at his watch, then he looks at the glass on the floor. “You’ll need to clean all this shit up before I get back. Three days should be more than enough time.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You will.” He steps a little closer to me, his shoes stepping over the glass. “And you’ll never fuck up any of my things again.”

I take a step back and shove a crystal lamp onto the floor, instantly shattering its neck. “Now what?”

He looks down at the lamp, then his gaze returns to me. He looks me up and down, his heated gaze a mix between rage and want.

For several seconds, neither of us makes a move. Neither says a word.

“I really shouldn’t have fucked you.” He narrows his eyes at me. “That’s the only reason why you’re here right now.”

“I’m here because you’re a fucking monster.”

“Call me that one more time, and I’ll show you just how big of a ‘fucking monster’ I can be…”

The pained look in his eyes tells me not to risk trying it.