Page 18 of The Captive
"My wife's medication makes her sensitive to alcohol," Patrick explained, his hand coming to rest on the back of my neck, fingers pressing against the hidden bruises. "One of many sensitivities."
"Nothing serious, I hope," Alexander commented, his gaze analytical.
"Just the usual feminine problems." Patrick's laugh invited masculine complicity. "Nothing a good doctor and a firm hand can't manage."
I dug my nails into my thighs beneath the table, matching the pain Patrick inflicted with my own. The self-administered sting ebbed after a while.
"You've found a specialist, then?" Alexander asked, not joining in Patrick's laughter.
"Dr. Reynolds is quite forward-thinking in his treatments," Patrick replied, his thumb stroking the nape of my neck in what would appear affectionate to observers. "He understands the value of traditional methods in managing a wife's... excesses."
Dr. Reynolds—Patrick's pet physician who supplied whatever pharmaceuticals Patrick requested, no questions asked. The man who had diagnosed my "hysterical tendencies" without a proper evaluation, who prescribed lithium doses that left me numb and compliant.
"If you'll excuse me," I said, rising gracefully. "I need a moment to refresh."
Patrick's fingers tightened briefly on my neck before releasing me. "Don't be long, darling. We'll have brandy in the study."
I felt Alexander's eyes on me as I left, his gaze like a physical touch against my skin.
In the powder room, I stared at my reflection. Blue Dior dress perfectly showcasing the collarbones and curves Patrick displayed like trophies. Blonde hair arranged in a sophisticated chignon. Makeup flawless, concealing every mark of Patrick's ownership.
I reached into my clutch and removed the small pill case containing my evening dose. One white tablet sat in the centre of my palm, promising chemical oblivion. The cloud that would settle over me, making everything go mute—pain, pleasure, rage, clarity.
Without hesitation, I dropped it into the toilet and flushed.
For the second time that day, I felt the fog beginning to lift. My senses slowly sharpened. I started to smell the overpowering scent of roses in the crystal vase, hear the distant murmur of masculine voices and the faint strains of Chopin our house manager believed created an appropriate atmosphere for entertaining.
Mother would have approved of the way I behaved tonight. She'd taught me well how to be the perfect ornament—seen, admired, but never in the way. "Men like Patrick require careful handling, darling," she'd advised at my wedding. "Give him what he wants to see, and you'll find your freedom in the spaces between his expectations."
She'd failed to mention those spaces would be filled with bruises and pills. Or perhaps, she was clueless, although I doubted it.
I returned to find Patrick and Alexander in the study, tumblers of expensive brandy in hand, voices lowered in conversation that ceased when I entered.
"Darling, would you play something for us?" Patrick gestured toward the grand piano. "Alexander mentioned appreciating Chopin."
It wasn't a request.
"Of course." I moved to the piano, settling onto the bench with practiced grace.
My fingers found the keys, beginning the opening notes of Nocturne in C-sharp minor. As I played, I felt the fog receding further, replaced by the first tingling waves of mania. Colours intensified, sounds sharpened. My senses heightened to painful acuity. I was completely focused.
Still, I could feel Alexander watching me, his attention unwavering even as Patrick continued their conversation. I allowed myself to become lost in the music, fingers flying across the keys with increasing intensity. The piece grew beneath my hands, transformed from melancholy to something wilder, more desperate.
"Beatrice." Patrick's voice cut through my concentration. "That's enough."
I stopped mid-phrase, a discordant echo hanging in the air.
"Apologies." I folded my hands in my lap, the perfect picture of contrition. "I got carried away."
"My wife becomes rather emotional with music." Patrick's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Another sensibility we manage."
"You play beautifully," Alexander said, his voice neutral yet somehow conveying more.
"Thank you." I rose from the bench, moving to stand by Patrick's side as expected. "It's one of the few pleasures I still indulge in."
Patrick's hand settled on my waist, fingers digging painfully into my ribs. "Beatrice has many talents," he said, voice hardening. "Though she sometimes needs reminding of appropriate boundaries."
"Actually," Alexander said, setting down his glass, "I find boundaries are often more effective when they're not arbitrary."
