I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, balling my hands into fists so that I don’t panic again. I try to ground myself, to feel the smooth, cool leather of the sofa under my palms, the soft cushion of my shoes against my scarred soles, the brush of the silk dress against my skin. I smell something like frying onions and butter and garlic, and I breathe it in, reminding myself where I am. I’m still someone’s captive, but I’m no longer in the warehouse with Franco or in the mountain chalet with Alexei. I’m not being tortured or beaten. Alexandre is strange and mercurial, and Yvette seems kind of like a bitch, but no one has hurt me yet.
It feels odd to just sit in the living room with nothing to do. It does make me feel like a pet, or a doll, left to sit quietly while the people who matter talk and spend time together in another room. I can hear hints of their voices floating from the kitchen, speaking in rapid, fluent French that I couldn’t begin to hope to follow.
I don’t like being left alone with my thoughts anymore. It’s all I can do to keep them at bay, to keep them from crowding into my head so that I want to scream, and I know that will only make Alexandre angry.
It feels like an eternity before he comes to get me. “Dinner is ready,” he says, motioning for me to follow him into the dining room. I get up slowly, dreading a meal sitting at the table with Yvette, but knowing I don’t have any choice.
It smells delicious, and my stomach growls as soon as I step inside. I haven’t had anything other than the coffee and bite of croissant since breakfast this morning, and my mouth waters as I see the platter in the center of the table with quartered lamb chops, a bowl of roasted carrots and another of fresh green beans, and another plate with the baguette sliced and toasted, glistening with butter. Yvette is seated on one side of the table, and her eyes widen as Alexandre pulls out a chair for me.
“What are you doing?” she asks, her eyebrows shooting up nearly into her hairline. “She’s not going to sit at the table, surely?”
“Yvette—” Alexandre’s voice takes on a warning tone, but Yvette is already shaking her head, her eyes narrowing.
“You’ll spoil the girl, Alexandre. She’ll think she can get away with anything. You need to teach her her place early.”
My place?I hover near the chair that Alexandre is still gripping, my stomach twisting into anxious knots.What is she talking about?
“I don’t think that’s necessary—”
“What’s different about her?” Yvette shakes her head. “Pets eat on the floor, Alexandre. You know better. She can’t be allowed to eat at the table with us. She’ll get all sorts of ideas in her head. She’s your possession, not part of the family.” She stands up, reaching for a plate and beginning to spoon food onto it—a small portion of carrots, slices of lamb, another of green beans. She holds it out to Alexandre, who stares at it for a long moment and then lets out a breath.
“Alexandre—”
“Alright.” He rubs a hand over his mouth, taking the plate. “Here,petit. Next to me.”
I watch in mute horror as he sets the plate on the floor, next to his chair. It dawns on me that he really expects this—worse still, that it’s Yvette pushing him. He would have let me sit at the table if it were just the two of us, but she’s insisting that he treat me like a dog. And from the way she’s talking, this isn’t the first time this has occurred.
Some other girl has knelt on the floor and eaten from a plate next to him while—what? While he sat here and spoke French with Yvette, barely paying attention to her? The thought makes me sick, and I don’t know how I’m going to eat.
I don’t want to do this.
“Anastasia.” Alexandre’s voice takes on that stern note again, and I feel my chin start to tremble.
I can’t refuse. I can feel Yvette’s eyes on me, waiting to see what I’ll do. Slowly, feeling tears start to gather in my eyes, I sink down to my knees on the rug, swallowing hard.
“Good girl.” Alexandre sinks into his own chair, stroking my hair. “That’s very good,petit. See?” he says, turning to Yvette. “She’s very well-mannered, especially considering what she’s been through.”
“They’ve all been through something,” Yvette says, waving her hand. “I’ll never understand your affinity for damaged things, Alexandre. This entire apartment is filled with junk, and for what?”
“There’s a reason you don’t understand,” Alexandre says quietly, cutting his food and raising a bite to his lips.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Just that,” Alexandre says, and then they switch back to French, spoken too quickly for me to follow.
I look down at my own plate, my stomach churning. Alexandre hasn’t given me any utensils, and something in me rebels at eating with my fingers. I stare down at it for a long time until Alexandre catches me kneeling there with the plate still untouched.
“Eat, Anastasia,” he says sternly. “Don’t disobey me again.”
My throat feels so tight that I don’t know how I’ll swallow a single bite. Still, I force myself to pick up a carrot, biting into it as Alexandre returns his attention to his own meal. The food is delicious, all of it fresher than anything I’ve ever tasted and cooked to perfection, but it’s hard to enjoy any of it. Yvette’s eyes periodically flick to me, and I can see something in them that I don’t entirely understand—some animosity that almost looks like jealousy.
I don’t understand why she would be jealous ofme. But it also becomes clear as the meal goes on that her relationship with Alexandre is perhaps not what she wishes it would be. I can see the way her eyes rarely leave him, the way she leans forward eagerly when talking to him, the way her hand rests on his forearm occasionally as she speaks rapidly in French.
He doesn’t touch her. He looks at her intently, occasionally, particularly when she makes some point that sounds emphatic from her tone—though I can’t understand the words—but he doesn’t look at her in the same way that she does him. And slowly, looking up at the two of them as I pick at my food and watch them have their meal while barely paying attention to me, I think I begin to understand their relationship a little more.
I somehow manage to clear my plate, and Alexandre strokes my hair as he picks it up with the rest of the dishes. “Good girl,” he says again, and I feel a small, strange flush of pleasure. It feels dehumanizing to be here on the floor, my plate picked up like an empty dog bowl, but at the same time, his praise feels good. I squirm where I’m kneeling on the rug, feeling the tingling spread through me as his fingers run through my hair, down to the base of my neck, where they linger for a moment before he stands up.
I want to stand up—my legs are starting to feel numb, and my feet are aching from my weight being on my knees and calves and heels, but I don’t move. I can see Yvette’s appraising eyes on me, and something in me wants to please Alexandre, to be a good girl for him. To have him fight for me, whatever Yvette tries next.If I’m good, maybe he will. Maybe he’ll pick me over her.