Undaunted by Claire’s appearance or even the circumstance of her presence, Catherine’s calmness eased Claire. She shook her head and sighed. Remembering the resolve from her shower, she spoke with a convincing authority. “Catherine, thank you for offering to help, but I don’t plan on dressing for dinner. I actually believe there has been a mistake. I will be leaving here soon.” While Claire explained the misunderstanding, Catherine came and went from the closet with a blue cocktail dress and matching shoes. “Oh, I don’t know whom those clothes belong to.”

“Why, miss, they belong to you. Now we really should move along. And even if you do not plan to eat, do you not need to wear clothes?” Claire noticed her pattern of speech seemed formal. She couldn’t place the origin. It definitely wasn’t the Georgia accent she’d learned to appreciate and tried desperately not to duplicate.

Catherine gently took Claire’s hand and walked her into the bathroom. Claire obediently sat at the dressing table as Catherine began to gently brush her hair, deciding she wouldn’t protest Catherine. Instead, she would save her energy to face Anthony.

“There are cosmetics in the drawers in front of you. Perhaps you could begin to apply some while I do your hair.” Then she added, “You are very pretty without it, but after sleeping most of the day, I believe it will make you feel better.”

Claire looked into the mirror. Seeing her eyes, temple, and lips, she began to cry. It wasn’t the sobs of earlier, but a rush of tears quietly flowing down her cheeks.

“Now, miss, that will not help the situation. Mr. Rawlings appreciates punctuality. Crying will only make the cosmetics run.”

She began to explain to Catherine her desperation, “I don’t want to face him.” But after the first sentence, she hesitated. Claire didn’t know this woman. She obviously worked for Anthony. Why would she confide in her? Then Claire looked in the reflection, not at herself but at the woman behind her. Her eyes were the color of steel, gray and soft. Her expression wasn’t one of duty or pity, but somehow Claire sensed compassion. It may have been wishful thinking, but for some reason, the words continued to flow. “After last night, I feel so . . . dirty. You don’t know what he did, what he made me do. I am too embarrassed.” Her words came accompanied by tears, and her nose began to run.

Catherine’s voice held no judgment for either Claire or Anthony, instead a means for understanding, as if that could be possible from Claire. “I have known Mr. Rawlings for a long time. Did anything happen last night that he did not want to happen?”

Claire shook her head no. “Everything that happened he wanted to happen.”

“Then there is no need for you to be embarrassed. It is when you do something that he doesn’t want you to do. That is when you do not want to face Mr. Rawlings.”

Catherine went to the cabinet, removed a washcloth, and wet it in the sink. She handed it to Claire, who compliantly wiped her face and began to apply makeup. It wasn’t long until they were satisfied with the results. The bruises were concealed quite well under a covering of foundation and powder. The lipstick made the swelling less noticeable. When Catherine entered the bathroom with the dress, Claire realized she was naked under the robe.

“Umm, I don’t have any lingerie.”

“Yes, miss. Do you not remember Mr. Rawlings’s rules?” Without waiting for a response, Catherine continued, “No underclothes, ever.” Claire fought the fog of last night. She couldn’t understand why the memories were so fuzzy. Yet somewhere she had some recollection of such a conversation or, more accurately, a demand. But once again, this entered the world of ridiculous. Who the hell was he that he even thought he could make such demands and they would be followed?

Catherine assisted Claire with the dress so as not to mess her hair and makeup. Claire vowed to herself this fiasco will be over. I am not sure how or when. But I will leave here, get away from him, and go to a place where women wear underwear.

Catherine smiled approvingly at Claire as she stepped in front of the mirror. “Mr. Rawlings will be pleased. Now I must go. He will be here soon.” The reminder of his impending arrival sucked some of the resolve from Claire’s demeanor as well as the air from her lungs. Catherine knew him. Maybe if she stayed, he would . . . Claire didn’t know how to finish that thought. He would be nice? Let her leave? It just seemed safer around this woman.

“Perhaps you could stay until after his arrival?” Catherine didn’t respond, but the look of satisfaction briefly changed to sadness. Instantaneously, Claire knew that Catherine’s departure was beyond both of their control. Claire would be face-to-face with her fear, the man that abused and dominated her the night before. She also knew that he was her only means of escape. For that reason only, she would face him. “Thank you again for your help. I really doubt I will be here tomorrow. He and I will discuss it over dinner.”

Catherine nodded. It was an acknowledgment of Claire’s statement, not an affirmation of its accuracy. Then she left the bathroom. Claire heard a faint beep as she left the suite. It reminded her of the noise made by a car fob.

While still in the bathroom, her heart rate increased as she heard the faint beep again. He didn’t knock. He just opened the door and entered. Claire imagined him surveying the empty suite. If she stayed in the bathroom, would he eventually come for her? Or perhaps he would leave. He waited silently in the bedroom. It took a minute or two. But slowly, Claire opened the bathroom door and entered the suite.

Determined to meet him head-on at his mind game, she used all her strength to suppress the fears that screamed to get out. The first things she saw as she entered the suite were his eyes, his dark black eyes. They resembled voids or black holes. His lips were moving. He was talking, yet Claire could only hear the memories of the previous night. She walked to the bookcase at the far end of the suite, feigning strength.

The fake resolve melted as she turned to see the eyes staring at her. Then almost instantaneously, he was there, right in front of her. His proximity caused her stomach to wrench, tasting the nasty bile from earlier.

He grabbed her chin, pulling her eyes and face toward the dark void. His strong voice was deep, slow, and authoritative. “Shall we try this once more.” It wasn’t a question but a statement. “It is customary for one person to respond to the greeting of another. I said good evening.”

Claire’s knees went weak at his touch. She wanted to yell, to run, but she wouldn’t let herself. If she couldn’t be strong, she could at least avoid fainting. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe I am feeling well.” Still holding her chin, he had to feel her body tremble.

He repeated, “Good evening, Claire.” This time, it was more drawn-out. His eyes were so cold. Claire couldn’t distinguish what they said, only that the depth of their darkness seemed infinite.

“Good evening, Anthony.” She would tell herself she sounded strong, but she didn’t. At that moment, the door opened again, and a young man pushing a cart brought them their meal. Claire started to walk toward the table, but Anthony’s hand seized her arm, stopping her. She looked back up at him, into those eyes. He reached with his other hand to lift her dress and place a hand on her buttocks. The shock of his touch quickly turned to anger. Her green eyes flashed fire, and her neck stiffened. “What the hell . . . ?” Her impulse was to lash out, but the hand that held her arm tightened its grip, making her forget her words.