Madame X (Madame X #1) (4 page)

T
he light of dawn brings with it shame. I am weak. I was weak. The nightmares, they sap me of my strength. Turn me into this creature, this soft, vulnerable thing, all underbelly and no armor. Starved for oxygen, starved for light, hungry for touch to remind me that the dreams are only fiction, to remind me that I am safe, I turn to the only comfort I can find.

The ritual.

The words.

The history.

But in the light of day—showered and dressed, hair braided and twisted into a knot at the back of my head, makeup carefully applied, feet sheathed in expensive heels—garbed in my armor, I am not that mewling kitten, and I despise her. If I could get my claws into that version of myself, I would shred her without mercy, tear her to bits. Shake her until her teeth clack together, give her a taste of the verbal venom I use to keep errant rich boys in line. Tell her a lady does not show fear. A lady does not cry in front of anyone. A
lady does not ever show weakness.
Chin up
, I’d say.
Back straight. Find your dignity, put it on like a suit of armor.

I do those things. Scour myself of emotion. Turn away from the mirror in my walk-in closet, away from the temptation to examine the scars on my belly, my arms, my shoulder, beneath the roots of my hair on the left side of my skull, midway up between the top of my ear and the crown of my head. There are no scars. No reminders of a lost past. No weakness, no nightmares, no need for comfort.

I am X.

It is just past five in the morning. I prepare a breakfast of free-range egg whites, hand-ground wheat toast with a thin scrim of organic butter. Slice open a grapefruit, cover half with plastic wrap and return it to the refrigerator, tap a few granules of Truvia onto each wedge of the grapefruit. Black tea, no sugar or milk. Organic vitamin supplements.

Later, between clients, I will spend an hour on the rowing machine, and then an hour doing yoga. Then there will be lunch: a salad of fresh, organically grown spinach, walnuts, dried cranberries, crumbles of bleu cheese, and a drizzle of vinaigrette, a bowl of fresh fruit sliced and mixed, a bottle of distilled, deionized water. Or, alternatively, a superfoods smoothie, green, bitter, and healthy.

An extra twenty minutes in the gym
, I’d been told. Trim down, that meant. The diet and exercise instruction had come with the packet I received every morning, a large manila envelope slipped under the door, containing the dossiers on my clients for the day and the attendant contracts.

Timed correctly, there are always a few extra minutes after breakfast and before my first client of the day. I finish breakfast at 5:45
A.M.
, and my first client arrives at 6:15
A.M.
; the earliest slot is reserved for the most difficult of clients, those most in need of a
jarring lesson. If you cannot make the early time, you fail the course, and you are charged the termination and grievance fee.

In the thirty minutes to myself, before William Drake arrives, I stand at the window in the living room, staring down at the bustling streets below. This is my favorite pastime, watching the people scurry here and there, talking on their cell phones, newspapers tucked under business-suit arms, slim pencil dresses slit just so in the back and hugging stockinged legs. I imagine their stories.

That man, there, in the charcoal suit just a little too loose around the middle, shoulder pads a little too thick, slacks a little long at the heel. Balding, a tea-saucer-sized bare spot at the back of his head. Talking on a cell phone, hand gesturing frantically, angrily, forefinger stabbing the air. Red in the face. He’s a struggling businessman, fighting upstream in a cutthroat business. Stocks, maybe. Or law. Corporate law. He’s always behind, just barely not making it. A wife, a young son. He’s older than his wife by several years, and his son is just starting school. He’s old enough that taking care of a child on top of fighting to make it at the firm is a Sisyphean task. His wife married him because she thought their fortunes would improve, a promotion would put them in an easier place, and she needed a green card, maybe. There’s affection, but no real love. He’s too busy for love, too busy clocking sixty or eighty hours per week trying to make the exorbitant New York City rent. They live in the Bronx, maybe, so she can be nearer to her family, because she needs help. She’s probably working a job on the side while her son goes to school, stashing away money unbeknownst to her husband, because she’s losing faith in his ability to take care of them. Enough that she could move out and provide for her son if worse came to worst.

It is a pleasant distraction, focusing on the fictional, normal lives of random people. It allows me to safely wonder what life is like out
there, for them. Safely, because to wonder what such a life out there would be like for me? That’s dangerous. A threat to my sanity, which depends on a careful balancing act.

I hear the faint
ding
of the elevator arriving. I glance at the Venetian-style wall clock: 6:10
A.M.
; five minutes early. But a moment or two passes and there is no knock at the door. I move across the room, keeping my heel clicks as silent as possible, and stand by the door, listening.

“Yeah, I’m almost there,” you say, your voice low. “I fucking hate these early-ass appointments. No, my dad makes me go. Some kind of stupid corporate training, basically. Make me a better leader, bullshit like that. Put my ass in line. No, man, it’s not like that. I can’t really get into it. No, for real, I’m not allowed to talk about it. I signed a contract, and if I fuck this up my dad’s going to cut me off totally. After what happened with that slut Yasmin, I’m on real thin ice with him, so I’ve got to toe the fucking line. . . . Or what? Or he’ll basically gut the position of president out of the charter and turn all the power over to the board, which means I won’t inherit dick when he retires. He’s got the documents drawn up. He showed them to me. No, man, I fucking
saw
them, okay? It was after he got the judge to let me out on bail. He had to pay a shitload of money to keep the whole thing quiet. Paid Yasmin like half a mil to keep her fat mouth shut about what happened. My plan? My plan is to go along with this training program, keep my dad happy, play the game. I’ve got friends on the inside, on the board, certain members who are unhappy with where Dad’s been taking the company. If I can string things along another year or two, I can probably work a little magic behind the scenes, steal the whole shit show from the old fucker, and I mean pull a real-deal coup d’état. And as soon as I’ve got my hands on the company . . . man, I’ll be set. I’ve got
plans . . . no, I can’t make it out tonight. I’ve got . . . other plans. . . . No, I let that bitch go, she was a screamer. This is a new one. She’s all wrapped up like a sweet little present. She ain’t wearing a damn thing except the handcuffs, and I didn’t even have to gag her. No, you asshole, you can’t
help
. Last time I let you help, you took it
way
too fucking far, and I had to pay the slut to keep her from yapping about what your stupid ass did to her. I’ve told you, there’s an art to it. Listen, dude, I’m gonna be late, I’ve gotta go. The bitch that runs this show doesn’t fuck around, I can tell you that much for free. Anyway, for real, I’ve got to go. And Brady? Stay the fuck away from my place, okay? I’m serious. I’ll kill you for fucking real if you go anywhere near her. All right, bye.”

My heart thuds as I take a couple quick steps away from the door, smoothing my expression into neutrality.

Deep breaths. Focus. Put on the armor. No cracks, no chinks. Hard. Cold. Smooth. Unassailable. Imagine claws in place of fingernails. Viper eyes. Ice.

Knock-knock.

I glance at the clock: 6:17
A.M.
One last deep breath, blown out through pursed lips. Twist the knob, swing open the door. “Mr. Drake.” An arched eyebrow. “You’re late.”

You bring up your arm, extend your wrist, bare your extravagant Blancpain watch. I loathe that movement: arm rises, flick the wrist forward. It’s ostentatious, vain. And that watch? Easily three hundred thousand dollars. Alligator leather, eighteen-karat gold, sapphire crystal face . . . all the fancy trappings of the insecure wealthy. I am not impressed.

“By like, two minutes, X.” You breeze past me, and I gag on your cologne. You had to have bathed in it to stink so thickly of it. “It’s cool, man. No big deal. Two minutes, whatever. I’m here.”

I remain standing by the door, hands at my sides, head high, staring down my nose at you. “No, Mr. Drake. Not whatever.” I gesture at the door. “You may go. We are done here.”

You have the decency to look at least a little worried. “X, come on. It’s two minutes. Who the fuck cares about two little minutes? I was on the phone.”

I know, I heard—I know better than to say this, however. “
I
care about two minutes, Mr. Drake. One minute, thirty seconds, a single moment. Late is
late
. You should be knocking on this door at six fourteen. Punctuality is a key trait of the successful, Mr. Drake.”

“My dad is late for board meetings all the time,” you point out, not moving from your position three steps into my condo.

I quirk an eyebrow. “Your father is the founder, CEO, and majority shareholder of one of the most powerful corporations on earth. He has power, which grants him the privilege of being late, to show up whenever he wishes, because he wields the control. You wield
nothing
, William. You receive an allowance. You are
tolerated
. Your lot in life is to do what you’re told, to show up where you are told to show up,
when
you are told to show up, and not a single millisecond later. Your father is one of the biggest, baddest sharks in the ocean, and you are a
guppy
. Good-bye, William. Perhaps next week you will think twice about yapping on your mobile phone outside my door, thus wasting my time, which—need I remind you—is infinitely more valuable than yours will ever be.”

You cross the three steps between us in a blur. Your hand is on my throat, cutting off my air supply. Leaving bruises, certainly. You are nose-to-nose with me, eyes radiating fury, panic, and hate. “What did you hear,
whore
?”

I blink, forcing myself to remain calm. My toes barely touch the floor, my high heels drooping off my feet. I cannot breathe. Stars blink and flash in my eyes. I do not fight, do not scrabble at your
arms or wrists. I stare at you. Make sure you are holding my gaze. And then, deliberately, I let my gaze flick upward, to the corner of the ceiling where the camera is hidden. Your eyes follow mine, and although you cannot possibly see it as it is far too well hidden, my meaning is clear. I lift my chin, arch an eyebrow.

You drop me. I inhale a deep breath, forcing myself to do so slowly, to lock my knees and remain upright, on my feet. Instinct has me wanting to collapse to the floor, gasping, rubbing my throat. But I do not. Dignity is my armor.

Ding.

Elevator doors
whoosh
open, and you go pale. My door is still open. You back up a step, two, three. Shake your head. Four enormous men stalk through the doorway, wearing identical black suits, white shirts, and slim black ties, with earpieces in their right ears, cords trailing under their collars.

“You will come with us, please, Mr. Drake.” One of them speaks, but his lips barely move so it could have come from any one of them.

It is politely phrased, of course, because you are heir to a multibillion-dollar company. But then, you put your hands on me, and Caleb does not tolerate that. Not at all. Not from anyone. If you were not such a pathetic, nasty piece of scum, I would almost pity you. I know these men, and they do not feel mercy.

But then, neither do I.

You puff out your chest. Your lip curls in a derisive sneer. “Fuck off. You can’t tell me to do shit.” You breeze past me.

You make it perhaps four full strides, which brings you out of my condo and into the hallway. You even round the corner. Big mistake, William. There are no cameras out there. One of the guards moves like a striking cobra, faster than thought. A single blow, jackhammer hard, to your liver. You drop like a sack of flour, moaning, writhing.

“Len,” I say. One of the guards swivels his head on his thick neck, glances at me. I beckon to him, a crook of my finger.

He moves to stand in front of me, hands clasped behind his back. “Ma’am?”

“I overheard him speaking on the phone to a friend. I heard some . . . rather unsavory pieces of information.” I point at the ceiling. “Are your microphones powerful enough to have caught it?”

Len’s face remains impassive. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“Don’t insult my intelligence, Len.”

A pause. “I’ll check the tapes, ma’am.” Len glances at you. “He’s a piece of shit.”

“He’s a predator, Len. A sick, twisted criminal. He has a woman held captive somewhere, and he’s going to do something awful to her, if he hasn’t already.”

“You fucking bitch!” you rasp from the floor. “You can’t prove shit.”

One of the guards puts a large, polished-to-a-shine dress shoe on your throat. “You don’t speak to Madame X that way, boy.”

“My father will have all of your jobs,” you threaten.

Len laughs. “There are people in this world far more dangerous than your father, kid. Our employer makes your
daddy
look like a sad little kitten.”

You glance at me, curious now. “X? She’s just a whore.”

The shoe presses down, and you choke. Len strides over to you, kneels beside you. “Kid, you have no clue what you’re talking about. My friends and I? We’re just pawns on the chessboard. X? She’s the queen. And you? You’re not even on the board. Your precious papa? He might rank as high as a knight.
Maybe.
” Len reaches into his suit coat pocket, pulls out a copy of the contract. “And this? This is a legally binding document, signed by you and your daddy. There’s a whole shitload of fine print on this thing, son. You know what that
fine print says? It says that my friends and I are going to stomp the sniveling fuck out of your puny little corpse, and then you’re gonna show us your little playroom, and then we’re going to drag you to the nearest police precinct. And
then
 . . . and then our employer is going to sue your father for every dollar and every share he’s worth, and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop us. Get me . . .
son
?”