Page 36 of Save Me
When we eventually pull up outside of what I can only assume is his massive property, I’m even more nervous than before. All I can see are high walls, crowned in barbed wire, and lots of security cameras. As we approach a monstrous wooden gate that towers high above the car, my friendly driver, who has been watching me with nothing but concern through the rear-view mirror, taps in a code that prompts the gates to open wide to reveal Oliver’s over-the-top house. On closer inspection, it resembles something more like a holiday resort for the rich and famous than a person’s home. It’s too much.
We drive slowly up a long, paved driveway, with green palm trees lining the borders. Sprinklers are set on constant to try and keep the grass lush and green in the heat of the otherwise arid landscape. A gardener is tending to a flowerbed in a shady corner where it is bright and colorful, though totally alien looking in such a barren location. It warns me that anything Oliver wants, no matter the barriers, he gets through money, power, and sheer will. In contrast to this shady nook of flowers, the perimeter is noticeably guarded by armed security, all butched-up and ready to shoot someone with only a moment’s warning.
Holy shit! You really are trapped in here.
Daring to look up ahead, I see the enormous building in more detail, though its overwhelming façade is a lot to take in all at once. It’s a two-story structure that must house at least a dozen rooms, no doubt all much more excessive than any I’ve ever seen before. On first impression, it looks beautiful, but the closer we get to it, the more I feel nothing but dread as I contemplate it becoming my home in the very near future.
“Are you ok, Miss Taylor?” the driver asks softly, frowning at me through the mirror again. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Can I get you something?”
It’s only now that I realize the car has come to a complete stop right outside of the front door. I feel myself begin to tremble with nerves, like I always do over the prospect of seeing my future husband. The driver furrows his brow even deeper, so I try to plaster on a fake smile, and shake my head, being desperate to convince him that everything is as it should be.
No sooner have I done so, than the passenger door is thrown open by Oliver Lawrence himself, looking impatient for my arrival. He reaches in to take hold of my hand, which I give to him obediently, before stepping outside onto the paving. It’s grown muggy, signaling the impending arrival of the storm that has been promised by the weatherman on the TV all morning.
Oliver is dressed in a pair of well-fitted navy suit trousers and a white shirt, bearing the logo of some extortionately expensive brand. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, revealing his muscly arms and manicured hands. I instantly wince over the state of my own nail-bitten fingers and try to hide them. I can only imagine any other woman in my position would swoon in his presence, for he is an incredibly attractive alpha male, reeking of masculinity, elocution, and wealth. But for me, something is unnerving about him, like he has a hidden dark side that I am yet to see the full extent of.
For the past two months or so, ever since he laid his cards out before me, I have done nothing but question as to why he is so desperate to marry me. I am certain there must be a ton of women who would happily swap places with me. I am a seventeen-year-old girl-next-door type, with no name, no status, nor links to anything out of the ordinary, so why has he trapped me into a situation I have no control over? Unfortunately, I have no answers to speak of. All I do know is that when I marry him, I will be expected to be obedient, a Stepford wife. And in the bedroom, I will be at his whim; something that terrifies me more than anything.
He looks me up and down with a smile and a nod, arrogantly assessing my efforts as if I’m a new car that’s just been delivered. A heartless possession that is here for his pleasure and nothing more.
“You look beautiful, Beth,” he says charmingly as ever, “please come in.”
He takes my hand before I even have a chance to respond, not that I would have any idea of what to say. I am led inside of the house, which I notice is sparsely decorated, with each piece of furniture prudently chosen and positioned with meticulous care. The edges are sharp, the colors masculine and bold, giving it as much of a comforting feel as a morgue. My heels tip-tap against the dark wooden flooring, causing an echo to bounce off the stone walls all around me.
“Tell me what you’re thinking, Beth,” he says, finally breaking the stifling silence as we continue walking into the dining area. “Do you like my home? It will be yours too, soon.”
I can’t help wincing over that last statement, mostly because it’s true and I think I would rather set up home in the deep forests of where the Blair Witch was filmed. And now I have to say something nice about it, but for the life of me, I cannot think of a single thing.
“It’s lovely…very clean!” I eventually reply, and it sounds even worse than it did inside of my head. He simply laughs, though I can’t be sure if it’s sincere or one that’s going to turn psychotic. It doesn’t seem natural to see him laughing.
“I, er, I mean it’s…I don’t know what you want me to say,” I whisper truthfully, looking ashamed for not pleasing him.
As I stare at my fidgeting hands, I see his larger ones engulf them, making me look up into his cobalt-colored eyes. To my relief, he looks at me with a level of softness behind his usually stern features.
“You don’t need to fear me, Beth,” he says quietly as he brushes away a loose lock of hair behind my ear. “I do not have a script that you need to follow. Please, be yourself with me.”
“Well, then, it’s a little…cold?” I look up at him with nervous anticipation, wondering why the hell those words just left my stupid mouth. Perhaps it’s because I know I’m an awful liar, especially when I’m in the company of someone who frightens me.
“You’re right,” he says as the corner of his mouth lifts. Its presence finally letting my heart begin beating again. “Exactly why I need someone like you to come and warm it for me.”
“I’m not sure I will be any good,” I reply truthfully, “in fact, I fear you may have chosen the wrong person to be a ‘proper’ wife.”
“Not at all,” he says confidently, “you are perfect. Now come and have lunch with me, it’s all ready for us in the dining room.”
I’m led into a large room, one big enough to house King Arthur’s knights of the round table. Though, the one in here is a long, rectangular, mahogany affair. The décor is softer than the other rooms, and a lot more traditional, something that wouldn’t look out of place in the Palace of Versailles. The gilded chairs are decorated in a deep red velvet cushioning, while the heavy, navy drapes lay in perfect pleats down to the floor, where the excess fabric pools in soft, rich ruffles. If it weren’t for the nearly floor-to-ceiling windows, the whole place would be almost as dark as if it were dusk, when the world around you turns black, blue, and grey in readiness for night to take over.
Oliver continues walking past all the grandeur and gestures to a chair for me to sit in, right in front of a place-setting full of expensive China wear and crystal glasses. His chair is directly next to mine. Silver-wear containing roasted vegetables and a large joint of beef rests on top of the table, all ready to be served for a traditional, British, Sunday lunch.
“I believe the English enjoy a Sunday dinner with Yorkshire puddings, do you not?” he asks, smiling proudly over the effort that’s been made. I say nothing but smile back to show my appreciation. He holds out the chair and waits for me to sit before pushing me toward the table of delicious food, which I don’t know how I’m going to eat. Right now, I couldn’t think of anything worse than eating. “May I serve for you?”
“Please,” I reply with a nod, feeling thankful for not having to do it myself. My trembling hands would have food rolling all over the floor and amongst the velvet drapes; something that would probably go down like a lead balloon with my host.
I watch him masterfully serve me a plate of food before doing the same for himself. He is confident in his ability and carves the meat with both skill and professionalism. He would make an excellent waiter, though I’m sure he would consider such a thing completely beneath him.
“You look like you’ve done this before?” I finally utter in my attempt to be friendly.
“Many times,” he declares with a smile, still concentrating on the job at hand. “All Mayfield men are expected to be gentlemen. We are trained young.”
“You’ve mentioned Mayfield before,” I respond, frowning with confusion over such a term I know nothing about. “Are you going to tell me what it is? I must confess, I have tried to google it, but I’ve come up with nothing of any interest.”