The Villain’s Captive by Bella J.

3

A week later

The insideof her apartment looked nothing like the outside of the building. It was clean, neat, everything perfectly set in its place. There was not a speck of dust to be found anywhere. The furniture was old and better suited to be burned than used, but the cotton sheets she had draped over it hid most of its horrendous appearances.

It wasn’t the first time I’d been in the bachelor-sized apartment. I had stalked around the bedroom, living room, and kitchen, all in one tiny open space, numerous times before. I knew exactly where the filigree wallpaper had blanched from the sun shining through the only window in the apartment, and stared at the pattern, tracing a fingertip along the intricate curves. It must have taken her hours to glue the torn wallpaper back in place, the lines and edges easily visible when one stood so close.

The wooden floors creaked beneath my feet as I made my way across toward the single bed. The multi-colored floral sheets were neatly made up without a single crease, and I eased my palm across the cotton fabric. What kind of man was I for feeling envious of threadbare sheets, knowing they had been closer to Charlotte than I had ever been? Keeping her warm at night, maybe even comfortable since she had nothing else to compare it with. She had yet to experience the luxurious feel of silk caressing her skin while dreams stole her from reality.

I picked up the pillow and found an old picture hidden beneath it. It was a picture of her and her mother. Clarissa Moore. Born in 1970 to parents Daniel and Cynthia Thompson. Married Thomas Moore in 1997, and gave birth to their daughter Charlotte Leigh Moore on May twenty-fourth, 2000—three months after Thomas up and left her to raise her daughter as a single mother.

Died March twenty-first, 2019.

Cause of death, lung cancer.

Charlotte’s life was like an open fucking book for me. There was nothing about her I didn’t know.

Five-foot four. Considered a little underweight at a hundred and five pounds.

Worked two jobs. One as a cleaner at the Alto Theatre, the other as a waitress at some cheap-ass bar three nights a week when the theatre was closed.

Favorite food—pepperoni pizza, extra garlic.

Favorite drink—iced coffee, whether it was summer or winter. Sometimes during winter she’d opt for a vanilla and cinnamon latte, but more often than not, her love for iced coffee and brain freeze led her to order her favorite beverage.

I traced a finger along the edge of the picture. She had her mother’s eyes—shades of gray framed with blue. Her eyes could speak a thousand words with a single glance, and tell tales of a girl who grew up loved. Cherished. Protected. But ever since she buried her mother, she lost that vibrant gaze. She lost the glint of contentment and now lived like she carried the world on her shoulders.

The day of her mother’s funeral, I was there, leaning against a large oak tree, watching her stand beside the open grave. A handful of people attended the burial, everyone wearing black, the color of mourning. But not her. She wore this beautiful white lace dress, the hem touching just above her knees. The white heels she wore were ruined from the muddy ground caused by the rain from the day before. But she didn’t care.

Her raven hair was pulled up in a tidy bun, the few curls framing her face gently moving with the morning breeze. Even through her heartache, through her grief, there was this elegant innocence about her. The more I watched her, the more she intrigued me, inspiring this overwhelming curiosity to explore every aspect of her.

While I watched her that day, I wondered about the grief she had to feel. It wasn’t an emotion I could relate to, feeling sadness over the loss of a mother.

Charlotte didn’t cry a single tear that day. She didn’t speak. In fact, she didn’t react in any way. All she did was stand there after everyone else had left…until it was only us. Her, me, and death between us.

The sun had started to set, the pink and yellow hues painting her as a picture of broken beauty. I remembered how I couldn’t tear my gaze from her, not wanting to miss a single moment. The music enthusiast in me wondered what kind of perfection she’d create if she had her cello with her, pouring that grief she hid so well into a solo performance that would excel past every other. Music, after all, stemmed from the soul, created by our emotions.

It was supposed to be a day where she’d expose the most vulnerable version of herself, but all I saw was strength and determination to not fall apart.

But I wasn’t there to admire her or wonder about her thoughts and emotions. Charlotte Moore was a job, something I had to remind myself of whenever I watched her, documented her every move.

She was a contract. Not an obsession.

I brought the pillow closer to my face, clutching it tightly as I inhaled the familiar smell of jasmine mixed with a subtle hint of freesias. Her scent always lingered on the stage of the Alto Theatre whenever she left.

I remembered the first time I heard her play the cello. Edelweiss—a popular song known by millions and loved by many. But to me it was a beautiful music composition that held a piece of my soul. It was the first time I realized she and I shared the same passion for beautiful music.

I watched her from the shadows, the rich legato sound and distinct timbre of the cello singing to my blood. Listening to her play, watching her, witnessing how she and the instrument became one was like getting a glimpse of her soul. Her spirit. It was almost intimate, the moments she unknowingly shared with me. One could argue that I stole those precious moments, cloaked with darkness. But I didn’t give a fuck how one looked at it. It was during those times that my demons were silenced, and the more I experienced the peace her music offered me, the more I craved it. It was a fine line I was treading on with the cellist. A line that, if I took one wrong step, the repercussions would be deadly…for both of us.

I placed the pillow back down, smoothing out the fabric, ensuring it was as perfect as I had found it, then opened the bedside table drawer, an unopened box of ibuprofen inside it. Her pain was getting worse, her trips to the pharmacy becoming more frequent. Charlotte had found herself in one of those unfortunate situations one could argue as an unfair curveball life liked to throw around at the innocent. It fucked with my head sometimes, thinking how rapists, pedophiles, twisted motherfuckers walked the Earth in their designer fucking shoes while the innocent suffered. Life wasn’t fair—a cliché, but the truth.

I closed the drawer, my gaze drifting over a brush and two hairbands on the bedside table. A small bottle of perfume stood next to it, and I wondered why someone who earned minimum wage and lived in a crummy old apartment would splurge on an expensive bottle of perfume. It was probably the most expensive item in here, apart from the…

I glanced around. Where was her cello case? I watched her leave an hour ago, and she didn’t have the case with her, which meant it had to be here.

The closet hinges were old and rusted, the doors hanging on the loose screws. She didn’t own a lot of clothing, and her wardrobe consisted of torn jeans, two sweaters and a few t-shirts.

I looked back at the bottle of expensive perfume and then cut my gaze to the half empty closet. The little cellist proved to be quite the enigma.

It didn’t take me more than ten minutes to search through her apartment until I stilled in front of the bed, leaning my head to the side as I crouched and reached underneath to find the hidden cello. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t relieved. A cellist without a cello was like Romeo without his Juliet. Void and lost.

A truck passed the building, the loud rumble of its engine causing the windows to shudder. The traffic was utter madness, every second car honking down the street. No wonder she escaped to the Alto to get some silence so she could give her heart what it wanted. Music.

I took a breath and gently eased open the case, only to stare at a cracked and broken cello. There were no words to describe the sinking feeling in my gut when I saw the pieces. No wonder she never went back to the Alto after that night. She had no instrument to play. No reason to sit on the stage in front of an empty theatre.

And I had no reason to care. I shouldn’t have cared. But I did.

“Fucking Christ!” I slammed the case shut. If only she had taken my gift. She should have taken the cello I left for her that night. Something I shouldn’t have done because it compromised the job by making unnecessary contact.

“Fuck!” I roughed my hands through my hair, the voices growing louder, the memories becoming stronger.

“You’re a fucking disease, little boy.”

“You’re nothing but a stray no one wants.”

I closed my eyes, but instead of darkness, I saw red. Crimson. Liquid souls flooding everything in its path.

“You should have died, too.”

“Do not make me choose, because I’ll choose him. I’ll choose him over you.”

“Jesus!” I balled my fist and slammed it against the drywall, breaking clear through it. The filigree wallpaper tore, and I stared at the hole my fit of rage had caused.

She should be playing. Charlotte should be playing every minute of every hour of every motherfucking day.

“Fuck!” I cursed and pulled my fingers through my hair. This was supposed to be easy. But this thing with her was getting complicated—too fucking complicated, and I had no one to blame but myself. I got too close. Made it personal.

My phone vibrated, a text message finally confirming that which I knew would eventually come. Now, my little charade had to come to an end, this fucking fantasy I lived in now killed and drowned with one goddamn text.

I had three years to prepare myself for this moment, three years of tracking her, studying her, making sure I knew everyone she had contact with. Employers, colleagues, friends—even her fucking pharmacist. Every minute spent on this job, every move I made had led up to this exact moment.

The sound of keys resonated from the front door, and I darted toward it, pushing my back against the wall. Waiting. Anticipating. Breathing.

Charlotte walked inside and shut the door behind her with a kick of her boot, shrugging drops of rain off her jacket. With her back still toward me, she placed a brown paper bag on the tiny dining table, and my pulse raced, yet I controlled my breathing—controlled my thoughts. Control was the most crucial aspect of this job. Without it, stupid mistakes were made, mistakes that got you caught.

She turned and looked right at me—a single second in time that froze for what seemed like an eternity as I locked my gaze with hers.

I had no choice.

I had no motherfucking choice.

I had to do it.

I had to take her.