CHAPTER SEVEN: Where'd He Go?

The fear that had been so tightly coiled within me finally fell away, and everything around me started to fade.

His face was a masterpiece of stillness, a canvas of unreadable intent. For a moment suspended in time, his gaze was a physical weight, pressing against my own. The air, once thick with the sterile scent of the bathroom, was now charged with the unspoken, the unsaid.

My mouth, a gaping O of shock, felt dry, and my lungs had forgotten how to breathe. The sudden, violent rush of cold air that had seized me when the towel fell now felt entirely distant, replaced by an inferno of heat that flared in my cheeks and down the front of my body. It was an involuntary, electric current of exposure, of being seen in a way I hadn't been since.

Then, with a fluid, almost graceful motion, he broke the tableau. He moved to the door. He was a silent shadow as he hung my new clothes on a polished brass hook.

My eyes, locked on his every move, widened further as he bent down. He scooped up the fallen towel, his fingers brushing against the tiled floor, and with a swift, practised motion, he wrapped it back around me.

His touch, a fleeting pressure on my back, was the spark that shattered the frozen moment. It was a jolt, not of electricity, but of reality. My tense muscles softened, my wide mouth slowly closed, and a soft sigh escaped my lips. The heat in my face cooled, replaced by the faint, comforting warmth of the towel against my skin.

“You should hold this tightly. Anyone can come inside anytime,” he said, his voice a low, steady rumble that seemed to fill the quiet space. “You need to change this as soon as possible.” He added, as he pointed to the towel, his hand a blur of motion.

He didn't wait for a response. He simply turned, a brief, silent acknowledgement, and walked out, the fine white door of the bedroom closing with a soft, resonant thud behind him. My eyes, in a final, frantic act, followed his retreating form until the door swallowed him whole.

The sound of the lock clicking softly into place was the final chord, the signal that I was truly alone. I stood there for a beat, processing the rapid-fire sequence of events. The air felt thin again, and my skin, still warm from the towel, prickled with a new kind of awareness.

My fingers trembled slightly as they fondled the clothes he had left for me. I slipped the green nightgown off the hanger. It was a cascade of fabric, impossibly soft and silken. I ran the material between my thumb and forefinger, feeling the subtle, almost imperceptible texture of the weave. The scent of newness, a clean, almost powdery smell, filled my senses. The neckline was a delicate embroidery of golden thread, a shimmering lace that caught the light and added a touch of elegance.

I slipped it on, and the fabric flowed over my skin like water. It was an instant cocoon of comfort, a weightless second skin that seemed to absorb all the day’s tension and tears.

A deep, guttural sigh of satisfaction escaped me. I felt the tight knot of anxiety in my stomach begin to unravel. It was a feeling of pure, unadulterated comfort, a feeling that whispered warmth, safety, and rest.

“This man sure knows the right thing for me,” I whispered to myself, my voice a small, conspiratorial sound in the silent room. I glanced at my reflection in the mirror. My face was pale, with the telltale puffiness of a long, hard cry. My eyes, ringed with red, looked back at me, a stranger in a strange land..

A sudden wave of a new thought crashed over me, pulling me away from the mirror. I moved to the door, my hand outstretched. The doorknob, a cold, unyielding sphere of metal, sent a chill up my arm. The cold was a physical reminder of the stark reality.

What if his kindness was just a fleeting impulse, a moment of weakness? What if he was just a better man than I had given him credit for? A man who simply respected a woman’s vulnerability. The thoughts swirled like a tempest in my mind.

Slowly, I turned the handle. The door opened with a soft click, the sound echoing down the silent corridor. I peered out, my heart a timid sparrow fluttering in my chest.

The hallway was empty, a long, winding expanse of polished marble and closed doors. My bare feet felt the cool floor beneath me. The house was silent. Too silent. The air was still, devoid of the usual hum of human activity.

“Where is everyone?” I whispered to myself. “Where is Collins?”

I padded along the corridor, my footsteps making no sound, my heart beating with a new, strange rhythm—not of fear, but of a quiet, growing curiosity. Each door in the wall is a mystery, a sealed secret. The vastness of the place, the sheer, cavernous emptiness, began to press in on me.

I descended the sweeping staircase, my hand trailing along the intricate bannister, the smooth, cold iron a comfort beneath my palm.

The sitting room, a grand, cavernous space. The furniture, upholstered in a velvety, rich material, looked inviting. I ran my hand over the arm of a chair, the soft, supple fabric a contrast to the cold iron of the doorknob. The desire to sit, to simply rest and absorb the opulence around me, was strong, but a sudden jolt of panic seized me. The silence was deafening. The emptiness of the place was palpable, a heavy weight that settled on my shoulders. I was alone.

I hurried to the front door, the solid, unyielding glass door, a barrier between me and the outside world. I pushed it open, stepping out onto a wide, manicured lawn. The moon was a sliver of silver in the dark sky, casting long, eerie shadows. But there was no one. Not him, not his aides, not a single soul. The cars were gone. The whole place was a silent, empty shell.

I walked the perimeter of the mansion, my sense of confusion growing with every step. I tried the rooms, but the silence was the same, a constant, unchanging hum of absence. I was too preoccupied with my rising panic to truly explore, my mind a whirlpool of questions. Where had he gone? Why had he left me here?

I finally returned to the sitting room, the silence a familiar enemy. I paced the length of the room, my thoughts a frantic, jumbled mess.

“No sensible husband would leave on his wedding night,” I muttered, my voice a shaky echo. “What kind of busy man is he? Has he just left me here? Or does he have other business…with other women?” The questions swirled, a bitter brew of suspicion and fear.

Exhaustion, a heavy, suffocating blanket, finally settled over me, making my head bang hard. I felt dizzy, and everything around me began to move. The swirling thoughts of him, of this place, of my fate, slowly faded into a murky fog. The last thing I felt was the luxurious fabric against my skin, and then, mercifully, nothing.