Chapter 2: The Hypnosis Session Behind Locked Doors
Sophie slumped into the deep leather chair, the cognac-colored hide sighing under her weight. It was three in the morning. The vodka cranberries she’d nervously chugged upstairs at the party swam in her veins, a fuzzy, false courage. She fumbled with her phone, fingers clumsy.
“Finally,” she muttered, the word slurring just at the edges. She tapped the red record button and set the phone on the polished mahogany desk between them. “Okay, Blackwood. Start talking. I’ve wasted enough time.”
Declan watched her from his own high-backed throne, a crystal tumbler of amber liquid in hand. The fire crackled, painting his sharp features in warm gold and deep shadow. He looked amused. “So impatient. I said you’d get your interview. Though I expected a… sharper instrument.” His gaze drifted pointedly to her phone. “You know, most journalists use actual recorders. More reliable.”
“It works,” Sophie snapped, crossing her arms. She felt off-balance, the room too warm, his gaze too steady. “Now. The basement. The monitors. You’ve been surveilling your own parties. Why?”
He took a slow sip, never breaking eye contact. Then he leaned forward, his movement fluid and deliberate. “A matter of security. Liability. This house is historic.” As he spoke, his hand brushed against her phone, his fingers deft and quick. There was a barely perceptible click. He settled back, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “But let’s talk about you, Sophie. It’s Sophie, right? Not ‘Scoop’? What’s a nice girl like you doing breaking into private property?”
She ignored the bait. “You knew I was coming. You said so. How long have you been watching me?”
“Since you published that editorial on Greek life ‘toxicity.’” He made air quotes, his tone dripping with condescension. “It was naive. Passionate, but naive. I found it… charming. In a pitiful sort of way.” He swirled his drink. “You look tired. Stressed. This crusade of yours is wearing you down.”
“I’m fine,” she said, but her voice sounded thin to her own ears. The fire was so hot. Her black sweater dress felt tight, constricting.
“Of course you are.” Declan reached into a drawer and pulled out a small, ornate object—a perfume atomizer with a vintage glass bulb. It caught the firelight, sparkling. “But you’re also a mess. Here. A little refreshment before we continue. My mother imports this from Grasse. Citrus notes. Very… clarifying.”
Before she could protest, he gave the bulb a gentle squeeze. A fine, scented mist kissed the air between them. It was sharp, lemony, clean. Sophie instinctively inhaled.
A strange, immediate warmth spread through her skull, behind her eyes. The edges of the room softened. The angry coil of tension in her shoulders began to unwind, not by her choice, but as if the strings had been cut. Her pupils widened, darkening her gaze.
“There,” Declan murmured, his voice dropping to a hypnotic smoothness. He watched her like a scientist observing a reaction. “That’s it. Just watch the firelight dance. All those sparks. So pretty. Isn’t it easier to be honest when you’re not fighting so hard?”
Sophie’s head lolled slightly against the high back of the chair. Her critique of him, her questions, they were all still there, but they felt heavy, buried under layers of warm wool. “I… I had questions,” she said, but it came out as a drowsy mumble.
“And I’ll answer them. But first, let’s get comfortable.” He rose and moved around the desk. His cologne mixed with the citrus haze. He stood behind her chair, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders. She should have flinched. She didn’t. His thumbs pressed into the tight muscles of her neck, and a small, traitorous moan escaped her lips. “See? All knotted up over nothing.”
His fingers traced the collar of her dress. “This is so severe, Sophie. Black on black. Trying so hard to be taken seriously. Real power doesn’t need to shout.” One hand slid forward, his knuckle brushing her cheek. She nuzzled into it, the gesture automatic, mindless. “So pretty under all that… effort. You should wear silk. Pastels. Something that complements, doesn’t confront.”
He walked back to his seat, studying her slumped, pliant form. “Say ‘thank you, Declan.’”
Her tongue felt thick. “Thank you, Declan.”
“Good girl.” The praise landed in her gut, warm and sickly sweet. He picked up her phone, showed her the dark screen. “Your battery died. These things are so unreliable. Don’t worry. We’ll remember what’s important.” He set it down, far out of her reach. “Now, where were we? Oh, yes. You. I think you’re too smart for your own good. All those thoughts, all that analyzing. It must be exhausting being you. Wouldn’t it be simpler to just… feel?”
Sophie tried to focus on his face, but it shimmered. The fire was so beautiful. “Simpler,” she echoed, the word a sigh.
“Exactly. No more tough questions. No more deadlines. Just be… agreeable. Pleasant. A pretty girl enjoying a party.” He tilted his head. “Uncross your arms, Sophie. It’s a defensive posture. Let go.”
Slowly, her arms slid from her chest, falling limp at her sides. The submission was absolute.
“Soph is better, I think,” he mused, taking another sip. “Less formal. More friendly. You look like a Soph. Sweet. Simple. Don’t you think?”
Her eyes, heavy-lidded and glassy, stared into the flames. A tiny, distant part of her screamed, but it was muffled, a radio under a blanket. The larger, tranquilized part just watched the pretty sparks fly up the chimney, gone forever.
“Yeah,” she breathed, a vacant smile touching her lips. “Sweet.”
Declan smiled back, a real one this time, full of quiet victory. He refilled his glass. The interview was over. Something else had begun.