Chapter 48: Mrs Sandman
The sleep was a black ocean, and she had sunk to its very bottom. There were no dreams, only a profound and absolute absence, the kind of peace that follows total annihilation. Hours dissolved. The sun arced across the sky, painting the room first gold, then a bright, sterile white, then finally a deep, melancholic orange as it began its descent toward the horizon.
She surfaced slowly, dragged upward by a vague, insistent ache. Not a sharp pain, but a deep, bodily murmur—a symphony of sore muscles, tender flesh, and abused nerve endings playing a low, constant chord. She opened her eyes.
The ceiling was high, painted a soft cream. A hairline crack ran diagonally from the corner of the crown molding. She stared at it. Her mind was blank, a clean slate wiped by that oceanic sleep. Then, one by one, the memories docked like ships returning to port.
The velvet sofa, her legs over the arms. The dual assault of their mouths. The leather cuffs, the cold iron table against her cheek. The stretch, the fullness, the brutal, alternating possession. The feeling of being turned inside out on the terrace stone. Carter’s final words. The agreement is fulfilled.
A strange hollow space opened up beneath her ribs. It wasn’t regret. It wasn’t sadness. It was… cessation. The engine that had been driving her for days, the desperate need to perform, to push, to earn their approval, had sputtered and stopped. She was a vessel at rest, empty and still.
She didn’t move. She cataloged the evidence. The throb between her legs was a dull echo. The bite marks on her breasts and neck were tight, itchy badges under the sheet. A deeper, more intimate ache resonated from her backside, a raw reminder of the night’s final, claiming usage. She breathed into the sensations, letting them define the contours of her stillness.
The door clicked open.
She didn’t turn her head. Boots on hardwood, then the soft sound of soles on the thick rug beside the bed. Carter’s shadow fell across her peripheral vision.
“Finally,” he said. His voice was quiet, almost normal.
She shifted her eyes to look at him. He was dressed for travel—dark jeans, a grey Henley, a leather jacket slung over one arm. He looked rested, clean, human. The intensity from the night before was banked, a fire put out but still warm.
“What time is it?” Her own voice was a raspy stranger.
“Nearly five. PM.”
She blinked. “Five?” The word was flat.
“You slept for fourteen hours straight. You didn’t even twitch when the maid came in.” He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping. He studied her face. “Dominic left for the airport at ten. I delayed our flight. Twice.”
“Why?” she asked, still staring at the crack in the ceiling.
A pause. “Because you needed to sleep. Not rest. Sleep. There’s a difference.”
A faint, ironic smile touched her lips. He’d said something similar yesterday. She’s not recovering. She’s resting. Now, sleep. It felt like a promotion.
“I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck,” she said, the observation delivered with clinical detachment.
“I know.” He didn’t apologize. It was just a fact. “Can you move?”
“I don’t know.” She willed her right arm to lift. It obeyed, but slowly, creakily. She let it fall back to the sheet. “Sort of.”
“Good.” He stood up. “Get up. Shower. I ordered food. It’ll be here in twenty minutes.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You will be. Your body’s running on empty. You need fuel.” It was the same tone he’d used the night before about the steak. A commander assessing logistics. “Up.”
The command, now stripped of sexual heat, was still compelling. She pushed back the sheet and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The cool air hit her naked skin, raising goosebumps. She stood, swaying slightly, her hand shooting out to brace against the mahogany headboard. The polished wood was smooth under her palm.
She took a step, then another. The walk to the en-suite bathroom was a journey across a strange planet, her body reporting damage from every sector. She closed the door but didn’t lock it. The habit was gone.
The shower was a revelation. The hot water was a painful benediction on her sore muscles. She leaned her forehead against the cool tiles and let it pour over her. She didn’t scrub. She just stood there, emptying her mind again, listening to the drumbeat on the glass.
When she emerged, wrapped in a thick towel, the scent of garlic and herbs filled the bedroom. Carter had opened the terrace doors, and the last of the sunset was bleeding out in smears of violet and rose. A small table was set with silver domes and a bottle of mineral water.
He was sitting, scrolling through his phone. He glanced up. “Sit.”
She took the chair opposite him, tightening the towel around her chest. He lifted the dome from her plate. Grilled chicken, roasted vegetables, a small mound of creamy potatoes. Simple, hearty. Her stomach growled, betraying her.
She ate in silence, the flavors shocking in their normality. He ate too, his attention mostly on his phone. It was unnervingly domestic.
“Did Dominic get off okay?” she finally asked, just to shatter the quiet.
“Yeah. Texted when he landed. Sloane picked him up.” Carter took a sip of water. “He said to tell you he had a good summit.”
The corporate euphemism hung in the air, laden with all that had transpired. Summit. A meeting of powerful parties to negotiate terms. She gave a soft, incredulous snort. “Right.”
A faint smile touched Carter’s mouth. “It was. We negotiated. Terms were met. Debts were settled.” He set his phone down. “How do you feel?”
She looked up from her plate, met his intense brown eyes. This wasn’t a dominant testing his submissive. This was something else. A debriefing.
“Empty,” she said, truthfully. “Sore. Hollow.”
He nodded, as if this was the expected answer. “The hollow will pass. It’s just chemical. Your brain dumped every feel-good thing it had. It needs time to make more.” He leaned back, considering her. “The soreness is a record. You should read it. Remember what it took to get each one.”
“I remember,” she whispered.
“I know you do.” He was silent for a moment. “You did well, Ashley.”
Three words. They landed in the hollow space inside her and detonated softly, filling it with a warm, golden light. It was the validation she had craved, mined from the deepest, darkest pit of experience. It was worth every ache, every tear, every moment of degradation. Her eyes pricked with sudden, stupid tears. She looked down at her plate, blinking them away.
“Thank you,” she managed.
“Don’t thank me,” he said, his tone shifting back to its practical register. “It was a transaction. You performed. I’m acknowledging performance.” He pushed his chair back. “We leave for the airport in an hour. Your bag is packed. Get dressed.”
He left her at the table, taking his jacket and walking out onto the terrace, his figure silhouetted against the deepening twilight.
She finished every bite on her plate, the fuel settling in her, replacing the emptiness with a solid, manageable weight. The hollowness was receding, just as he said it would. In its place was a new feeling, one she couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t happiness. It was… completion.
She dressed in the clothes left out for her—soft leggings, a loose sweater, clean underwear that didn’t chafe. Every movement was a reminder. The tight skin over the bite on her neck. The tender pull of muscles in her thighs. Each one a sentence in the story of the summit.
When she wheeled her small suitcase into the living area, Carter was waiting by the villa’s entrance, their larger bags beside him. He looked her up and down, a quick, efficient scan.
“Ready?”
She looked past him, through the open door, at the black car idling in the circular drive. The real world waited. Flights, traffic, the loft awaiting them, Carter’s work. The suspended reality of the villa was over.
But the record remained. In her skin, in her muscles, in the quiet, settled place inside her that had been so frantic before.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m ready.”
He held the door for her. A gentleman’s gesture. As she passed him, his hand came up and squeezed the back of her neck, right where the tendon was sore from Dominic’s final bite. The pressure was possessive, affirming, a period at the end of a long, chaotic sentence.
Then he released her, following her out into the cool evening air, and closed the door on the villa and everything that had happened inside. The lock clicked shut with a sound of profound finality. The summit was adjourned.
The summit was adjourned. The flight home was a blur of engine hum and artificial cabin light. Ashley stared at her reflection in the dark window, seeing the ghost of the villa’s terrace in her own pupils. Carter worked on his laptop, the click of the keys a steady, mundane metronome. They didn’t speak.
Days dissolved into a new, soft routine. The loft in the city felt too large, too quiet, after the villa’s saturated intensity. Ashley floated.
She cleaned on autopilot, running a cloth over surfaces that were already gleaming. She cooked simple meals, her hands moving through recipes without her mind’s participation. The world had taken on a thin, gauzy quality. Sound was muffled. Taste was bland.
Then, without warning, a memory would detonate.
She’d be folding Carter’s t-shirt, the cotton soft in her hands, and suddenly feel the exact burn of the terrace stone against her knees. The scent of rosemary from the chicken in the oven would transform, in a blink, into the musk of cologne and sweat and sex. She would simply stop, her body caught in a phantom grip, seeing not the stainless steel fridge but the wrought-iron table leg she’d been cuffed to. Time would slip its gears. She’d stare at a wall for ten minutes, feeling the echo of a touch, hearing a long-faded laugh.
She was a radio tuned to a distant, powerful station, picking up signals at random.
A week passed. The physical marks faded from lurid purple to yellowish-green. The deeper aches subsided into a memory held in the tissue. But the trance states lingered.
One Thursday, Carter came home earlier than usual. The key turned in the lock with a solid thunk. He shrugged off his coat, the sound of it landing on the hall bench familiar.
“Ashley?”
No answer. He walked into the open-plan living area.
The vacuum cleaner was on, a steady industrial roar in the middle of the room. It stood upright, its engine humming, cleaning nothing. Ashley was beside it, her hand resting on its handle. She was perfectly still, looking out the floor-to-ceiling window at the city skyline, where early evening lights were beginning to prick through the grey.
She didn’t turn. She didn’t blink.
“Ashley,” he said, louder, over the vacuum’s drone.
Nothing. Her breathing was slow, her shoulders slack. She was gone.
He crossed the room in three strides and put his hand on her shoulder.
She jumped violently, a full-body spasm, her head whipping around. Her eyes were wide, unfocused for a terrifying second before they snapped onto his face. The vacuum wavered and she fumbled to catch it.
“Oh my god. Carter. I’m—I’m so sorry.” The words tumbled out, panicked and profuse. She slapped the vacuum’s power switch. The sudden silence was ringing, oppressive. “I was just… the window. I didn’t hear you. I’m sorry.”
She was back, but flustered, her cheeks flushing. She began winding the cord with frantic efficiency, avoiding his eyes.
He watched her, his intense brown eyes taking in the rapid pulse at her throat, the slight tremor in her hands. He didn’t move.
“Where were you?” he asked. His voice was calm, devoid of accusation.
“Nowhere. Here. I was vacuuming.” The lie was brittle.
“You weren’t here.” He reached out and caught her chin, gently forcing her to look at him. His thumb brushed her cheekbone. “You were back at the villa. Which part?”
Her resistance collapsed. The coiled vacuum cord hung limp in her hand. “The… the bedroom. Waking up. That feeling of the sheets. And the crack in the ceiling.” She swallowed. “It was so real. Then the vacuum just sounded like… the air conditioning. Or the cicadas. I got mixed up.”
He nodded slowly, as if this was a clinical observation of great interest. He didn’t let go of her chin. “Your body’s here. Your mind’s catching up. It’s replaying the tape to understand it.”
“It’s disorienting.”
“I know.” He released her face, his hand sliding down to her arm, giving it a brief, firm squeeze. It was almost reassuring. “Don’t apologize for it. Just don’t drift so far you can’t come back. Dinner ready?”
“Almost. I’ll just finish this.” She gestured with the cord.
He headed toward the bedroom to change, pausing at the doorway. “And Ashley?” He glanced back. “The mark on your neck is almost gone.”
The statement hung in the air. An observation. A reminder of the record fading. She touched the spot instinctively, feeling only smooth skin.
She finished tidying the cord, her mind now firmly, painfully, in the present. The city lights outside seemed colder, sharper. The hum was gone.
Later, as they ate, his phone buzzed on the table. He read the message, a slow smile spreading. He turned the screen toward her. It was from Dominic.
Sloane’s book club night. House is quiet. Too quiet. Kept thinking about the garden. The lack of fireflies here is a civic failing.
Below the text was a photo, clearly taken just now. It showed Dominic’s bare thighs, part of his abdomen, and his hand resting casually in his lap. The context was unmistakable, an echo of a shared language.
Carter tapped a quick reply, his fingers swift on the glass. Fireflies are overrated. The city has better lighting for surveillance.
He set the phone down, face up. A moment later, a new message popped up. Dominic’s reply.
Surveillance requires a subject. Is ours acclimated? Or still floating?
Ashley looked from the phone to Carter’s face. He met her gaze, his expression unreadable. He didn’t reply to the message. Instead, he spoke to her.
“He’s asking about you.”
“I see that.”
“What should I tell him?”
The question wasn’t casual. It was a hand-off. A return of agency, or a test to see if she wanted it. She looked at the photo again, at the familiar terrain of Dominic’s body, and felt a jolt—not of memory, but of anticipation. The hollow space inside her gave a resonant thrum.
She took a sip of water, buying a second. The gauzy feeling was gone, burned away by the directness of the exchange.
“Tell him,” she said, her voice finding its old, lower register, “the subject is grounded. And the surveillance sounds boring.” A faint, challenging smile touched her lips. “Ask him what he has in mind.”
Carter’s eyes gleamed. He picked up the phone.
He picked up the phone. His thumbs moved swiftly. “Subject requests an agenda. Propose one.” He set the device down, screen-up, between them like a centerpiece. It stayed dark for a full minute.
Then it lit, buzzing against the wood. A single line from Dominic.
Tell her to think of the garden. And wait.
Ashley exhaled, a slow release of breath she hadn’t known she was holding. The message was a pebble dropped into the quiet pond of the evening, its ripples moving through her, shifting the stagnant water of her trance. Wait. It was a different kind of command. It had future in it.
She slept deeply again that night, but it wasn’t the obliterating blackness of the villa. It was thick, but restless. She dreamed of root systems, tangled and white, spreading beneath dark soil. She woke once to find Carter’s arm draped heavily over her waist, his breath warm against her shoulder blade. She didn’t move. She lay there, feeling the anchor of his weight, until she slid back under.
Morning was clear and sharp. Carter left for the office with a brief kiss on her temple, a gesture so normal it felt like a costume he was wearing. “Don’t forget to eat,” he said, pulling on his jacket by the door. He looked at her, a quick, assessing glance. “You’re here today?”
“I’m here,” she said, and almost believed it.
The day yawned, a vast empty space. She cleaned the already-clean kitchen. She folded a load of laundry, her hands smoothing the fabrics with a repetitive, almost liturgical care. The silence of the loft was a physical presence, humming in her ears. She turned on the television for noise, some daytime talk show, and let the bright, meaningless chatter bounce off her.
Think of the garden. And wait.
She wandered to the window, looking down at the miniature cars and people. The city garden was a concrete park with sad, caged trees. Nothing like the villa’s wild, perfumed darkness alive with insect song. Her mind supplied the memory anyway: the humid air, the fireflies, the coarse stone biting her knees. The memory was crisp, but it felt archived. Handled. It didn’t pull her in.
Maybe that was progress.
By late afternoon, a peculiar restlessness took hold. It was a physical itch, a need for sensation to scour out the lingering cobwebs of dissociation. The bath. A deep, hot bath. It felt like a constructive idea, a thing normal people did to soothe aching muscles. Her muscles did ache, a low, permanent drone.
She ran the taps, pouring in a generous capful of sandalwood oil. The steam rose, fragrant and dense, fogging the mirrors. She undressed, catching her reflection in the blurred glass—a pale, smudged ghost of a woman. She dipped a toe in, then sank into the scalding water with a hiss that tightened the skin on her arms.
The heat was an immediate, total embrace. It melted the residual tightness in her lower back, in her thighs. She slid down, letting the water cover her shoulders, then her chin. The world narrowed to the white ceiling, the soft roar of the still-running tap, the expanding feeling in her limbs.
She closed her eyes.
The heat became the sun on the terrace. The tap’s roar became the cicadas. The steam was the humidity. She wasn’t remembering it now; she was slipping into it. The line between then and now dissolved like sugar in water. She was back in the space between their bodies, on the stone, the center of a savage universe. The hollow feeling returned, but it wasn’t peaceful. It was a yawning chasm.
You did well, Ashley.
The words echoed, but their warmth was gone. They were just sounds. The validation had been consumed, metabolized, shit out. What was left? The soreness was fading. The marks were ghosts. The record was erasing itself. Soon there would be no proof, no evidence in her flesh that any of it had happened. That she had happened.
A profound, chilling thought seeped in: without the marks, without the soreness, without their eyes on her, did she exist at all?
The water was cooling. She nudged the hot tap with her foot, sending a fresh, searing stream into the tub. It overflowed, a silent sheet of water cascading over the porcelain lip onto the tile floor. She didn’t move. She watched it pool, shimmering in the low light. It didn’t matter. Nothing in this clean, quiet loft mattered.
She slid deeper, letting the water close over her lips, her nose. The sounds of the world distorted, muted. Her hair floated around her face like pale seaweed. The ceiling light warped and danced through the water’s lens.
It was so quiet here.
So still.
She took a slow breath, filled her lungs with steam, and let herself sink the final inch, allowing the water to cover her eyes.
Carter turned his key in the loft door at 7:15 PM. The first thing he noticed was the silence. No television, no music. The second was the absence of smell—no garlic, no herbs, no hint of a meal in progress.
“Ashley?”
His voice was absorbed by the spacious room. He dropped his briefcase by the console table, his senses sharpening. A faint, distant sound reached him. Not silence, but water. Running water. From the bathroom.
He walked down the hall, his dress shoes clicking a brisk, sharp rhythm on the hardwood. The sound grew louder. Not a shower. A bath tap, running full. “Ashley, you’re flooding the place.”
He pushed the half-open door.
The scene crystallized with horrible clarity. Water covered the bathroom floor, a shallow, expanding lake soaking the bath mat, lapping at the base of the vanity. The tap was still pouring, a torrent splashing into the already overfull tub. And in the tub, submerged, was Ashley.
Only the crown of her blonde head and the pale slope of her knees broke the surface. The rest of her was beneath the water, motionless. Her eyes were open behind the wavering surface, glassy and fixed on nothing. She wasn’t moving. She wasn’t breathing. She was just about to.
“Jesus Christ!”
He was across the flooded floor in two strides, not feeling the water soak his pants. He plunged his hands into the tub, grabbed her under the arms, and hauled her up. She came up with a sick, heavy drag, water sheeting off her. She gasped, a ragged, startled intake of air, her body convulsing as her lungs rebooted. Water splashed everywhere.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he yelled, the words raw. He fumbled for the tap, wrenching it off. The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by her choking coughs and the drip of water from their bodies.
She blinked, water streaming from her lashes. Her gaze wandered to his face, confused, distant. As if he’d pulled her from a very deep sleep. “The water was cold,” she mumbled, her voice thick and hollow. “I was just warming it up.”