“Stand up, Heather,” Russell said, his voice hard as he stepped onto the concrete floor.
He pulled a length of the pink ribbon from the spool, the silk rustling in the quiet room.
“You are going to sit here and reflect on what you have taught our daughter,” Russell said, grabbing my wrists and pulling them together.
“Russell, this is ridiculous,” I said, not pulling away because I did not want to frighten Phoebe further. “You are locking your wife in a basement over a lie.”
“You are a guest in my house, Heather,” Russell said, binding my wrists tightly with the pink ribbon, tying a double knot that cut into my skin. “You brought nothing to this marriage, and you will leave with nothing.”
He checked his gold watch again, his fingers tapping against the metal casing with a rapid, nervous rhythm that showed his anxiety about the dinner downstairs.
“If you ever use my daughter for your jealousy again, I swear I will take away your right to call yourself her mother,” Russell said.
Gwendolyn stood on the bottom step, her fingers twisting a lock of her hair, watching us with a calm, steady gaze that held no sympathy, only a quiet satisfaction.
“We have to go back to the club, Russell,” Gwendolyn said in her high, breathless voice. “The board members are waiting for the presentation.”
Russell turned and began to climb the wooden stairs, his shoes heavy on each step, the wood groaning under his weight.
“Russell, look at the security cameras from the venue dressing room first,” I said, my voice steady despite the tightness in my chest. “Just look at the tape.”
Russell did not pause or look back.
The heavy basement door clicked shut, leaving us in the shadows.
I shifted my weight on the cold concrete floor of the Lake Forest estate basement. The darkness down here was absolute, smelling of expensive cedar wood and the damp, stale air of a forgotten storage room.
The five-dollar pink silk ribbon Russell had tied around my wrists felt tight, the cheap fibers cutting into my skin every time I tried to move my hands. He had knotted it three times, a petty demonstration of his anger before he walked out and left us in the shadows.
Phoebe huddled against my side, her small frame shivering in the autumn chill that always settled in the lower levels of the house. She clutched her stuffed rabbit to her chest, her fingers buried deep in its gray faux fur.
The toy was the only thing she had managed to grab before Russell dragged us down the stairs. I hated that she had to see him like this, stripped of the polite, successful facade he wore for his business partners.
“Mommy,” she whispered, her voice barely carrying through the quiet room.
I leaned my head against her soft hair, wishing I could brush the stray curls from her eyes. With my hands bound behind my back, I could only press my shoulder against hers to let her know I was there.
