Exiled (A Madame X Novel) (25 page)

I
watch you, Isabel.

You’ll never see me.

You’ll never even smell me; I am invisible. I am no one.

I am a ghost; I am the past.

I am not your future, not your present; I am nothing.

I am a shadow in the alley as you move from the now-darkened MiN center to your car—a gorgeous little Mercedes-AMG GLE63 S Coupe. I am the prickling on the back of your neck as you push the ignition. The shudder down your spine as you drive home, back to him, back to them.

Back to Jakob, my son that is not mine. My son that will never know my name, never know my face.

I watch him too. I watch him sleep. He sleeps soundly, without tossing and turning. Camila is the opposite, restless, frenetic, kicking blankets away, twisting in her crib like an alligator with jaws clamped around an antelope.

I am free, is what I am.

Death has freed me.

I am not really dead, of course; that was all an elaborate hoax to convince you and the world that I do not exist any longer. An elaborate and necessary hoax. I couldn’t let you go. I couldn’t.

I tried.

Again and again, I tried.

I fought it.

I would walk away from you, I would let you go, and I would find myself outside your door in the dim gray of not-quite-dawn, fingers curled into claws, a pistol in hand, lock pick in the other. Ready and able to jimmy those flimsy locks in no time flat, sneak into your home, and put a slug into Logan’s head, end him for good, and take you away.

I had it all planned out.

A little needle in your neck, and you’d be out. When you came to, we’d be in Antigua, a little place I have there, bought off the books with a tidy sum of very well-laundered cash. You’d be naked on the beach, blindfolded, and I’d wake you up slowly.

With my tongue.

I dream of it, even still.

Ghosts can dream.

Especially since I am a ghost in spirit only, still a very real and alive creature of flesh and blood.

But I am a ghost, and so I dream of you.

Getting you alone.

Appearing in front of you, whispering your name, breathing in your scent.

I stood in an alley one night, slunk back in the shadows waiting for you to pass. And you glided right past me, flats patting softly on
the sidewalk. You passed by me, and of course, of course you had no reason to even look up from your phone, no reason to look my way, to my little patch of darkness near the Dumpster, with its rotting garbage and scurrying rats and scuttling roaches.

But I caught your scent.

I caught a glimpse of you, a shred of you. You had on a dark coat, leather, slim, cut to fit you perfectly, and beneath that a knee-length skirt of white cotton. And Isabel, that skirt, it is gorgeous on you. Motherhood and happiness have made you more lush and lovely than ever. Your ass in that skirt was a delectable sight, a mouth-watering temptation. God, Isabel.

Isabel.

If only you knew.

If only you had any clue how much I love you.

How much I have always loved you.

If only you knew how I followed you, all those years ago, as you sneaked out of your parents’ house to go get in trouble with that girl from your history class, to smoke cheap weed and watch movies too old for you. What would you say if you knew how many times you’d have been kidnapped and raped and killed, had I not been there, following you, a naïve, innocent, careless little girl. But I was there. And when you finally bumped into me in that fucking stupid café, it was my nightmare, my downfall, and my wildest dream come true, all at once.

If you only knew, Isabel.

How I held so much in check, to keep you innocent.

How I paid your father’s gambling debt, and erased any evidence of it.

How I made sure the handsy and harassing manager at the hotel your mother worked at—
my
hotel, which I owned—was fired, and
taken care of, so your mother wouldn’t have to endure the embarrassing and fruitless and potentially job-hazardous process of reporting harassment in the workplace.

If you only knew about all the times I saved you, and you didn’t even know.

You were nearly run over by a taxi, once. And I literally knocked you out of the way, made it look like an accident. Took the impact of the taxi’s bumper to my own leg. Limped for a month. And you never even looked up at me, or if you did, you didn’t really see me.

And when you did, finally, see me in that café, Isabel, you became obsessed. More so than I, I thought.

You would have run away with me, if I’d asked.

You would have let me fuck you in the alleyway.

You would have gone to your knees and choked on my cock, anywhere, anytime.

But I refused to speak, refused to lift a hand, because if I spoke too much, I would demand all of you. If I stood up, if I touched you, if I so much as caught a hint of your scent, I would have taken you for my own, sixteen or not, innocence be damned.

I hated myself for that, Isabel. Another truth you will never know. How I loathed and despised myself for being so addicted, so obsessed, so infatuated with a mere slip of a girl.

But, fortunately for you, I did possess enough control to keep you out of my clutches. Because you deserved better. I hated myself for wanting to sully you with my filth.

Do you know, Isabel, how I punished myself for that evil desire?

Hours upon hours spent alone, walking the sidewalks, hungry, tired, alone, so that I would not go home and into my bathroom to jerk myself off thinking about you. About your sweet, silky, dusky skin. About wrapping your long thick ink-black hair around my fist
and fucking your mouth, over and over and over. About bending you over my bed and fucking you from behind.

About all the ways I could fuck you, own you.

Those hours on foot, I hated you for them. I hated you for making me want you so badly.

A mere slip of a girl.

An innocent little thing.

So unaware of the beast lurking just behind her.

And here I am, Isabel, become that monster in the shadows once more.

You know what I find surprising, Isabel?

How blind you are to my constant presence in your life. I am always there, somewhere. You could see me, if you were looking. But you think me dead, so you do not.

I follow you.

I watch you.

I am possessed of infinitely more power and control than when I was an ignorant twenty-five-year-old. So you’ll never see me. Never smell me.

I’ve had a taste of you now. I’ve sampled you, licked you, devoured you . . .
owned
you. Now I
know
what it’s like to have you, and I want you all the more for it.

I’ll never emerge from the shadows to haunt you and taunt you.

But I’ll dream of it.

I’ll hide in the darkness and watch your perfect round ass sway and bounce in that fucking white skirt and dream of when I
owned
that ass, when I could hold it and slap it and spank it and fuck it to my heart’s content.

And I’ll dream of you having the slightest clue how much I love you.

How much I need you.

How I died to give you up.

How I gave you my fortune, the fruits of my blood and sweat, the product of twenty years of work. I gave it to you.

I died for you.

And still I cannot truly walk away.

You once said, Isabel, that I was a drug and you were an addict. But you had it backward. I am the addict.

I was a coke fiend, once. Back when I was a whore. I snorted coke and smoked meth and injected heroin, anything to numb the biting fangs of horror, anything to numb the slice of the claws of hell. I hinted at it, there at the end, and you shied away. Turned away.

I was screaming, Isabel, and you didn’t see, didn’t hear. I was begging. Pleading. I was mad with need for you, ripping myself apart for you. And you turned a blind eye.

Walked away.

Went back to Logan.

Left me to fall to pieces, alone.

You were my undoing, Isabel.

You could have saved me. Salvaged me, a piece of me, at least.

Your love could have patched the many holes in my soul. Perhaps your touch could have lit a candle to banish some of the darkness within me.

I hate you for that, Isabel. For walking away.

I know, I
know
you saw, Isabel. I was hiding nothing, there at the end.

But it was too late. You’d chosen your path.

And I, because I love you, truly love you, I knew I had to accept your choice.

I had to set you free.

But as long as I lived, you would never be free of me. I saw that too.

I had to set you free.

I
died
for you, Isabel. I am your Jesus, your Savior. Some would call that blasphemy, but it is true. I died so that you might live. So that you might be cleansed of your sins, absolved of your transgressions, washed clean of your iniquities, whose name is Caleb.

I hate you for walking away.

But I love you still, despite it.

I will always love you. Perhaps one day I will even love you enough to truly walk away, so the shadows trailing you will finally be empty.

I was a drug addict, but I got clean. I quit. I suffered through the withdrawals and I got clean, stayed clean.

But I cannot get clean of you.

I cannot quit you.

I have tried.

I cannot.

*   *   *

Y
ou are resplendent in white.

Draped from head to toe in virgin white, the slippery chiffon clinging to your hips and bust, cut deep to reveal an ache-inducing amount of cleavage, the train extending several feet behind you, the veil sheer enough that I can see the tears in your eyes as you waltz with slow grace down the aisle.

You are resplendent in white. The loveliest bride there will ever be.

But you are not walking down the aisle to me.

I am hidden, as ever, in the shadows. Up in a balcony, swathed in darkness, watching you glide away.

I lied; I cannot see your face. I can imagine, however. I can picture your eyes gleaming wet behind the sheer white lace. Picture
your chest heaving as you work to fight down your emotions. You are always so emotional, all of your feelings worn on your sleeve. Oh, the time I had, teaching you to keep a blank face with clients. But even then, watching you through the cameras, I could see your thoughts on your face as clearly as if you’d said them aloud.

I’ve been here on this balcony for hours. I sneaked up here after everything was prepared, after the flowers were arranged by the pulpit, after the roses were tied to each pew endcap, after the red carpet was rolled down the aisle for you. When everyone was gone and there was nothing to do but wait, I sneaked up here. Stared down at the flowers and the pews and the pulpit, at the aisle. Imagining. Fantasizing.

Hating.

Raging.

Burning.

Envying.

They even sent someone up here to check, but the owner of the shoes didn’t look under the pews.

So here I am.

Watching you take those slow, dancing steps, one by one by one, down the petal-strewn aisle. Camila prances before you, scattering white rose petals, taking a moment to throw a few handfuls at the crowd, getting petals in people’s hair. So like you, Camila. You probably don’t see it, but Camila is
you
, Isabel. Life has taught you to bury your mischief, to contain your wildness. But it is there. You are fearless. You panic and you forget to breathe and you freeze, but then you do what you must do. I tried to keep you contained, but I couldn’t. Your zeal for life won through.

I kept you for myself, kept you locked up in my tower like fucking Rapunzel, a night-haired princess rather than golden. Not to keep you safe. Not to protect you, but because I feared if you tasted life beyond my walls, you’d leave me. You didn’t love me, and didn’t
know yourself. But I feared if I let you free out into the world, you’d remember. You’d find life, find love, find your natural exuberance.

And even though I tried to keep you hidden away, a treat saved for myself, you still found a way.

You still found life.

You still found love.

You still left me.

I told so many lies, because I am weak, a pretender to strength. My body is powerful. My mind is sharp. But where you are concerned, I am weak.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to witness the union of Isabel Maria de la Vega Navarro to Logan Wesley Ryder . . .” The minister begins his speech, rambles tiresomely.

You stare into Logan’s eyes. I can see you in profile, standing there in the chancel. Your breast rises and falls deeply, and I picture your knuckles white as you clutch Logan’s hands. I picture the bodice of your gown swelling with each breath.

I picture myself gazing into your eyes.

I clench my fists and close my eyes and breathe. Push away those images. I died for you, and I must keep my promise.

My death was a vow, you see:

Touch no more; kiss no more; speak no more.

I may watch only.

And if I picture myself there, with you, I will break my vow.

If I love you, I must let you love him.

If I love you, I must let you wed him.

I shouldn’t be here, watching this. Torturing myself thus.

I’d very nearly rather enter that room with Caleb once more, endure his brutality once more, than endure this.

Watching you take his hand, his name, his ring.

Watching you weep for joy.

“Do you, Isabel, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, for as long as you both shall live, so help you God?”

“I do.” Your voice is clear and strong, steady.

“And do you, Logan, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, for as long as you both shall live, so help you God?”

“I do.” His voice as well is strong, proud.

“Then by the power vested in me by the State of New York and by Our Lord Jesus Christ, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

I watch him lift your veil. Your cheeks are wet, despite your clear voice. I watch his hands cup your face, watch his thumbs brush away your tears. I watch you bury your fingers in his long blond hair, watch you lift up on your toes.