But tonight, the terror was different. It wasn’t the paralyzing fear of submission. It was the electrifying, terrifying adrenaline of a hostage who has finally managed to pick the lock on her chains.
Julian handed me a delicate crystal flute of vintage champagne.
“Drink,” Julian commanded softly, his smile never wavering as he nodded to a passing board member. “You look incredibly pale. I put your ‘vitamins’ in it so you don’t pass out and embarrass me during my speech.”
I looked at the bubbling, golden liquid in the glass.
I knew it wasn’t vitamins.
For the last six months, I had been experiencing terrifying, unexplained symptoms. Extreme dizziness, crippling lethargy, periods of missing time, and an overwhelming, pliable compliance that made it impossible to fight back against his demands. I had thought I was losing my mind, spiraling into a deep, clinical depression.
Until I noticed the faint, powdery residue at the bottom of the “vitamin” water he insisted I drink every morning.
Normally, when he handed me a spiked drink in public, I would pretend to sip it, holding it to my lips, before subtly, desperately pouring it into a potted plant or a bathroom sink when he turned his head.
But tonight was different. Tonight, I didn’t look for a potted plant. Tonight, I needed the poison in my system.
I looked Julian dead in the eye, offering him a serene, obedient smile. I raised the crystal glass to my lips, tilted my head back, and drained the champagne entirely.
The countdown had officially begun.
