Chapter Text
The first time happened in that gray area between consciousness and sleep. Madeline wasn’t the type to just doze off—ever—but what else could she attribute it to? If not a daydream, then what?
She appeared, one day. She. In Madeline’s office, of all places. Sacred ground. She strolled about leisurely, gazing in wonder at the single pristine artifact displayed on the shelf that ran along the length of a wall. By itself, the amphora had far less luster than Madeline had hoped when she’d had it shipped into the country. It was the start of what she expected would grow into a dignified collection but, on its own, was essentially a ludicrously expensive vase; a once-prized, once-meaningful possession made slightly less impressive, now, by its aloneness.
Madeline stared. Her lips parted as the woman drifted about the room, moving on from the pottery to run a black-polished fingertip along the otherwise empty, dustless shelf. She browsed, perused, as though she had all the time in the world to spend here in Madeline’s office. And Madeline could have watched her forever, were time to be so kind. But then her senses kicked in. Reliable, trustworthy senses.
“How did you get in here?”
She heard the accusation in her voice, her habitual tone of authority undermined by a slow dread and thrill alike.
Now the woman paused, fingertip halting its journey on the display, and she turned. Lips tugged upward—as if she held a secret that Madeline would never know. The woman chuckled. Low, amused. Madeline saw her eyes, saw the faint crinkles around them, saw those lips that were just as soft and teasing as before. That face. She knew that face.
“Don’t you remember?” the woman said. “You let me in.”
Frowning, Madeline rose from her seat—but almost as soon as she did so, the woman was gone. Madeline blinked, and stared at the spot that she had disappeared from for quite some time. But not a clue had been left behind.
She swiftly called for an Ambien and a long, dreamless sleep after that.
Weeks passed. Months. More. With time, the largest part of Madeline ascribed her vision to just that—a vision, or perhaps a memory of someone she’d met long ago, dredged up by her mind as a result of numerous late nights spent at the office. Blurry and vague, the eerie woman began to fade once more from Madeline’s memory, and she thought less and less of those words—You let me in—as the days went by.
Still—of course they snuck up on her occasionally. Of course they did. Usually when Madeline was tired, or stressed, or bored. Often in the middle of executive meetings. Sometimes in the early hours of the morning. And, most recently, during the exhausting family dinners at which Roderick attempted to convert Tamerlane and Frederick from chicken fingers to foie gras.
A small part of Madeline hadn’t ruled out the woman’s existence.
After all, she trusted herself. More importantly, she trusted her mind. Madeline wasn’t her brother, prone to daydreams and irresponsibly vague strings of ideas with little gumption behind them. She was Madeline Usher. Her mind was her own to be wielded as the most powerful of weapons—not projected against her.
So, no, she hadn’t ruled it out completely. But there were other things on Madeline’s plate—or, more specifically, on the Ushers’ plate—and somehow Madeline seemed to be the only one capable enough to scrape things off it, other than Arthur Pym—who, infuriatingly, was now sending her home for the day, apparently. She’d lashed out at some intern.
“Working at Fortunato is a privilege,” she’d hissed over her shoulder as Arthur guided her away, and okay, perhaps the intern had only mixed up some minorly-important documents, and perhaps it had ended up being an easy fix, but why did Madeline always have to be the one to notice things and fix things? Why did she seem to be the only one who cared sometimes? She turned on her heel to Arthur. “Did my brother put you up to this?”
“He…mentioned you’ve seemed stressed,” Pym said diplomatically. “How about I handle this? Go have a drink. Take a bath.”
Madeline set her jaw. “And I hope by handle you mean—”
“Explain to our dear Ms. Rogét where she erred, and make sure it doesn’t happen again.” Pym raised his eyebrows, a patient warning. In the background, the intern quietly sniffled. Madeline simply slid on her sunglasses and left the building.
So here she was, at home, alone. One leg crossed over the other, back straight against the couch cushion, a power pose for nobody. It felt strange to just sit—she hadn’t done that in years. A strong glass of brandy in-hand, Madeline’s mind bounced restlessly from one topic to the next.
Though the company was now several years on its feet, there was still much to be done. Some big moves needed to be made in this year’s Q1, and Madeline personally felt the urge to get her hands dirty with…something. It was unexplainable, really—Fortunato Pharmaceuticals had been doing exceedingly well since the beginning and showed no signs of slowing down—but still, Madeline didn’t want to just ride it out. She had ideas, you see. Big ideas. The world just hadn’t quite caught up to them yet.
She gazed dully around her living room, which was lusciously decorated with expensive art and exotic plants. With its mid-century modern design, the room was meant to be both chic and welcoming. But currently it served little purpose to Madeline. She couldn’t live in this room. Especially not right now. She felt far too charged, and the air around her felt charged.
She sighed. This was ridiculous. If she was going to be at home, she may as well take advantage of it. Perhaps she could attempt some of those mindfulness meditations that were all the rage these days. Madeline hadn't placed much stock in the trend, but maybe it would help. Like a hard reset. Closing her eyes, Madeline reluctantly took a few deep breaths in and out, focusing on the darkness and the quiet.
She saw eyes. Black, soulless.
She saw a smile, with its wicked curve.
“Don’t you remember?” she said. “You let me in.”
No, fuck this—not again. Mindfulness was overrated.
She snapped her eyes open forcefully.
“You should probably learn to relax.”
And to Madeline’s credit, she only jumped a little—drink sloshing smoothly once up and then down within her glass. She stared into a gaze that was not black, but some unnamed color. Her. The woman sat in the leather lounge chair across from Madeline, appearing poised and quite at ease in Madeline’s home.
It was startling, no doubt about it. But Madeline had already adjusted to the sight before her. In mere moments, that small part of Madeline’s mind which hadn’t ruled out the woman’s existence had shifted to the forefront, a quick and necessary adaptation that allowed her to prioritize what really mattered right now. As such, Madeline didn’t bother ruminating over how the woman had gotten in this time or how she’d managed to appear in that chair without Madeline hearing it. No, Madeline had already moved on from hows. There was no point in going that route right now.
She straightened once more, fixing the woman with a hard, steady gaze. “I’ll relax when I’m dead,” Madeline said, and when the woman laughed—a short, single syllable—Madeline simply tilted her head. “Is something about that funny to you?”
A smile lingered on the other woman’s face. It was soft, teasing. Not wicked. “Yes,” is all she said, simply, and Madeline saw now that the woman must have helped herself to Madeline’s stock of whiskey, because she raised a glass to her mouth.
Though Madeline’s heart pattered against its cage, she kept her stare fixed evenly on the woman. She kept her shoulders low and relaxed even though she wanted to raise up from the couch and strike, maybe. Or—she didn’t know. She wanted to do something. This woman was, most definitely, a threat of some kind.
They sat in silence for a while, gazing at one another.
A clock ticked somewhere. The sunlight that had been poking through the windows onto the terrazzo flooring faded. Madeline made a rule for herself: no matter what, she would not be the first to speak again. She didn’t much care for rules, especially arbitrary ones, but a rule seemed necessary in this instance. She stuck to it.
They gazed and gazed, the silence stretching on. Madeline did not move, but the woman across from her did. She calmly sipped the expensive whiskey. Madeline’s whiskey, poured from one of Madeline’s decanters into one of Madeline’s glasses. She wanted to comment on the brazenness, but she held back. She waited.
“You’ve been very busy, Cleopatra.”
Something sound and solid and familiar seemed to weigh on Madeline’s chest. Unexpectedly heavy. “Of course I have,” she replied.
“Do you ever take time for yourself?”
Madeline snorted mirthfully. “Are you my mother? Are you going to tell me to take my vitamins, next? Drink more water?”
“I’m not your mother. But you should drink more water. That kind of thing’ll catch up to you some day.”
“Noted,” Madeline said. “What else?”
The other woman’s brows furrowed in question. “What…else?” she repeated, eyes sparkling. Verna, Madeline recalled, the name wisping around in her head from nowhere.
“Well,” Madeline said, maintaining her composure, “clearly you want something. You’re in my home. And if I recall, you have a penchant for striking strange deals. I assume this isn’t a social visit.”
Yes—it was coming back to her now. The longer Madeline beheld Verna, in all her regality, the more she remembered. New Years Eve 1980. She’d never forgotten, not exactly. Just filed the memory away in that space of hers that kept things just in case.
Verna chuckled, shifting. “You’re delightful. Okay, sure.” She leaned forward a little in the chair. “Maybe I want something. Is it possible for a social visit to be both pleasurable for me and strategically beneficial? Perhaps I have several motives.”
Madeline did her best to keep her own face neutral, unwilling to concede what the terms pleasurable and strategically beneficial—coming from Verna’s lips—did to her internally.
“I’m listening,” was all she said in response. The fact that it was all she could muster, at the moment, was a moot point.
At this Verna smiled. Then she rose—out of the chair, taking a few slow steps forward until she stood in front of the couch where Madeline was. “May I sit next to you?” she asked.
Not at all prepared for that question either, Madeline ended up nodding wordlessly, a light careless shrug. Verna settled beside her like a rustling bird. Close. The woman rested an elbow on the back of the couch and propped her head on her hand, watching Madeline. Bravely, Madeline turned her head and watched back—though she suddenly felt alight, body tingling.
The other woman took another sip of her drink, never breaking eye contact with Madeline. “So,” she said, each word spoken with a soft and deliberate cadence. Impossibly, Madeline felt overcome with the sensation that she and Verna were the only two people to exist. “Madeline Usher. What would you like to hear?”
Later, Madeline would strain to remember. A frustrating pattern, it would seem. Especially for someone like Madeline.
The harder she tried to recall that night in her home, the more it seemed to slip out of reach. Before long, Verna was little more than a vague idea in her mind’s eye. A concept—known only in Madeline’s peripherals, impossible to see straight-on. Soon after that, Madeline forgot her name, which she wasn’t even sure the woman had ever told her in the first place.
Her appearance faded last of all. The woman’s hands, her mouth, her eyes—the eyes, Madeline found herself grieving the loss of the most. Though grieving couldn’t be the right word. Processing—that was much more probable.
Feelings lingered. She was processing those, too: hunger, closeness, scrutiny. Madeline remembered feeling drawn in. Leaning. She remembered feeling so, so close to satiation that the memory sent a violent shiver through her body. She remembered having the distinct and irrefutable knowledge that if only she could lean far enough, she’d be peering right over the edge to what she needed.
She remembered a fond, gentle touch. Light and electric and playful on her leg, on Madeline’s thigh specifically—higher than what was certainly appropriate. Although of course none of it had been appropriate. It had all been highly inappropriate, this meeting, the indistinct discourse they’d exchanged on Madeline’s couch. Madeline wasn’t even sure they’d spoken about anything particularly significant. Actually, she felt quite certain they hadn’t. Still, the moment had felt…forbidden. And Madeline had leaned anyway.
She remembered the woman leaning away, a soft smile on her face.
Heart pounding and strung out, Madeline recalled being right on that edge looking down after all. She’d looked down and had seen. A warm whisper next to her ear was what pulled her back at the last minute. “Show me what you are,” the voice had said, teeth dragging lightly. It was this sensation that Madeline was able to hold onto the longest before it, too, softened into nothing.
Meanwhile, Fortunato Pharmaceuticals thrived.
Madeline hatched schemes to keep the Ushers moving up, up, up. She delivered scathing, strategic blows to a board that had never approved of them. Speech after speech, presentation after presentation, Madeline Usher, COO, grew accustomed to having a roomful of eyes on her at any given moment. Being in front of an audience had become second nature for her and, despite the judgment that she could feel in their stares, Madeline’s algorithms spoke for themselves. The people could watch her succeed whether they liked her or not.
Then she’d sit back down, and Roderick would get up and give them all what they really wanted—a man’s reassurance—and all the eyes would leave Madeline alone for a while.
If sometimes, after those eyes left her, Madeline still felt as though she was being watched…so what?
If a chill ran suddenly and inexplicably through her in that hot, stuffy boardroom?
If she felt a breath next to her ear—not a breath out, but a breath in—and it made her turn, only to find nobody there? Well, paranoia wasn’t a good look for an Usher, so she ignored these things. Tucked them away out of sight.
But if at home, alone, she sometimes…ached? So what? She ached for something she didn’t know. She ached for something she’d known since she was put on this earth. She ached in a way that was frustrating and unacceptable, head thrown back on the couch, hand fervent, breathing in, in, deep, shaky. Sweet smoky inhalations—remnants. Nothing.
Madeline dated. Men, never women, not officially. She was under the public eye. But the truth was Madeline didn’t much care for dating. Sex, though, was an occasional need she sought to meet when it suited her.
She pushed the man onto the hotel bed rather roughly. He flopped onto his back, staring up at Madeline like she was a goddess. That wasn't unusual for the men she dated—they were often in awe of Madeline—but what was nice about this particular man was that she didn’t mind being seen with him. Good looking and charismatic, he respected her work and her space. Most importantly of all, he was pliable to her.
Madeline climbed atop him, pulling him up by the tie around his neck. He was perfect, really. Independent and successful but not too successful. Not more successful than her. And loyal, oh so loyal. He didn’t need her money but he could benefit from it. And she could benefit from him.
They kissed, though Madeline never got much enjoyment from kissing. It was intimate and passionate in a way that she rarely felt toward people. When she pushed him back down, he seemed to be ready to sit immediately up again, but she palmed his chest to keep him there. “Pants off,” she said. Hastily, he undid his belt and slid his trousers down to his ankles.
Madeline straddled him over his boxers. He groaned, the sound of it filling the hotel suite, which did irritate Madeline. It was distracting. She’d have to train him to be quieter.
Out of the corner of her eye, Madeline saw her.
She turned her head—but Madeline’s eyes were met only by her own in the long, dark hotel window. The curtains, left open because they were so many floors up it didn’t matter, allowed a plain view of her own reflection and beyond that, the blackness of the night.
She saw herself in that window, dress hiked up and eyes sharp, searching. She saw only herself and so she turned away. But, almost as soon as Madeline did so, the edge of her vision teased her again. And Madeline knew. It was her.
A prickle ran over Madeline’s skin, tickling down her neck and between her shoulder blades. She knew that if she looked again, the woman would, again, be gone. This wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. But it was evident to Madeline that the woman was there. She could just make out her figure—shadowy, with arms crossed over her chest, leaning back against the window pane almost…casually. Just watching. Just observing the scene before her on the hotel bed in this luxurious room. Oh, how Madeline would have liked to steal a glance—just one—to see what expression the woman wore on her face behind the shadows.
But she didn’t look.
She also didn’t stop what she was doing.
It was—experimental, the way she moved now. Her hips rocked with a purpose they hadn’t before. Before had been automatic, unconscious, but now Madeline felt wide awake. She felt the woman’s stare, and cracked open under it.
She couldn’t care less about the man beneath her. Madeline felt on fire under the woman’s raking gaze. On display, untouchable—though she wanted to be. She ached for it like always, but if the shadow by the window was never going to show herself then so be it. That was fine. Madeline would allow her to watch. She’d even make sure it wasn’t boring. Grasping at her own breasts over her dress, Madeline let out a low moan.
She swore she saw the figure shift, and with it came a shift of balance. Madeline sensed she had complete control. Heat trickled down her spine and power radiated from her—she felt it coming off herself in waves. It filled the room. And as it surged around her and through her, a thought occurred to Madeline: how dare she? She. How dare she stand there, nearly out of sight but not quite? Never quite? Coward, Madeline thought bitterly, jaw setting in frustration.
No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than the shadow at her peripheral disappeared.
Madeline’s heart sank.
Then it skipped tumultuously. She suddenly felt a hand in her hair, fingers lacing their way through and pulling.
She lost her breath—it escaped her like it had been waiting to be let out. Nails scratched lightly at her scalp, a warm body now pressed up against her back while a hand snaked and landed on Madeline’s throat from behind, a grip of cold wrought iron.
Madeline quivered. This time, the moan that left her was unintentional and precarious.
She could hardly catch her breath. The edges of her vision blurred, and Madeline felt uncertain—the power from moments ago had evaporated. She did not know, truly, if she was meant to feel pleasure or fear. Was Madeline supposed to crumble under this phantom touch, or rise up to the challenge? The sound she’d just let out seemed to trigger a tightening in the hand around her neck, and Madeline’s entire body rocked as she clenched around nothing. Pleasure, or untimely demise—the hand in her hair tugged again, sending jolts down Madeline’s spine, as if a reminder that she could have both, each just as easy to bring about as the other.
The tug tilted her head further back, and again out of the corner of her eye she could see her. Dark hair brushing against Madeline’s cheek. Again Madeline was overcome with a wild urge to turn her head. To see. Would she find enjoyment on the woman’s face? Possession, contempt? Madeline did not know which would send the biggest thrill through her.
But the hands around her neck and in her hair would not let her turn. She couldn’t look. Madeline could only pant in and out, chest rising and falling with far less rhythm than before, less assuredness. When lips fell on her exposed shoulder, Madeline gasped. When she felt the figure breathe in—deep and long and ragged, almost as ragged as Madeline’s own breathing—Madeline tipped, letting out a loud cry, her whole form shuddering viciously.
Later, Madeline would remember the tight grip finally, finally loosening its hold. She’d remember a hand petting down Madeline’s hair, smoothing it away from her glistening temples with a soft touch. She’d remember a whisper. But right now, Madeline was only aware of an emptiness, a lack of. It just wouldn’t do. She rolled off the man. His eyes cracked open.
“I, uh. Didn’t…” he began.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Madeline glanced back at him—perhaps more callously than intended. She was not here, not at all. She was in her head. Nevertheless, the man closed his mouth immediately, dropping the subject.
They had a spring wedding.
Publicity rose for the company. Investments went up. Fortunato Pharmaceuticals was a family business, always had been. Madeline Usher thrived.
She knew no other way than to thrive. Anything less would have been inadmissible and frankly, just sad. Madeline Usher was an apex predator. She was the kind of creature that lurked under the water's surface. Her teeth were sharp but she didn’t always show them, not until the time was right.
The world had presented Madeline with a ridiculous set of precedents which she intended to shatter.
Waiting, waiting. Life had been one long waiting game for her, and the male species would never truly listen, but luckily computers evolved faster than the male species. She used them both to do brilliant things. Not even Roderick could truly belittle her work anymore, not with her list of achievements growing by the day.
He had his own list, of course, but who was to say which feats of success were solely his and not jointly theirs? Not orchestrated by Madeline in the background?
Poor Roderick. He was not the same as her. Her brother was already letting the world whittle away at him, she could tell. It wasn’t the bribes or the lawsuits, those were pebbles. But the wife—that had been the first stone to tumble, and Madeline predicted more to come. However he presented himself outwardly, however many women he fucked, she knew Roderick struggled with it. He had no one to recite his silly little poems to anymore.
But Madeline would carry Roderick along in the upward trajectory she’d created for as long as she could. She loved him, after all.
Madeline was always busy, but she split her time between the office and her home, these days. It simply wasn’t necessary for both Ushers to be present in the Fortunato building at all times. In fact, Madeline had realized by now that adding a note of unpredictability to their presence could be advantageous. As such, Madeline’s home study had become her second place of sanctuary, away from the press and the outside world.
Her husband wasn’t allowed in.
Tonight, Madeline used her quiet space to do some research. Documents were laid out across her opulent oaken desk. She leaned over the records, scouring the details belonging to a private medical research company they planned to buy out. Securing it was a done deal, of course—the company’s owners had already shriveled under Fortunato's legal reputation, if not their direct action. Still, Madeline always liked to be thoroughly assured that a buyout would not come with any hidden surprises.
Sipping her nightly lemon water, Madeline was deep in focus when she felt it. The change in the air. The tingling along her skin that she’d forgotten she believed in. She had only seconds to prepare herself for some unknown intrusion.
Verna perched on Madeline’s desk. Warm, real. She sat on the edge gazing down at her, and it all came back to Madeline in a rush. Emotions—so raw and sudden that her breath scraped against her own throat.
However, Madeline kept herself composed. Without saying a word, and without glancing up at the woman, Madeline reached down to the bottom drawer of her desk. Inside was a safe box, and upon entering a code it clicked open. Madeline procured a thin stack of documents, the existence of which she’d only just remembered.
“If you’re going to keep showing up like this, I’ve laid out some ground rules.” Madeline slid a contract a few inches over the desktop toward the woman, finally looking to meet her eyes sharply. “First of all, you never meet me here again.”
Verna’s fingertips landed on the top page curiously, but her eyes never left Madeline’s. A beat or two passed before Verna’s gaze drifted down to the papers. She picked them up, flipped through them. Madeline watched closely. That was half the point, after all. To watch.
What Madeline saw was an expression of delight. “Deal,” Verna said, looking up once more from the papers to meet Madeline’s shrewd stare. Verna’s eyes sparkled, though Madeline couldn’t fathom why. The contract was not unlike the dozens of NDAs Madeline had drafted up over the years—there was nothing delightful about it.
“Deal?” Madeline said, mouth in a thin line. “Just like that?”
“Just like that. Although,” Verna said, sliding the papers back toward Madeline, “these ‘ground rules,’ as you put it, are surprisingly basic. At least for you.” When Madeline began to scoff, Verna held up a hand. “I only mean that you could ask for more.”
This gave Madeline pause. “I kept it simple for a reason. I don’t have a good handle on you yet. But if you’re saying I should redraft this with higher demands, then I will.”
“I know you will.”
Madeline looked on warily, but raised a brow. “I had no idea you were so generous.”
Verna smiled. Her eyes flickered into blackness for a second, or perhaps the dim office lighting was playing tricks on Madeline. “Let’s redraft it now. Together. Shall we?” When Madeline hesitated, Verna added, “Or is married life keeping you too busy?”
The woman’s tone was quiet, teasing, but something about it seemed to twist inside Madeline like one of her embalming tools. Still, she narrowed her eyes and reached for a pen without responding to Verna’s comment, thumbing through the pages of the contract:
𝐈. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭 (“𝐀𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭”) 𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧:
𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐔𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐫 (“𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐀”)
𝐚𝐧𝐝
𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚 (“𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐁”)
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐯𝐞-𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 “𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲” 𝐚𝐧𝐝, 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐲, 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 “𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬.”
“Very official,” Verna said, voice low. Madeline frowned.
“Are you mocking me?”
“I would not do that.”
Madeline straightened a bit in her chair. “You should add your last name. I couldn’t remember it.”
“Because I never gave it,” Verna said knowingly.
“Well,” Madeline said, pressing on, “this is a contract. Legally binding. A little formality wouldn’t hurt.”
Verna’s lips quirked. “That’s frustrating for you, isn’t it? Not knowing.”
“What’s frustrating is running a search in every federal and international bureau that exists in the world and turning up nothing.”
“Did you check the Yellow Pages?”
“Now I am certain you’re mocking me.”
Verna leaned forward a little. “So my background check came up a little short, is what you’re trying to say?”
“I am saying it. It left a lot to be desired.”
She did not expect Verna’s eyes to flash at that. Curiously, dangerously. Madeline did not expect the rush of heat to her own face. Quickly, she returned her attention to the documents, though she could feel the woman’s gaze lingering on her as she read.
𝐈𝐈. 𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐬. 𝐄𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐬:
❖ 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐁 𝐢𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐀.
❖ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐚 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫.
“See, this is where I think you’re low-balling,” Verna said, and Madeline looked up once more.
“Am I?” she countered. “Personally, I thought it seemed like a stretch. I was under the impression that I’d just keep encountering you randomly and sporadically for an indeterminate parameter of time.”
Now Verna sighed. “I should apologize for that. Time works a little differently for me. You should know you only grow more intoxicating with age, Madeline Usher.”
Madeline swallowed hard, fighting to keep her expression neutral. “Do I?”
“Yes,” Verna said. Her eyes dropped to Madeline’s lips for a moment—Madeline knew she wasn’t imagining that—before flicking back up. “Now, how often would you like to meet?"
The question rang with possibility. Madeline wouldn’t make the mistake of passing it up again. “Monthly,” she said, because—screw it. Why not?
“Monthly?” Verna said with a quiet tsk. “Now that’s a high ask.”
“I do hope you can find time in your busy schedule,” Madeline deadpanned.
“I meant for you. You’re sure you can set aside time each month to see me?”
Madeline blinked. Then she clicked her pen.
❖ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐚 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫. 𝓂𝑜𝓃𝓉𝒽𝓁𝓎.
Then she moved on to the next rule:
❖ 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐀 𝐦𝐚𝐲, 𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞, 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭.
“What about me?” Verna said, and the innocence in her tone caused Madeline to glance up without remembering to put on her usual coldness. “Am I allowed to leave?”
“I assume you’re allowed to leave whenever you please. That’s what has happened so far.”
“Well,” Verna said, “for symmetry’s sake, let’s make note of it. I’d hate to sign my life away here.” She held her hand out for the pen, which Madeline handed back to her quietly. Their fingers brushed. A chill ran through Madeline. Verna smiled. “My legal team, I’m afraid to admit, is far less impressive than yours, Madeline.”
❖ 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐀 𝐦𝐚𝐲, 𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞, 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭. ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴀʀᴛʏ ʙ ᴍᴀʏ, ᴀᴛ ᴀɴʏ ᴛɪᴍᴇ, ʀᴇꜱᴄɪɴᴅ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴀᴄᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɴᴄᴇꜰᴏʀᴛʜ ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀʀʀᴀɴɢᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ.
Three rules. That was all Madeline had prepared, but there was blank space on the page that allowed room for more. And Madeline didn’t wait for Verna to continue challenging her—because that’s what it felt like, silly as it sounded. A challenge—the way she kept pushing Madeline to ask for more. Like Madeline should have known better. Like Verna was disappointed in her for having asked so little.
“Pen, please,” Madeline said, and this time she ignored the cold that spread through her as their hands touched once more.
〆𝒜𝒻𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒾𝓃-𝓅𝑒𝓇𝓈𝑜𝓃 𝒸𝑜𝓇𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓅𝑜𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒, 𝒫𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓎 𝒜 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑔𝑒𝓉.
“Oh, that’s not really something I can control,” Verna said as Madeline finished writing the addendum.
“I don’t believe you.”
“No, really. It’s not your fault either. It’s the human mind. It’s logical, tries to explain things in a manner it will understand. What it can’t understand, it changes, or hides. It’s…fragile.”
“Weak. Just say it’s weak.”
“On the contrary, it’s doing a hell of a job at protecting you. Here.”
〆𝒜𝒻𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒾𝓃-𝓅𝑒𝓇𝓈𝑜𝓃 𝒸𝑜𝓇𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓅𝑜𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒, 𝒫𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓎 𝒜 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑔𝑒𝓉. ᴘᴀʀᴛʏ ʙ ᴡɪʟʟ ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ᴛᴏᴋᴇɴ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʟᴘ ᴘᴀʀᴛʏ ᴀ ʀᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀ.
“A…token.” Madeline hardly bothered to hide the derision in her tone.
“Yes,” Verna said with a little head tilt. “You like those, right? You like to collect things?”
“Only if they have some sort of purpose.”
“I’ll make sure they have purpose, then.”
Madeline looked over the contract once more. Truth be told, she was almost certain she was wasting her own time. The woman sitting on her desk seemed entirely unbound by the rules of others. But the pages, at least, made Madeline feel that she had a modicum of control over this situation. If she was going to be in it, she may as well make her intentions clear. Years ago, Madeline had agreed to something she still didn’t fully understand—and though she wouldn’t at all claim to know exactly what was going on now, she at least had the experience and wisdom to admit it.
Madeline signed her name at the bottom. Then she handed the pen to Verna one last time. The woman’s neat, tiny scrawl took residency in wet black ink next to Madeline’s own loopy signature.
Done. It was done. Madeline took the contract and placed it carefully back into the drawer.
“I suppose I should take my leave,” Verna said, pushing lightly off the desk. Her gaze swept around the library almost wistfully, as if saddened that she hadn’t had the time to inspect it.
“I suppose you should,” Madeline said, though she didn’t exactly want to agree. But it was her rule—they would not meet here. Madeline needed her own space, a boundary she’d firmly uphold.
“I’ll see you soon.”
And with that promise, Verna was gone.