I inhale slowly, not wanting to start crying again. “And she came to work for you after that? After you helped her like that?”
Julian nods. “Yes. It wasn’t safe for her to stay in Tijuana, so I offered her a job as my personal cook and maid. She accepted, of course—it was far better than being a streetwalker in Mexico—and she traveled with me everywhere after that. It wasn’t until I decided to acquire you that I offered her the opportunity to stay permanently on the island and, well, you know the rest of the story.”
“Yes, I do,” I murmur, pushing against his chest to extricate myself from his embrace—an embrace that suddenly feels suffocating rather than comforting. The ‘acquire you’ part of the story is an unpleasant reminder of how I came to be here . . . of the fact that the man by my side ruthlessly planned and carried out my abduction. On the spectrum of evil, Julian may not be all the way on the black side, but he’s not very far from it.
Still, as days go on, my nightmares slowly ease. As perverse as it is, now that I’m back with my kidnapper, I’m starting to heal from the ordeal of being stolen from him. Even my art has become more peaceful. I still feel compelled to paint the flames of the explosion, but I have begun to get interested in landscapes again, capturing on canvas the wild beauty of the rainforest that encroaches on the borders of the property.
As before, Julian encourages my hobby. In addition to setting up the studio for me, he retained an art instructor—a thin, elderly man from the south of France who speaks English with a thick accent. Monsieur Bernard had taught in all the best art schools in Europe before retiring in his late seventies. I have no idea how Julian persuaded him to come to the estate, but I’m thankful for his presence. The techniques he teaches me are far more advanced than what I had learned through my instructional videos before, and I’m already starting to see a new level of sophistication in my art—as does Monsieur Bernard.
“You have talent, Señora,” he says with his heavy French accent, examining my latest attempt at painting a sunset in the jungle. The trees look dark against the glowing orange and pink of the setting sun, with the edges of the painting blurred out and out of focus. “This has a—how do you say it? An almost sinister feel to it?” He glances at me, his faded gaze suddenly sharp with curiosity. “Yes,” he continues softly after studying me for a few moments. “You have talent and something more—something inside you that comes out through your art. A darkness I rarely see in one so young.”
I don’t know how to respond to that, so I simply smile at him. I am not sure whether Monsieur Bernard knows about my husband’s profession, but I’m almost certain the elderly instructor has no idea how my relationship with Julian began.
As far as the world is concerned now, I’m the pampered young wife of a handsome, rich man, and that’s all there is to it.
* * *
“I’ve enrolled you for the winter quarter at Stanford,” Julian says casually over dinner one night. “They have a new online program. It’s still in the experimental stages, but the early feedback is quite good. It’s all the same professors; it’s just that the lectures are recorded, instead of being live.”
My jaw drops. I’m enrolled at Stanford? I had no idea college of any kind—much less a top ten university—was even on the table. “What?” I say incredulously, putting down my fork. Ana had prepared a delicious meal for us, but I no longer have any interest in the food on my plate, all my attention focused on Julian.
He smiles at me calmly. “I promised your parents you would get a good education, and I’m delivering on that promise. You don’t like Stanford?”
Stunned, I stare at him. I don’t have an opinion about Stanford because I had never even entertained the possibility of going there. My grades in school had been good, but my SAT scores weren’t sky-high, and my parents couldn’t have afforded such an expensive school anyway. Community college followed by a transfer to one of the state colleges was going to be my path to getting a degree, so I never looked at Stanford or any school of its caliber. “How did you get me in?” I finally manage to ask. “Isn’t their admission rate in the single digits? Or is the online program less competitive?”
“No, it’s even more competitive, I believe,” Julian says, filling his plate with a second serving of chicken. “I think they’re only taking a hundred students for the program this year, and there were about ten thousand applicants.”
“Then how did you—” I begin saying, then shut up as I realize that getting me into an elite school is child’s play to someone with Julian’s wealth and connections. “So I start in January?” I ask instead, excitement trickling through my veins as the shock begins to wear off. Stanford. Oh my God, I will be going to Stanford. I should probably feel guilty that I didn’t get in on my own merit—or at least be outraged at Julian’s high-handedness—but all I can think about is my parents’ reaction when I tell them the news. I will be going to freaking Stanford!
Julian nods, reaching for more rice. “Yes, that’s when the winter quarter begins. They should email you an orientation packet in the next couple of days, so you’ll be able to order your textbooks once you find out the class requirements. I’ll make sure they’re delivered to you here in time.”
“Wow, okay.” I know it’s not an appropriate response for something of this magnitude, but I can’t think of anything more clever to say. In less than two weeks, I will be a student at one of the most prestigious universities in the world—the last thing I expected when Julian came for me again. Granted, it will be an online program, but it’s still far better than anything I could’ve dreamed of.