Sold To The Devil I Ruined

The sliver of light that cut through the heavy velvet curtains was an assault. It hit Elenora's eyes like a physical blow.

The door opened.

A maid walked in, carrying a basket of towels. She saw Elenora crumpled on the floor and gasped. She dropped the basket and rushed forward.

"Miss!"

"Don't touch her."

The command came from the hallway. Fitzgerald walked in. He was wearing running clothes-grey sweatpants and a tight black shirt that clung to his chest. He was sweating. He radiated heat and vitality.

The maid froze, backing away with her head down.

Fitzgerald walked over to Elenora. He didn't bend down. He nudged her shoulder with his running shoe.

"Get up," he said. "Don't play dead."

Elenora peeled her eyes open. The room spun. Her tongue felt like sandpaper.

"Water," she croaked.

Fitzgerald stared at her flushed face. He saw the sweat beading on her forehead. He turned to the side table and picked up a glass carafe of water. He poured a glass. The ice clinked against the crystal.

Elenora reached out a shaking hand.

Fitzgerald tipped the glass.

He poured the water onto the carpet, inches from her fingers.

"You want water?" he asked. "Go to the bathroom."

Elenora watched the water soak into the fibers. Tears welled in her eyes, hot and stinging. She didn't have the energy to curse him.

She gritted her teeth. She pushed herself up. Her arms trembled violently. She dragged herself to her feet, swaying like a sapling in a gale.

She took a step. Then another.

As she passed Fitzgerald, her knees buckled.

She fell forward.

Fitzgerald's hands shot out. It was instinct. He caught her by the arms before she hit the floor.

Her body slammed against his. Through his thin shirt, he felt her heat. She was burning up. Like a furnace.

For a second, his grip tightened. His thumb brushed the inside of her arm. His eyes widened, a flash of something like panic crossing his face.

Then he shoved her.

He pushed her away as if she were contagious.

Elenora stumbled back and hit the doorframe of the bathroom. Her forehead cracked against the wood. A trickle of blood ran down into her eyebrow.

"Are you trying to infect me?" he snapped, wiping his hands on his pants.

Elenora touched her head. Her fingers came away red. The pain sharpened her mind, cutting through the fever fog.

"If you want me dead, just do it," she whispered. "Why torture me?"

Fitzgerald stepped into her space. He grabbed her face, his fingers digging into the cut on her forehead.

"Death is an escape," he hissed. "You are my property, Elenora. You don't get to die until I say so."

He turned to the wall panel and punched a button.

"Send the doctor up," he barked.

He looked back at her.

"Give her a shot. A vitamin cocktail. Something with a stimulant. I don't care what it takes. Just keep her breathing."

He walked to the armchair in the corner and sat down, pulling a tablet onto his lap.

"Tonight," he said, not looking at her, "you have a performance. An old friend is coming."

Elenora slid down the doorframe to the floor. The doctor arrived minutes later. The needle stung her arm. The drugs flooded her system, making her heart race, forcing her body to function when it wanted to shut down.

Fitzgerald sat there, reading stocks, ignoring her ragged breathing.