Selective/Memory: The "Depth of Emotion" Book 2 (The Depth of Emotion) (37 page)

Eyes as cold as a soulless black pit stared into hers.

“I suppose you’re wondering why you’re here, Aria,” Marisol said with a condescending and hateful rhythm. “Well…let me make this very,
very
clear for you so there is no misunderstanding—
I’ve decided that I would like to kill you
.”

Aria’s eyes widened at the lack of emotion in Marisol’s words. She made the statement of intended murder sound as innocuous as making lunch reservations.

Although slightly clouded from the blow, Aria’s judgment had become clear enough to understand she was in the company of a sociopath. The tone with which Marisol spoke was frigid, completely void of compassion. Her message was clear—Aria was a nuisance that required elimination, and she’d be doing the job.

Aria’s heartbeat raced. Survival mode, along with panic, engaged. Instinct screamed from within her brain, urging her to kick, rage, and scream with all her might, but she wouldn’t allow it to surface on the outside. Marisol wanted that—she was counting on it.

Forcing herself to breathe, Aria fought against the faceless monster of anxiety. It wasn’t the first time. Marisol had a flare for the dramatic, and she craved attention. This was no exception, and Aria was her captive audience. In the time that Aria had known her, she constantly placed herself in tabloid headlines by various escapades that garnered attention. Although most of that attention was negative, Marisol didn’t care; she loved observation—positive or not.

In an attempt to quiet down her mind, Aria deduced that the lone key to her survival was to keep Marisol engaged and interested in her for as long as possible. Her fear was in knowing that she had plans for her—unpleasant ones. It would, however, buy her time.

Hopefully, by some miracle, Aria prayed that someone would find her—or at least discover she was gone—before it was too late.

Marisol sat across from Aria, staring at her as if she were a specimen to be dissected. Directly concentrating on her face, she tilted her head first to one side then the other and squinted her eyes, as if she were having difficulty with her vision.

“No.
Yo no lo veo
. I just don’t see it. No matter how I look at it, I just don’t see it,” she said. “You aren’t pretty. Not even pleasant. You look absolutely nothing like me, so why would he want you over me? It makes no sense…” she stated as a matter of fact.

It was inconceivable to Marisol that anyone would find Aria qualified to compete with her beauty. She continued to stare at her, twisting her head like a puzzled puppy, unable to fathom what qualities she possessed that Declan would find attractive enough that would entice him to choose this girl over her. It simply wouldn’t compute, as she saw not one feature to her liking, and she considered herself an expert on beauty.

She lifted her hand, taking Aria’s chin in it, and squeezed.

Pain in her cheekbone exploded on Aria’s face. She winced and cried out.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked.

Marisol, not answering, derived pleasure from Aria’s pain and squeezed a bit harder, giving her a cold smile.

Trying not to pass out, Aria suspected that she had shattered facial bones. All at once, terror crept in with the pain, effectively stealing her oxygen.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” Marisol asked, not really caring, but experiencing pleasure at Aria’s pain. “It’s definitely going to leave a mark!” she said, laughing. “I can promise you that. I also can promise that it won’t be the only mark you’ll have today,” she taunted.

Absorbing the sober reality that the agony she was feeling would be the tip of the iceberg, Aria tried to quiet herself. She knew that reserving her strength was imperative, and that she had to try and stay calm if she were to calculate a way to make it through this. No one knew that she was with Marisol—no one. She had to remain clear headed. If there were to be any part of her left for Declan to find, she had to think of a strategy.

Marisol rose and walked to the credenza, her heels clicking on the floor. Pulling out a silver case, she removed a cigarette.

“Mind if I smoke?” she asked, not waiting for an answer and lighting one up. “Oh, that’s right,” she said, waving the burning stick around in the air, creating smoke circles. “I don’t need your permission, do I, Aria? I can do what I want—so I shall.”

She walked back, cackling and sneering.

Aria turned her eyes to the floor as she heard the click of the stilettos.

Returning to the chair she had placed so that she’d be directly in front of Aria, Marisol took a long, deep drag of the pungent cigarette, seemingly fascinated as the head glowed a fiery orange. She held it out over Aria’s leg, flicking hot ashes onto it.

Blowing the foul smoke into her eyes, she looked up and sneered.

“You probably didn’t know that I smoked, did you, Aria?” informing her of yet another senseless fact. Marisol seemed intent on expanding Aria’s knowledge of her as she recited everything that she did, or liked to do.

Crossing her legs, Marisol sat back comfortably.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me”—she paused to laugh dryly—“but you’re going to learn,” she said, immediately confirming Aria’s thought, but offering no insight on her motive.

“What do you want, Marisol?” Aria asked, her teeth gritted against the pain.

Flicking her ashes on Aria again, she smiled in response.

“Why, you and Declan, I suppose,” she said nonchalantly. “You see, you both tried to make a fool of me, and I don’t lose graciously—so I’ve fixed that…
I don’t lose
.”

She leaned in to impose on Aria’s bound state, knowing it would make her uncomfortable.

“I either outwit those who try to hurt me, or”—she came within inches of Aria’s face—“
I eliminate them
.”

She held her cigarette out again over Aria’s lap, flicking as if she were an ashtray and took another drag. This was obviously an amusing game for her.

She leaned back, seductively, in her chair. She’d bite her lower lip as if processing a thought, then bend over and caress her long legs. It was a pattern that Aria had noted. Why she did this for her benefit, she didn’t know. Aria just kept watching, never knowing what to expect.

As Marisol straightened up, she stopped, breaking her pattern of the last few minutes, and leaned forward, so she could get
into
Aria’s face. She didn’t move, just stared venomously into her eyes. Terror began to penetrate Aria’s best attempt at composure, and Marisol smelled it like blood to a shark. She grinned wide with hostile pleasure, sending a shiver through Aria as the reality of her peril sank further in.

Superiorly tilting her face upward, Marisol gingerly placed her fashionably shoed foot against the chair in which she had bound Aria. Her legs were tied to the legs of the chair and her hands were tied behind the back of the wood where her upper body rested. Though she tried, she couldn’t move her wrists or her ankles, and they were sore against the rope.

Marisol looked down at her pretty shoe, which she had propped against the front of Aria’s chair. She turned it left and right, admiring its design. She then slowly lifted her eyes to Aria, and with a quick shout of laughter, she kicked Aria’s chair forcefully from its balanced state, making her scream and sending her falling backward.

Her head hit the hard stone floor with a thud, curls flying everywhere. The pain pierced the earlier pain in her cheek, and the combination of the two caused her vision to blur.

Maniacally delighted, Marisol watched as Aria writhed on the floor in agony and disorientation. Although still conscious, Aria felt that she may have dislocated her shoulder, and she didn’t know what would cause her vision to blur. Tears stung hers eyes. She had to hold on to the hope that someone would find her, but if Marisol kept this up, she wasn’t sure if that would happen.

Barely whispering, she strained against the pain to form words, and said, “You won’t get away with this.”

Marisol gave her a victorious look, lifting her leg and placing her new Louboutin against the now swollen and discolored cheek. Aria could only move her eyes as the ropes cut into her and her head shattered with pain.

As she tried to look up at Marisol, Aria cried an ear piercing scream as Marisol leaned in to apply her weight slowly into her battered and broken face.

“Is that so, bitch?”

She laughed, smiling at Aria’s screams.

“Tell me, who’s going to stop me?”

Katherine’s cheerful personality met Paige at the front desk as she entered The Studio. She had hoped to catch Declan before he left for the day. Having met with Aria, she hoped he’d be pleased with the delivery of her gift.

“Hi, sweetie. Is the boss man in?” she said as she peered at Katherine over the desk.

“He is, and he has company,” she replied.

Disappointed, Paige puckered out her bottom lip.

“Oh! I was hoping to get a minute with him,” she said, “but if I can’t, maybe I can get a few minutes tomorrow. Do you have his appointment book handy?” she asked as she began to fish her book from an overstuffed briefcase.

Katherine shook her head and interrupted her actions.

“He isn’t in a scheduled meeting. It’s just Blake and Carter. I’m sure you can go in. They weren’t doing anything important.”

Smiling to show her pleasure, Paige made her way to Declan’s office.

“Great! Now I won’t have to make another stop tomorrow.” She paused before entering the office. “Thanks, Kat. We have to get together soon.”

She waved as she went in. The attention of three men turned to her as she entered the room. Declan had just been telling them that since they’d returned from Hawaii, he couldn’t get through to Marisol at all. She was completely cold toward him.

“Am I interrupting anything important?” she inquired, capturing their attention.

Blake was quick to answer.

“Nope, nothing more important than you, sweetheart.”

He stood to offer assistance with the armful of files and briefcase, causing Carter and Declan to exchange looks.

She blew him a kiss. Declan smiled at her.

“We were just talking, Paige; nothing important. What brings you here? Business or pleasure?” he asked, nodding at all the paperwork in her arm. “On your way to a settlement?”

Cautiously, Paige looked from Declan to the other two men.

“I do have some business, but it’s with you, honey.” She tilted her head, smiling sweetly at him. “Do you want to do it in private?”

Declan gave her a confused look. “What business do you have with me? I’m not buying anything.”

Paige suddenly looked uncomfortable and shifted a bit in her seat.

“It’s from Aria,” she said sheepishly. “Now do you want to do it in private?”

Stunned, Declan wanted her to continue. He was perplexed by Paige’s behavior, but he had nothing to hide from Carter, nor Blake for that matter.

“No. You can say whatever it is in front of them.” Seeing her hesitation, he added, “It’s okay, Paige, really.”

She turned to retrieve an envelope from her case and walked over to Declan, handing it to him. As he went to take it, she held onto it for a moment.

“Before you open this,” she warned, looking at him tenderly, “know that she’s doing this because she cares about you—and she knows how much you care about
it
…”

Unsettled, he took the envelope. Opening and removing the contents, he scanned the paperwork. As he read down the page, he gave Paige a look, then shook his head in disbelief.

“What is it, Dec?” Carter asked.

Declan swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat.

“She’s giving me The Studio,” he said.

Blake and Carter looked at each other, not understanding the statement.

“What?” Blake said. “The Studio is yours. What are you talking about?”

Comprehension began to register on Carter’s face.

“Oh, God. She still owns part of The Studio—from the very beginning, doesn’t she?” he asked.

Nodding, Declan still held tight to the papers.

Blake looked from brother to brother, waiting for an explanation, so Carter offered a short one.