Author's Note:
Hey all! Here's the next segment, arriving much quicker than the last one! Some notes on this chapter and I'm sorry it's long. I'm going to start quickening the pace soon because I realize I've spent six chapters on two days and the story needs to start moving along. There will be two more chapters and then the pace will quicken. I know this is one very long day, but I have a lot of backstory to get across before the story can really start moving. I know many people have been complaining about the way Sarkney is progressing, but they don't call it angst for nothing. Syd's reason for leaving is complicated and it's not just that Syd did something bad and Sark's pissed. It's much deeper than that and both characters will play a part in her disappearance and memory loss. For those that hate Svetlana, and there are many of you, she will get better, I promise. She's not intended to be a Mary Sue and her role will be explained. Let's just say she plays a larger role than just Adam's annoying nanny. Irina's in this chapter (YEAH!) and hopefully Jack will be appearing soon too. This story is Sarkney, but I can't write an AU about Syd's lost years without including her family.
I guess you could call this chapter "filler," because it's just paving the way for some Sarkney smut coming up, but I set up some things that will play a significant role later on. I'm treating this story as an experiment, both for improving my language and maturing my writing, and my goal for this chapter was to foreshadow coming events. I'm curious to see if anyone picks up what I'm getting at or if it will just become clear as the story progresses. Anyway, I just wanted to clarify points people have been asking about. On a side note, I'm going on spring break next week and won't have computer access so I'm going to write the next chapter by hand and post it when I get back. I can't promise anything, but I'm really going to try, so expect it in two weeks. That's about it for tonight. I hope you enjoy!
~ * ~
I'm surrounded by liars everywhere I turn
I'm surrounded by impostors everywhere I turn
I'm surrounded by an identity crisis everywhere I turn
Am I the only one to notice?
- "I Don't Wanna Be," Gavin DeGraw
Side Note: Don't make fun because I'm a huge dork and used the "One Tree Hill" theme song. The lyrics just fit.
~ * ~
Of all the things I did for missions, eavesdropping was one of my favorites. Not that I really enjoyed most of what I did, but I had my preferences. And I loved wearing sexy dresses with microphones hidden in my cleavage. Or ugly jeweled purses with oversized sunglasses and sixth grade pigtails. It was easier when I was with the CIA and even SD-6, because I had Marshall's gadgets to help me. This time I have only my skills to rely on and it's kind of refreshing. I'm so used to hearing Vaughn's voice in my ear I feel like I'm doing something wrong without him--but I kind of like depending on myself. I used to pretend I was Miss Independent, but when I think back there are so many men I relied on: my father, Will, and most of all Vaughn. I groan inwardly. I hate thinking about Vaughn. It only makes me angry and depressed and a tiny bit bitter. Okay, a lot bitter…but that's another story. I don't have time to brood over my lost love, not when I have eavesdropping to do, because this conversation should help me learn something about my past.
My mother and Sark are in the living room, and from my vantage point, flat against the outside wall, I have a clear view of the sickle and star bathed in sunlight. I roll my eyes at the Communist imagery. I'm not surprised though. My mother's just the type to claim she hates her former government, but proudly display its propaganda. Yet another thing about my mother I don't understand. Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever understand anything about her, other than she once loved her country more than her own daughter.
Loud clicking interrupts my thoughts and I notice Sark pacing across the floor, arms crossed over his chest. My mother watches from her vantage point on the couch, her expression a mix of boredom and amusement. The clicking gets louder with each forceful step, until my mother can no longer hide her smile. "Come here, my pet," she says softly and pats the couch beside her. "Tell me what's wrong."
Sark stops pacing for a moment and fixes her with a frustrated glare. "You know what's wrong."
She pats the couch again. "Come here." Sark sighs and reluctantly sits beside her. She clucks her tongue, and to my surprise, he kicks off his shoes, stretches out, and drops his head in her lap. And even more surprising, she threads her fingers through his hair and massages his temples. "What's on your mind?"
Sark closes his eyes and visibly relaxes, socked feet resting on the armrest. "She's remembering things."
"I know. We discussed it last night. It's just flashes, nothing concrete."
"She took Adam for a walk this afternoon. To meer."
My mother's hands still for a moment. "It doesn't mean anything. She's drawn to familiar places. The minute she arrived she visited the beach. She won't remember." I curse under my breath. I knew she was hiding something yesterday. Our conversation was too ambiguous to be true. Resisting the urge to charge into the room and shake her until she reveals the truth, I grit my teeth, grip the doorjamb, and keep listening.
Sark pushes away her hands and sits up. "Can't or won't? We can't afford any chances, Irina. You know what it could cost us."
"It will be all right."
Sark sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "I hope you're right. That's what you said about allowing Svetlana to continue caring for Adam. That didn't end well."
Sark resumes his pacing and my mother stretches out on the empty couch, propping her chin with one hand. "You did the right thing. Adam needed a familiar face in his mother's absence."
Sark rubs a hand over his eyes. "She nearly pulled her hair out, Irina. I don't have time to baby-sit them."
"She didn't want another woman around her son. It's understandable." I couldn't agree more.
He stops pacing and turns to face my mother. "You would know, wouldn't you?"
It's my mother's turn to be surprised. She drops her head back on the pillow and stares at the ceiling. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"I was twelve," he says matter-of-factly. "She was an executive for Paramount. I broke into her bedroom and held a gun to her head and told her to stay away from Jack Bristow if she wanted to live. She started to cry and I brushed her hair off her face and kissed her cheek. And when I crawled out her window you were waiting with a smile on your face." I remember the woman he's talking about. She had big hair she wouldn't let me touch and blue suits with puffy shoulders. She worked on important movies and told me if I was good, I could meet Tom Cruise. I liked her because she made my daddy smile. I remember she always smelled like Charlie perfume and one day she just disappeared--because my mother wasn't ready to let go.
My mother's expression darkens. "She wasn't good enough for Jack and she wasn't fit to be around my daughter. She was stupid, trashy--"
"You were jealous."
"I was doing what was best for my family! Sydney did the same thing. You have to understand her perspective. It's not easy seeing another woman fawn all over you baby."
"She shouldn't have left."
"It's not always that simple." My mother's sitting now, her shoulders tense, and I find myself agreeing with her. I know I left, I know I abandoned Adam--but I also know there had to be a good reason why. It doesn't make it any less cruel, any less irresponsible, but it makes it understandable. Still, I can't suppress a smile: I know my life is shot to hell when I start sympathizing with my mother.
Sark watches her dubiously. "Do you remember what happened after I left?" She looks away. " It was just after midnight and you crept inside Jack's house. You came out at dawn and cried the rest of the day."
"He thought it was a dream," she whispers, tears in her eyes. "He told me he loved me, that he missed me--and the next morning he thought he made it all up."
"Except, it wasn't a dream. You were dead, Irina, and even from the grave you couldn't let another woman have him. Even when he couldn't forgive you."
When she turns to look at him her eyes are clear. "This is different, pet. You know that."
He faces her and his eyes are like ice. "Betrayal is always betrayal, no matter the circumstances." He turns back to pacing, his shoes thumping against the oak floor, louder and louder with each angry step.
My mother gets off the couch and places a hand on his shoulder. "You have a rare opportunity, a chance to fix everything. You shouldn't give that up."
He stiffens under her touch and shakes off the offending hand. "Some things are impossible to fix."
"I know about impossible love," she says softly. "I know what it's like to lose the only thing that matters to you. I know how it feels when it's your fault. You don't have to end up like me. No one should be alone forever." She wraps her arms around him, resting her cheek against his broad back. "I just want you to be happy, pet. I hate seeing you sad."
He relaxes against her. "I want her gone. Before she costs us everything."
This time, my mother stiffens. "I can't do that. I can't make her leave."
Sark slips out of her embrace and turns to face her, his eyes blazing. "You know it's the only way. She can't stay here, Irina. The risk is too high."
My mother closes her eyes and inhales deeply. "She's my daughter," she whispers. "I can't turn her away, even for you."
"Even if she destroys you."
"She won't."
He laughs harshly. "You taught me everything I know, Irina. You're one of the most powerful women in the world. And yet, you continue to think with your heart, not your head. You accuse me of being irrational at times--"
"I told you it was foolish to assassinate the head of K-Directorate so openly--"
"I can be irrational," he continues. "But you can very stupid. And that's what you're doing now. You're not thinking Irina, and you're going to regret it."
He stalks towards the door and she grabs his arm. "Where are you going? We're not finished!"
His eyes practically blaze. "I'm going to fix your mess." She releases his arm and he practically stomps out of the room. I scurry into the hallway, hiding behind a heavy oak door. He whips out his cellphone and disappears into an office, slamming the door behind him. I creep out and press my ear to the door. I can hear heated voices through the wood, once again in Russian. I sigh; this eavesdropping thing is hard. Either my mother and Sark are talking in code, like their meeting tonight, or they're talking in Russian and I can't understand either. I relax against the wood, pressing myself flush against the door. Sark's still speaking in Russian and his tone is softer, calmer, harder to hear. I press myself harder against the door and my knee carelessly knocks the lower panels. Instantly the talking stops and a chair screeches angrily across the floor. I duck into the neighboring hallway as the door slams against the wall. From my limited vantage point I see him take a quick look around the deserted hall and disappear back into the study. Again, the door closes with a slam and I slip up the stairs.
I know I should have kept listening to Sark's conversation, try and learn more about my past, but I've heard enough. Plus, I need some time alone to process all I heard. My mother and Sark were cryptic, but I learned what I needed to know and it's made me more confused. What I've deduced is simple: sometime five months ago I picked up and left and in return, Sark and my mother erased my memory. I should be angry. I should be furious that they stole something so precious from me--but I'm tired of being angry. I'm tired of being bitter all the time. When I was twelve I failed my first English paper and I came home crying to my father. He read the paper, looked at the grade, and said, "There's no use crying over spilt milk." I'd looked at him through my tears and asked what he meant. "You can't change what's happened," he'd said. "You can only hope to do better next time." He'd given me his handkerchief and dried my tears and taken me out for ice cream. It's one of the few times in my childhood my father ever pretended to give a damn about me.
I decide to follow the same mentality here. I can't change the past. I can't pretend I never abandoned my son or my life here. I can't pretend there's nothing going on between me and Sark. But I can stop being angry all the time. I can focus on the positive and all I've achieved in the last few days. I got myself here, to this house with all its memories and secrets and a beautiful little boy who calls me "Mama." If I managed to get this far…I can get myself to the end. If I trust myself, if I try as hard as I can, I'll find out what I want to know. As my father would say, "If at first you don't succeed, try, try again." And it's time to start really trying.
~ * ~
I decide to start upstairs. There's been something bothering me about it since I arrived. Not that I should be surprised. After all, I do live in the creepiest room imaginable, complete with duplicate copies of my old wardrobe. I first need to figure out exactly why someone took the time to reproduce all my old things instead of just giving me the originals. It's too weird to be a coincidence and too well orchestrated not to have a hidden meaning; I just need to figure out what it is. I pause at the top of the stairs, debating which direction to take. Go left, and I'll be at my bedroom. Go right, and I'll be at Adam's room. Not that it couldn't hurt to check in on him, but he's napping and as much as I'd love to peer over his crib and watch him sleep, I need the time to solve my personal mystery. There are other rooms on Adam's side of the hall and I make a right turn at the stairwell.
It's like last night again when I halt in front of Adam's bedroom. Three doors, three mysteries behind them. I know Door #3 leads to Adam's room, so I have two options left. Door #2 directly faces Adam's bedroom and when I open the door I'm greeted with row upon row of fancy sheets and towels, not exactly what I'm looking for. That just leaves Door #1. I close my palm around the handle, hoping I'll find more then terrycloth and seven hundred thread Egyptian cotton, and slowly open the door.
The room is gorgeous, or at least it would be gorgeous if it wasn't an eerily perfect replication of my bedroom down the hall. Everything is the same: the furniture, the linens, even the window seat facing the ocean. A memory flashes through my mind…
"Do you like it?" he asks and pulls the blindfold away from my eyes. "Is it what you wanted for your bedroom?"
"It's beautiful," I say and run to the window. "I can see the water!"
He smiles. "You said you love the sea. Now you'll always be near it."
"Thank you." I stand nervously by the window, arms clasped over my just-bulging belly. "You didn't have to do this."
He shrugs. "Let's not make a big deal out of nothing."
"Sark-"
"Just say thank you, Sydney. That's all I ask."
"Okay," I say and start towards him. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
We stare at each other awkwardly and before I know what I'm doing, I reach up and press a kiss to his cheek. "I love it."
My breath hisses inward when I see the mirrored vanity in the corner, an ivory-handled hairbrush with a hairline crack lying on the counter. "Oh my god," I whisper.
"Happy Birthday," he whispers in my ear. "And many more to come."
I clasp a hand to my mouth. I can feel the weight of the diamonds around my neck, the heat of his hands against my hips…I can remember everything from that night. I told him it was the best birthday of my life. I sink down on the bed, my legs too numb to support my weight. I can't believe he would do something like this, and even more, I wish I knew what game he's playing. What is he trying to tell me? What message is he trying to send?
I hurry to the closet and throw open the doors, messily pawing through the clothes. Sure enough, the red halter dress is filed near the back with the other sundresses. I throw it on the bed and examine the skirt; the red wine stain is exactly where I remember it. I search the rest of the closet and find the worn cargoes too. I want to scream in aggravation-but I pace instead, pondering what exactly all this pre-ordained creepiness means. What is Sark doing to me, besides slowly killing me with frustration? Is he trying to confuse me, annoy me, literally drive me insane? Am I being gaslighted? Or is he just sadistic enough to find pleasure in my misery? I rub my head and continue pacing, so lost in thought I don't notice the door open…or unfamiliar footsteps pad across the floor.
~ * ~
So, what do you think?
Hey all! Here's the next segment, arriving much quicker than the last one! Some notes on this chapter and I'm sorry it's long. I'm going to start quickening the pace soon because I realize I've spent six chapters on two days and the story needs to start moving along. There will be two more chapters and then the pace will quicken. I know this is one very long day, but I have a lot of backstory to get across before the story can really start moving. I know many people have been complaining about the way Sarkney is progressing, but they don't call it angst for nothing. Syd's reason for leaving is complicated and it's not just that Syd did something bad and Sark's pissed. It's much deeper than that and both characters will play a part in her disappearance and memory loss. For those that hate Svetlana, and there are many of you, she will get better, I promise. She's not intended to be a Mary Sue and her role will be explained. Let's just say she plays a larger role than just Adam's annoying nanny. Irina's in this chapter (YEAH!) and hopefully Jack will be appearing soon too. This story is Sarkney, but I can't write an AU about Syd's lost years without including her family.
I guess you could call this chapter "filler," because it's just paving the way for some Sarkney smut coming up, but I set up some things that will play a significant role later on. I'm treating this story as an experiment, both for improving my language and maturing my writing, and my goal for this chapter was to foreshadow coming events. I'm curious to see if anyone picks up what I'm getting at or if it will just become clear as the story progresses. Anyway, I just wanted to clarify points people have been asking about. On a side note, I'm going on spring break next week and won't have computer access so I'm going to write the next chapter by hand and post it when I get back. I can't promise anything, but I'm really going to try, so expect it in two weeks. That's about it for tonight. I hope you enjoy!
~ * ~
I'm surrounded by liars everywhere I turn
I'm surrounded by impostors everywhere I turn
I'm surrounded by an identity crisis everywhere I turn
Am I the only one to notice?
- "I Don't Wanna Be," Gavin DeGraw
Side Note: Don't make fun because I'm a huge dork and used the "One Tree Hill" theme song. The lyrics just fit.
~ * ~
Of all the things I did for missions, eavesdropping was one of my favorites. Not that I really enjoyed most of what I did, but I had my preferences. And I loved wearing sexy dresses with microphones hidden in my cleavage. Or ugly jeweled purses with oversized sunglasses and sixth grade pigtails. It was easier when I was with the CIA and even SD-6, because I had Marshall's gadgets to help me. This time I have only my skills to rely on and it's kind of refreshing. I'm so used to hearing Vaughn's voice in my ear I feel like I'm doing something wrong without him--but I kind of like depending on myself. I used to pretend I was Miss Independent, but when I think back there are so many men I relied on: my father, Will, and most of all Vaughn. I groan inwardly. I hate thinking about Vaughn. It only makes me angry and depressed and a tiny bit bitter. Okay, a lot bitter…but that's another story. I don't have time to brood over my lost love, not when I have eavesdropping to do, because this conversation should help me learn something about my past.
My mother and Sark are in the living room, and from my vantage point, flat against the outside wall, I have a clear view of the sickle and star bathed in sunlight. I roll my eyes at the Communist imagery. I'm not surprised though. My mother's just the type to claim she hates her former government, but proudly display its propaganda. Yet another thing about my mother I don't understand. Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever understand anything about her, other than she once loved her country more than her own daughter.
Loud clicking interrupts my thoughts and I notice Sark pacing across the floor, arms crossed over his chest. My mother watches from her vantage point on the couch, her expression a mix of boredom and amusement. The clicking gets louder with each forceful step, until my mother can no longer hide her smile. "Come here, my pet," she says softly and pats the couch beside her. "Tell me what's wrong."
Sark stops pacing for a moment and fixes her with a frustrated glare. "You know what's wrong."
She pats the couch again. "Come here." Sark sighs and reluctantly sits beside her. She clucks her tongue, and to my surprise, he kicks off his shoes, stretches out, and drops his head in her lap. And even more surprising, she threads her fingers through his hair and massages his temples. "What's on your mind?"
Sark closes his eyes and visibly relaxes, socked feet resting on the armrest. "She's remembering things."
"I know. We discussed it last night. It's just flashes, nothing concrete."
"She took Adam for a walk this afternoon. To meer."
My mother's hands still for a moment. "It doesn't mean anything. She's drawn to familiar places. The minute she arrived she visited the beach. She won't remember." I curse under my breath. I knew she was hiding something yesterday. Our conversation was too ambiguous to be true. Resisting the urge to charge into the room and shake her until she reveals the truth, I grit my teeth, grip the doorjamb, and keep listening.
Sark pushes away her hands and sits up. "Can't or won't? We can't afford any chances, Irina. You know what it could cost us."
"It will be all right."
Sark sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "I hope you're right. That's what you said about allowing Svetlana to continue caring for Adam. That didn't end well."
Sark resumes his pacing and my mother stretches out on the empty couch, propping her chin with one hand. "You did the right thing. Adam needed a familiar face in his mother's absence."
Sark rubs a hand over his eyes. "She nearly pulled her hair out, Irina. I don't have time to baby-sit them."
"She didn't want another woman around her son. It's understandable." I couldn't agree more.
He stops pacing and turns to face my mother. "You would know, wouldn't you?"
It's my mother's turn to be surprised. She drops her head back on the pillow and stares at the ceiling. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"I was twelve," he says matter-of-factly. "She was an executive for Paramount. I broke into her bedroom and held a gun to her head and told her to stay away from Jack Bristow if she wanted to live. She started to cry and I brushed her hair off her face and kissed her cheek. And when I crawled out her window you were waiting with a smile on your face." I remember the woman he's talking about. She had big hair she wouldn't let me touch and blue suits with puffy shoulders. She worked on important movies and told me if I was good, I could meet Tom Cruise. I liked her because she made my daddy smile. I remember she always smelled like Charlie perfume and one day she just disappeared--because my mother wasn't ready to let go.
My mother's expression darkens. "She wasn't good enough for Jack and she wasn't fit to be around my daughter. She was stupid, trashy--"
"You were jealous."
"I was doing what was best for my family! Sydney did the same thing. You have to understand her perspective. It's not easy seeing another woman fawn all over you baby."
"She shouldn't have left."
"It's not always that simple." My mother's sitting now, her shoulders tense, and I find myself agreeing with her. I know I left, I know I abandoned Adam--but I also know there had to be a good reason why. It doesn't make it any less cruel, any less irresponsible, but it makes it understandable. Still, I can't suppress a smile: I know my life is shot to hell when I start sympathizing with my mother.
Sark watches her dubiously. "Do you remember what happened after I left?" She looks away. " It was just after midnight and you crept inside Jack's house. You came out at dawn and cried the rest of the day."
"He thought it was a dream," she whispers, tears in her eyes. "He told me he loved me, that he missed me--and the next morning he thought he made it all up."
"Except, it wasn't a dream. You were dead, Irina, and even from the grave you couldn't let another woman have him. Even when he couldn't forgive you."
When she turns to look at him her eyes are clear. "This is different, pet. You know that."
He faces her and his eyes are like ice. "Betrayal is always betrayal, no matter the circumstances." He turns back to pacing, his shoes thumping against the oak floor, louder and louder with each angry step.
My mother gets off the couch and places a hand on his shoulder. "You have a rare opportunity, a chance to fix everything. You shouldn't give that up."
He stiffens under her touch and shakes off the offending hand. "Some things are impossible to fix."
"I know about impossible love," she says softly. "I know what it's like to lose the only thing that matters to you. I know how it feels when it's your fault. You don't have to end up like me. No one should be alone forever." She wraps her arms around him, resting her cheek against his broad back. "I just want you to be happy, pet. I hate seeing you sad."
He relaxes against her. "I want her gone. Before she costs us everything."
This time, my mother stiffens. "I can't do that. I can't make her leave."
Sark slips out of her embrace and turns to face her, his eyes blazing. "You know it's the only way. She can't stay here, Irina. The risk is too high."
My mother closes her eyes and inhales deeply. "She's my daughter," she whispers. "I can't turn her away, even for you."
"Even if she destroys you."
"She won't."
He laughs harshly. "You taught me everything I know, Irina. You're one of the most powerful women in the world. And yet, you continue to think with your heart, not your head. You accuse me of being irrational at times--"
"I told you it was foolish to assassinate the head of K-Directorate so openly--"
"I can be irrational," he continues. "But you can very stupid. And that's what you're doing now. You're not thinking Irina, and you're going to regret it."
He stalks towards the door and she grabs his arm. "Where are you going? We're not finished!"
His eyes practically blaze. "I'm going to fix your mess." She releases his arm and he practically stomps out of the room. I scurry into the hallway, hiding behind a heavy oak door. He whips out his cellphone and disappears into an office, slamming the door behind him. I creep out and press my ear to the door. I can hear heated voices through the wood, once again in Russian. I sigh; this eavesdropping thing is hard. Either my mother and Sark are talking in code, like their meeting tonight, or they're talking in Russian and I can't understand either. I relax against the wood, pressing myself flush against the door. Sark's still speaking in Russian and his tone is softer, calmer, harder to hear. I press myself harder against the door and my knee carelessly knocks the lower panels. Instantly the talking stops and a chair screeches angrily across the floor. I duck into the neighboring hallway as the door slams against the wall. From my limited vantage point I see him take a quick look around the deserted hall and disappear back into the study. Again, the door closes with a slam and I slip up the stairs.
I know I should have kept listening to Sark's conversation, try and learn more about my past, but I've heard enough. Plus, I need some time alone to process all I heard. My mother and Sark were cryptic, but I learned what I needed to know and it's made me more confused. What I've deduced is simple: sometime five months ago I picked up and left and in return, Sark and my mother erased my memory. I should be angry. I should be furious that they stole something so precious from me--but I'm tired of being angry. I'm tired of being bitter all the time. When I was twelve I failed my first English paper and I came home crying to my father. He read the paper, looked at the grade, and said, "There's no use crying over spilt milk." I'd looked at him through my tears and asked what he meant. "You can't change what's happened," he'd said. "You can only hope to do better next time." He'd given me his handkerchief and dried my tears and taken me out for ice cream. It's one of the few times in my childhood my father ever pretended to give a damn about me.
I decide to follow the same mentality here. I can't change the past. I can't pretend I never abandoned my son or my life here. I can't pretend there's nothing going on between me and Sark. But I can stop being angry all the time. I can focus on the positive and all I've achieved in the last few days. I got myself here, to this house with all its memories and secrets and a beautiful little boy who calls me "Mama." If I managed to get this far…I can get myself to the end. If I trust myself, if I try as hard as I can, I'll find out what I want to know. As my father would say, "If at first you don't succeed, try, try again." And it's time to start really trying.
~ * ~
I decide to start upstairs. There's been something bothering me about it since I arrived. Not that I should be surprised. After all, I do live in the creepiest room imaginable, complete with duplicate copies of my old wardrobe. I first need to figure out exactly why someone took the time to reproduce all my old things instead of just giving me the originals. It's too weird to be a coincidence and too well orchestrated not to have a hidden meaning; I just need to figure out what it is. I pause at the top of the stairs, debating which direction to take. Go left, and I'll be at my bedroom. Go right, and I'll be at Adam's room. Not that it couldn't hurt to check in on him, but he's napping and as much as I'd love to peer over his crib and watch him sleep, I need the time to solve my personal mystery. There are other rooms on Adam's side of the hall and I make a right turn at the stairwell.
It's like last night again when I halt in front of Adam's bedroom. Three doors, three mysteries behind them. I know Door #3 leads to Adam's room, so I have two options left. Door #2 directly faces Adam's bedroom and when I open the door I'm greeted with row upon row of fancy sheets and towels, not exactly what I'm looking for. That just leaves Door #1. I close my palm around the handle, hoping I'll find more then terrycloth and seven hundred thread Egyptian cotton, and slowly open the door.
The room is gorgeous, or at least it would be gorgeous if it wasn't an eerily perfect replication of my bedroom down the hall. Everything is the same: the furniture, the linens, even the window seat facing the ocean. A memory flashes through my mind…
"Do you like it?" he asks and pulls the blindfold away from my eyes. "Is it what you wanted for your bedroom?"
"It's beautiful," I say and run to the window. "I can see the water!"
He smiles. "You said you love the sea. Now you'll always be near it."
"Thank you." I stand nervously by the window, arms clasped over my just-bulging belly. "You didn't have to do this."
He shrugs. "Let's not make a big deal out of nothing."
"Sark-"
"Just say thank you, Sydney. That's all I ask."
"Okay," I say and start towards him. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
We stare at each other awkwardly and before I know what I'm doing, I reach up and press a kiss to his cheek. "I love it."
My breath hisses inward when I see the mirrored vanity in the corner, an ivory-handled hairbrush with a hairline crack lying on the counter. "Oh my god," I whisper.
"Happy Birthday," he whispers in my ear. "And many more to come."
I clasp a hand to my mouth. I can feel the weight of the diamonds around my neck, the heat of his hands against my hips…I can remember everything from that night. I told him it was the best birthday of my life. I sink down on the bed, my legs too numb to support my weight. I can't believe he would do something like this, and even more, I wish I knew what game he's playing. What is he trying to tell me? What message is he trying to send?
I hurry to the closet and throw open the doors, messily pawing through the clothes. Sure enough, the red halter dress is filed near the back with the other sundresses. I throw it on the bed and examine the skirt; the red wine stain is exactly where I remember it. I search the rest of the closet and find the worn cargoes too. I want to scream in aggravation-but I pace instead, pondering what exactly all this pre-ordained creepiness means. What is Sark doing to me, besides slowly killing me with frustration? Is he trying to confuse me, annoy me, literally drive me insane? Am I being gaslighted? Or is he just sadistic enough to find pleasure in my misery? I rub my head and continue pacing, so lost in thought I don't notice the door open…or unfamiliar footsteps pad across the floor.
~ * ~
So, what do you think?