Ginger Fox Part 3

My steps are as desperate as the beats of my heart. The mix of emotions sucks me in: pain, betrayal, omission, and lies. Everything hits me like punches to my soul. I am lost within my own mind, with so much information, judgments that don’t belong to me, doubts, and questions. Everything pulls me into this tornado that pushes me to the edge. My vision is blurred by the tears streaming down my face. I try to wipe them away, but every time I dry a few, twice as many take their place. I want to go to my room, I want to go home, I want to disappear, all at once.
“Ginger.” My steps stop when I hear my name being called behind me.
“No…” I shake my head, not wanting to look at him now. Not now. I can’t handle Roy right now.
He lies as much as Baby does. He has so many layers of lies about his body that I know I’ll hurt myself twice as much as Baby has hurt me. I’m fragile, vulnerable, I don’t want to look into his treacherous eyes now. I turn to walk quickly again, disappearing down the corridors, breathing heavily, with my body trembling with anguish. I don’t see him, not even preparing a counterattack, until I am lifted by the waist and thrown over his shoulder.
“Jonathan… JONATHAN!” My fists hit his back, overwhelmed by a fury growing inside me. “Put me down, let me go. I don’t want to talk to anyone right now, especially not you!”
“I didn’t ask if you wanted to.” His voice is harsh, walking like a damn bulldozer through the mansion’s corridors.
He doesn’t stop for anything, not for my curses or for the weak punches I throw at him, which seem to do nothing. He only lets me go when he opens the office door, dropping me into the chair. I quickly get up, running towards the exit before he locks the door, but it’s almost like trying to pass through a giant wall, with no success.
“Open the door, Jonathan. Let me out!” I hit his back again, angry. I glare at him when he turns to me. “Let me out!”
“Sit down!” His hand rises, pointing to the chair again, as if he doesn’t hear what’s coming out of my mouth.
“I don’t want to sit, damn it!” He walks past me, going to the chair. Even knowing that the damn door is locked, I try to pull the handle with force, kicking it out of frustration. “Let me out, I want to go back to my room…”
I turn my face to Jonathan, seeing him take off his belt from his waist. I raise my eyes to his hard, iron-like face.
“Don’t think about coming near me, Mr. Roy…” I point my finger at him.
“Now it’s Mr. Roy?” He pulls the belt out completely, unfastening it. His angry mouth tightens, a mocking smile forming on his face. “Sit in the chair, Miss Fox.”
I shake my head rapidly in denial; there’s no way I’m sitting there. I look towards the window, seeing the damn bars. The quick movement of the chair, which is pushed towards me when he kicks it hard, startles me, making me jump back.
“Either you sit in the chair on your own, or you’ll find out a new way to sit in a chair.” His fingers move quickly as he threads the belt through the buckle, pulling it tight, leaving only a small circle open.
“Fuck off!” I stretch my arm, giving him the middle finger and kicking the chair back, which drags on its wheels towards his legs.
He doesn’t need to take many steps, knocking the chair to the other side before blocking me with his back, pinning my arm under his armpit. The leather is already being wrapped around my wrist quickly, pulling it behind me as he immobilizes me, his chest pressed against my back, with my arm trapped between us.
“I don’t like how that language sounds coming from your mouth, Miss Fox.” His teeth bite my ear, making me flinch in pain.
“Son of a bitch! Let me go, Jonathan.” I push my head back, wanting to hit that smug face.
But that only frees him to pull my other hand, leaving me without the use of my arms. The leather burns my skin as he binds my two wrists together, securing them tightly behind my back.
“If you curse one more time, I’ll gag you…”
“Fuck you!” I shout angrily over my shoulder. He curses in anger, jumping back when I step on his foot.
Roy turns around, picking up the chair, which makes me run to the other side, trying to see if there’s anyone outside the mansion who might hear my cries for help.
“AIIIII!” I scream in pain when I feel my hair being pulled hard, dragging me back towards the damn chair.
And when he talked about a new way to sit, he wasn’t joking. The chair is positioned in front of me. His knees hit behind mine, making me bend, and I think I’m going to fall to the floor. But that only helps him push me up onto the chair, pressing my face into the leather backrest.
“Jonathan, what are you doing?” I try to turn, looking back, feeling one of his hands on my sneaker. “Why are you untying my sneaker? Let me go!”
I try to kick him, but the way he positions me, pinning my legs with my body weight, makes me only shake my foot in anger. His other hand rises, pressing my head down onto the leather of the chair, letting me go as he releases the entire lace. In seconds, my feet are bound by the ankles, one tied to the other. I hear his heavy breathing, and then I’m quickly spun in the chair until my eyes are facing him. He’s smiling. The son of a bitch is smiling, admiring his meticulous work.
“You bastard, let me out of this chair!” Jonathan closes his eyes, inhaling deeply and shaking his head like an adult dealing with a stubborn child.
He opens his eyes, staring at me. Then he turns around, walking to his desk and sitting in his cushioned chair, comfortably, as if having a woman tied up in front of his desk is something admirable, not criminal.

“Let me go!” I shake my body, trying to move without any success.
“Stop moving or you’ll fall. If you fall, you’ll get hurt and be left lying on the floor,” Roy says softly, tapping the tip of his finger slowly on the desk. “I saw you running into the mansion. What’s the reason?”
I avert my gaze from him, staring at the shelf of files.
“It’s none of your business,” I mutter sulkily, feeling like an idiot being tied to a chair like a pig on a spit.
“Everything that happens here on this island is my business, Ginger.” His hands move, removing his blazer, then he stands up, heading to the coat rack and hanging the blazer neatly there.
“You’re lucky I’m in a good mood, little Nautilus.” I exhale, laughing derisively, closing my eyes in disgust.
“Imagine how you must be when you’re not?” I grumble, trying to find a comfortable position in this tied-up state, but the more I try to move, the worse it gets. “Why am I tied up?”
“You were agitated. Agitated people tend to act on impulse,” Roy turns back to me, undoing the buttons of his shirt near his wrist, rolling up the sleeves calmly. “Like your foul language, for example.”
I lift my head, resting my chin on the leather backrest, watching him, analyzing the calm and relaxed demeanor on his face as he folds his sleeves. My agitation and nervousness didn’t make me realize that it’s a trigger for his disorder; nervous people make him uncomfortable. What I thought, and still think, is a boorish and domineering behavior, actually hides something more—his obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD).