Release Me

Part 32

Five years Later

The rhythmic knock on the office door jolted me from my reverie.

"Enter," I responded my tone stern yet inviting.

Drawing the final stroke on a note in my planner, I carefully capped my fountain pen — a special relic gifted by my elusive contract owner among a dozen others over the years. I set it down gently on the mahogany desk, the metallic click of its cap settling a comforting sound amidst the silent tension.

Beyond the sanctuary of my office, the club buzzed with activity, an eclectic mix of power players and Society members seeking respite from the stringent formalities of their East Coast American circles.

I tucked the note I'd finished into a small envelope and sealed it with a sticker with my initial that mimicked a wax seal, then set it aside and looked up to see Katie, my assistant, standing before me. She held a large ivory linen envelope in her hands, but it was the wax seal on the back that caused me to scowl.

"This came for you by courier." She held out it out toward me, but I hesitated to accept it. Something wasn't right about this situation. The missives I received were in small envelopes with a combination of navy and royal blue wax with a gold trace over the ridges of the symbol. This one was large, with a red seal traced in silver.

"Did they say who it was from?" I asked, taking the envelope as if it were an everyday interaction.

"No, ma'am. They asked that it be given to you without delay, and request you open it in private."

"Thank you." I nodded my dismissal and watched her walk out of the door before I looked down at the mysterious letter on my desk. "I wonder what my contract owner's cooked up for me now."

An unbidden smile pulled at the corners of my mouth and I picked up the letter opener to slide it along the crease. There was a reverence in the familiar ritual as I prepared to accept the instruction of a person I'd never seen, even when we'd been in the space together.

Extracting the letter with a cautious touch, I unfolded the crisp paper, my eyes immediately furrowing at the sight of the unrecognizable script dancing across its surface.

Dear Contractee,

May this missive find you in good health.

I regret to inform you of the recent unexpected death of your contract owner. Your contractual obligation is henceforth terminated, unless there are provisions of substance known to you.

Please accept our deepest condolences in this moment of your grief.

An embossed symbol of the Sovereign Society was placed where a signature would sit. I read the words more than five times before they penetrated, and the realization of their meaning swept over me.

My breathing turned ragged, each inhale more desperate than the last, while I fought back the impending cascade of tears. An urgent need to escape from the scrutinizing eyes clawed at me. Typing out a quick email to my assistant clearing my calendar for the next three days, I grabbed the grey robe that hung in the back corner of the coat wrack.

Shrouding myself in the enveloping cloak and yanking the hood up over my head, a relentless tide of memories crashed over me, each one more vivid and heartbreaking than the last. I had mere minutes to make myself scarce before being pulled into some casual discourse about club improvements, or accosted with an array of queries from my staff. More importantly, I needed to get away from everyone who cared about me. The pressure of showing them I was strong when the ground under my feet felt like it would swallow me up was an impossible task.