Jason King is perfect. Whether it's the British accent, his flawless fashion sense or having been able to pick up life again after having been through trauma as a result from his kidnapping, everyone agrees that this man is immaculate.
However, thin...
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IT WAS THREE O'CLOCK IN the afternoon, but that didn't matter to Jason. Though he'd usually be at work at this time, he'd caught a cab and gone home without thinking twice about it. All he could think about was leaving. He couldn't stay in that place any longer than he had—the memories, his job, the pressure; it was killing him. And he just needed it to be over.
When he walked in through the front door, he didn't see his mother. She was usually home around this time, but he didn't mind not seeing her. He would have to explain why he wasn't at work and he knew he couldn't without breaking down. He himself didn't even understand what was going on.
Everything was piling up. The smallest discussion made him want to cry. The littlest of movements gave him flashbacks. Everywhere he went, he felt threatened. And he knew he shouldn't be, that there was no reason to be, but his mind took control of his body and the only thing he felt was panic. Panic was always there, and it controlled his life. The only thing he could do about it now was surrender.
Which was what he did.
He ran up the stairs and went straight to his room. His bed was what he longed for, and he knew he wouldn't have to leave the comfort the four walls of his room gave him unless he wanted to.
"Jason!"
"Jason!"
He froze in his step, before turning around to see who it was.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," a woman said shyly.
He felt the need to sigh but held back. "Pauline." He didn't sound as enthusiastic as the maid had when she called his name.
"You're home early," she stated.
Too early, too late. Everyone seemed to be obsessed with time today. "I am," he said. "I'm worn out." Although worn out wasn't enough to explain what he was feeling, he didn't want to explain it to anyone right now.
"I didn't have time to make your bed, though," she said. Her eyes fell to the floor as if she was scared to look at him—which was weird when he thought about it, because she had known him since he was five years old and should know better than expecting him to be mad. Pauline had been the first maid he remembered walking around in this house.
"That's fine," he said. "Tomorrow or any other day will be fine too."
"Let's hope for a better tomorrow," Emily said, her head on his shoulder, her hands tied behind her back. It had been another failed attempt to escape, another possibility taken away from them.
"I can do it now," she offered. "I'll be quick."
He shook his head. "Thanks, love, but it's not necessary," he said.
"Is there anything you want?" she asked. "I could get you some apple pie—"
He shook his head and a sigh escaped his lips. "I'd rather be alone right now."
