Chapter 17: Freedom?

Nadja Mayer

My heart hammers against my ribs like a trapped animal trying to escape. In the vehicle, the silence is thicker than the bulletproof glass separating us from the outside world. I look at my hands in my lap, which just minutes ago were clutching his shirt, responding to a kiss I had no idea I could give him and which I am starting to believe should not have happened.

Why did I respond? God, why?

Dragon drives with a calmness that terrifies me even more than if he were yelling at me. His fingers are relaxed on the steering wheel, his face a hard, immobile line against the blurring landscape outside. He doesn't even look at me, not even when he tells me I need to breathe and stay calm.

The car pulls into the garage, the engine silencing with a final sigh. I don't wait for him to get out or for someone to open my door. I simply step out of the vehicle and practically run to the bedroom. I know he will punish me, and I don't want the men here to see how I am punished.

As I enter the room, his scent fills my nostrils. I cannot deny that Dragon is a handsome man, and even if I am not ready to say he is mine, he is. I don't know what happened, but when I felt his lips on mine, I liked it and wished I could feel more of his touch.

Until reason and all my traumas came rushing back. I ended up slapping him again, something I had promised I wouldn't do. Upon entering the room, I wait for him, and when he enters, I can hear him place the shopping bags on the floor.

My entire body is on high alert, bracing for his touch. Dragon is a huge man; surely his hand weighs as much as Otávio's did.

When he asks me to turn around, his demeanor is completely different from what I imagined. He was calm, even though I could detect a note of disbelief in his voice, he was extremely composed. The little he said and the tenderness with which he approached me caused another line of bricks in my wall to crumble.

Dragon has been showing a calculated patience, a silent determination that is fighting for something I truly cannot see. I don't know why he decided to make this contract with me, which reminds me of a few things, and one of them I want to get rid of today.

I watch him leave, feel my body relax a bit, look at the clothes still in the bags, and find myself wondering what to do. His touch continues to warm my skin, and not only that, there is something different, something I never knew when I was with that other man.

"I'm going to the office; I need to take care of some things. And you may not believe it, Nadja, but I'm going to celebrate the slap you gave me…"

Celebrate the slap? For showing anger instead of fear. For standing up instead of shrinking away.

My right hand still tingles slightly, the palm still a bit red from the force of the impact. I hit him twice in two days. And he understood it wasn't just fear. But that it was a silent cry that finally found its voice.

His touch is still warming my skin, not just where his lips touched mine in the square, but where his hands held my shoulders, where his body trembled against mine when he restrained himself. There is something different in this memory.

Something I never knew with the other man. I could feel in his body a tension that wasn't violent, that he was trying, in some way, to hold back, I believe so as not to frighten me even more than I already was. It was his deliberate choice not to hurt me.

I finish putting away the clothes and stand in the middle of the room. The house is too quiet. The clock on the wall shows almost midnight. He hasn't come up; he must still be in his office. Working. Or just waiting?

My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven't eaten since we came back from town. The idea arises slowly and timidly. I could make a snack. For myself. And I think, for him.

The decision forms in my mind almost without me realizing it. It is a small, simple idea. A gesture, and I think, the beginning of building the bridge we need. Before going downstairs, I change my clothes, choosing a sweatsuit that makes me feel comfortable and warm in the prevailing cold of this city.

I go down the stairs in silence, my bare feet making almost no sound on the carpet. The light from the office filters through the slightly open door, painting a golden stripe on the dark floor of the hallway.

I go to the kitchen. I open the refrigerator, start taking out cheese, ham, and tomato. I also get the bread that Lúcia bought today. She chose the whole grain, seeded kind because I told her I liked the taste. I begin to assemble two sandwiches. My movements are mechanical, but there is an intention behind them that makes my heart beat a little faster.

As I work, another idea forms. Bolder, and I know it's more definitive too. My documents still bear the name of that man who hurt me so much, and even if I insist on wanting to use my maiden name, I know I am no longer single. I no longer want to use the name of the man who lied to me, the man who should have protected me but instead sold me.

But Ironside is a hard name, yet it is also strong. It is a name that offers protection in a world where women like me desperately need protection. Not the protection of a cage, but the protection of a fortress. And I believe that, within these thick walls, there is room for something more. For something like freedom. Or, at least, something that resembles safety.

I finish the sandwiches. I cut them diagonally, the way my mother used to when I was little. I take two glasses and fill them with fresh orange juice. I place everything on a simple wooden tray and walk towards the office, remembering he had said he didn't want me here.

I stop in front of the door, take a deep breath. My heart is pounding hard now, this time not from fear, but from a determination I did not know I had. It's a strange and new feeling.

The door is ajar. I knock lightly with my foot.

"Come in," his voice comes from inside, neutral and professional.

I push the door open with my hip. He is sitting behind a large, dark wood desk, surrounded by computer screens and stacks of paper. He is not wearing his jacket; the sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up to his elbows, revealing muscular, scarred forearms. When he sees me, his expression changes immediately. The professional neutrality gives way to genuine surprise.

"Little One," he says, putting down the pen he was holding.

"I was hungry," I say, my voice a bit firmer than I expected. "And I thought you might be too."

I enter, place the tray on a clear space on the desk. He looks at the sandwiches, at the glasses of juice, and then at me. His gray eyes are dark in the low light of the desk lamp, but I cannot read his expression.

"Thank you," he finally says, and there is a softness in his voice I haven't heard before.

There is a chair on the other side of the desk. I sit, not because he invited me, but because my legs are starting to tremble. I take one of the sandwiches, take a bite. The taste is good. Simple and real; perhaps that's all I've ever wanted in my life,a little bit of something real and not an escape, as I always did when he was alive, transporting my mind somewhere far from all that pain.