True Affliction - Chapter 11
Before you meet Ella again, remember this: she is the quiet kind of storm.
Memory sparks hope the way forgetting invites the dark.
Sunday found me in the kind of quiet that makes a flat feel like it’s holding its breath. I’d done the washing up. I’d rearranged a bookshelf. I’d stared at my phone until it judged me back.
It rang.
His name burned up the screen like a flare. I answered on the fourth ring because pride is petty. “Yes?”
“Get dressed.” His voice was warm and bossy. “I’m coming to get you. We’re spending the day together.”
My traitor body exhaled relief; my mouth did the opposite. “Can’t,” I said, aiming for breezy and hitting brittle. “I’ve promised Rosie. We’re doing… sister nonsense. Brunch. Shopping. Emotional support through a changing room.”
A quiet I knew too well. He let the lie hang between us like washing. “Mm,” he hummed, as if that were perfectly believable. “Tell her I said hello.”
I stared at the screen and huffed. That was easy. Too easy.
“I’ve missed you.” He softened the words like butter, then sharpened the edge. “Eat something. Hydrate. Properly. And if you’re not home by ten, text me so I don’t put a search party on the M25.”
I bristled on instinct. “I don’t report my movements to you.”
“I know,” he said, placid, insulting. “You’re independent. Do it anyway.”
“Alex.”
“Yes, Doctor?”
I could hear him smiling, the worst kind. Quiet, sure, the kind that sits like a hand between your shoulder blades and applies pressure. I scrambled for distance. “Enjoy your Sunday, Mr Ashcroft.”
“You too, baby.” A pause. The sound of him breathing like he’d leaned against something just to hear me better. “Try not to miss me.”
“Unlikely.”
“Liar,” he said, affectionate as sin, and hung up before I could combust.
“Call me if you get bored.”
“I won’t,” I lied back, quite competently.
“Of course you won’t,” he said, indulgent, and ended the call before I could change my mind.
I stared at my silent phone until the flat laughed at me. Then I did what any self-respecting woman does when told to drink water by a tyrant: I made tea and sulked.
Rosie was with her mum. I texted her a meme and flung my phone onto the sofa like it might bite.
The day dragged in polite circles. I kept imagining his hands on me, the exact weight of it, the warmth that didn’t ask. I told my imagination to sit down and behave. It didn’t.
Night pooled at the windows. I was halfway through aggressively not thinking about him when my phone buzzed with the brisk energy of corporate efficiency.
Reece - 8:42pm
Hi Caitriona. Just confirming that from tomorrow (Monday), your sessions with Mr. Ashcroft will now take place at his estate.
Transportation has been assured by Mr. Ashcroft. A car will pick you up from your residence.
Let me know if you need anything. Have a good evening.
My stomach dropped so hard I heard it thud.
Another ping. Calendar invite, pristine and smug.
I stared. Then I saw red.
Me : What. The. Hell.
Three dots. Disappeared. Returned. He took his time, the menace.
Alex: Language, baby.
I sat bolt upright. Baby. The audacity had a postcode.
Me: You’ve moved my sessions to your hotel? And arranged a car? Are you actually unwell?
Alex: I’m extremely well. You lied to me about today. It made me… proactive.
My heartbeat did a stupid, traitorous skip. I ignored it.
Me: You do not get to reorganise my professional life because your ego got itchy.
Alex: This isn’t about ego. This is about you not running from what you want and me refusing to let a corridor of distractions get between us.
I made a noise that would have curdled milk. My thumbs attacked the keyboard.
Me: Call it off. Now. I am not turning up to your hotel like a woman you’ve booked under “personal convenience.”
He replied so quickly I could feel the breath behind it.
Alex: You already know how this ends, baby. Stop pretending you don’t.
I stared, heat and fury striking sparks in my ribs.
Another message slid in, colder, honest.
Alex: You take one step away from me, and I’ll move the ground under your feet until you’re back where you belong.
I felt him in it. The quiet certainty of a tide that doesn’t ask permission. Don’t test me, Caitríona.
My thumbs hovered over a dozen clever deaths. I chose the smallest weapon.
Me: You’re a tyrant.
A beat. I saw the half-smile, the knuckle along his jaw. Victory he wouldn’t brag about.
Alex: Then revolt tomorrow morning. In heels. I prefer a dramatic uprising.
At 8:18 the intercom buzzed.
I flinched like it had shouted.
Nounou barked once, then circled the rug and promptly sat on my foot like she could anchor me.
She couldn’t.
I walked to the panel, pressed the button. “Hello?”
A low, smooth voice answered.
“Good morning, Miss Thorne. Daniel Shaw. I’m here on behalf of Mr. Ashcroft. The car is waiting.”
I hesitated.
Not because I didn’t expect it.
But because I did.
Of course he wasn’t coming himself.
Not after sending Reece as a messenger boy.
Not after rearranging my entire schedule without saying a single word to me.
The drive was smooth. Quiet.
Too quiet. Daniel didn’t speak unless I did.
Which he didn’t seem to expect.
His focus was steady. His movements efficient.
Not robotic. Just… deliberate. Like someone who understood exactly how far things were allowed to go and never crossed the line.
Trained trust.
Ashcroft style.
I watched the trees blur past the window for a moment.
Then:
“So,” I said, voice low. “How many others have had this treatment?”
Daniel didn’t glance over. “None.”
“None?”
“This isn’t usual.”
A pause.
“Mr. Ashcroft doesn’t like improvisation when it comes to important things.”
My pulse stuttered.
Important.
I folded my arms across my chest. Looked out the window again.
“He could’ve texted me himself.”
Daniel didn’t answer.
Because he didn’t need to.
Because the message had already been delivered.
Loud and clear.
The car curved through wrought-iron gates that opened like a secret.
The drive was long. Unnaturally so, bordered on both sides by thick trees and manicured hedges that didn’t dare grow wild.
Then, like something out of a film, the trees parted.
And there it was.
The Ashcroft Estate.
Not just a hotel.
An event.
Ivory stone and black steel, all sharp lines and soft arches, like modern design had seduced old-world elegance and refused to apologise. Balconies wrapped in wrought iron. Enormous windows framed in green ivy. Every inch of it glowed with that cold, intimidating kind of luxury. The kind that whispered, you don’t belong here unless someone says you do.
Of course he owned a place like this.
Of course he built it far away from the rest of the world.
Daniel pulled up to the front, cut the engine, and stepped out before I could even reach for the handle.
The front doors were tall enough to drive a car through, flanked by polished stone lions and two symmetrical olive trees. The kind of entrance that warned you: whoever lives here is already watching.
Daniel opened my door. “This way.”
Inside, it was silent.
High ceilings. Marble floors that softened into warm, honeyed wood. Light poured through overhead skylights, brushing across velvet settees and dramatic floral displays that looked too perfect to be real. The air smelled like bergamot and cypress. Expensive, clean, curated.
It didn’t feel like a hotel.
It felt like a stage.
One I wasn’t supposed to step onto unless he was already waiting in the wings.
I followed Daniel through the grand entrance.
And that’s when I heard a voice. Smooth and amused from the other side of the lobby.
“Well, this is a surprise.”
I turned.
A man in a dark navy coat leaned against the bar near the restaurant entrance, one brow lifted and a glint of recognition in his eyes. Not staff. No name tag. Too relaxed.
Too familiar. He pushed off the counter and crossed the space with an ease that suggested ownership, or at the very least permission.
“I’m Gabriel,” he said, extending a hand. “Old friend of Alex. Very old, depending on who you ask.”
I took his hand, cautious. “Caitriona.”
“Oh, I know.”
That earned a pause. He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“He mentioned you,” he said lightly.
My stomach flickered. Daniel stood at my side, impassive.
“Are you staying?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“Does it matter?” he asked finally, voice low, silken and dangerous. The kind of voice that slid under your skin and stayed there. “Be careful. This place has a way of making you forget the outside exists.”
Before I could respond, Daniel cleared his throat softly. “If you’ll excuse us,” he said, already walking. I followed but not before glancing back once. Gabriel was still watching.
Still smiling. Like he knew something I didn’t.
And whatever it was, It was about Alex.
Daniel led me through a wide corridor lined with arched windows and tall plants that probably cost more than my rent.
At the end of the hall, a pair of double doors opened into the breakfast salon, light-filled and absurdly perfect. It was the kind of room you didn’t speak in.
You admired it. Vaulted ceilings. Long tables set with pale linens and fresh flowers. Terrace doors open just enough to let in the scent of rosemary and wet stone.
Several tables were dressed. Polished silver, crystal glasses, folded napkins the color of bone.
But one table near the windows, just large enough for two, was already prepared.
Waiting. My name was written on a card beside the plate.
Of course it was. Daniel gestured toward it. “This is yours.” And then, like it was nothing, he added, “There’s a note.” I stepped closer, already knowing what I’d find.
White paper. Clean ink. That unmistakable handwriting.
Eat.
-A. X
Just that.
No greeting. No explanation. Just a command from a man who hadn’t bothered to show up in person. I rolled my eyes, tucked the note under my phone, and took a seat. Then I stared out the window like I wasn’t vibrating under my skin. Because he might not be here. But he was still pulling every string.
After breakfast or rather, after trying and failing not to stare at the word Eat written in his perfect, infuriating handwriting, Daniel returned.
“Your suite is ready,” he said, like this was a perfectly ordinary Monday.
I blinked. “I didn’t know I had one.”
He didn’t elaborate. Just turned and walked, his silence apparently part of the estate’s design aesthetic.
I followed him through a quieter corridor this time. No gold-framed florals or marble busts here. Just muted light, clean lines, and floors that barely made a sound. When we reached the door, he opened it, nodded once, and left. No instructions. No welcome. Just me. And this.
I stepped inside.
It was stunning.
But not in the opulent, look-how-expensive-I-am kind of way. No, this was more… personal. Soft. Calibrated.
A palette of warm greys and cream linens, a subtle scent of lavender in the air, and morning light filtering through pale curtains. A fireplace framed by stacked books that looked like someone had actually read them. A single armchair by the window with a folded blanket resting over one arm.
I recognised the blanket immediately.
It wasn’t mine, not exactly.
But it was the same brand. Same colour. The one I’d left behind when I moved.
It shouldn’t have meant anything.
But it did.
So did the small vanity tucked into the corner with a mirror already angled just right.
And the robe hanging on the back of the door.
And the closet, slightly open and revealing a row of elegant clothes in my size.
Things I would’ve chosen.
Or worse… things he’d guessed I would.
Not showy.
Not inappropriate.
Just right.
There was a small note on the bedside table, resting against the base of a delicate lamp.
I picked it up, pulse already ticking.
The suit is yours.
You are mine.
-A
I dropped the note like it had burned me.
Then picked it up again. I sat on the edge of the bed and let the silence press in.
10:19.
I texted him.
Me: Where are you?
Blue ticks didn’t dare appear.
10:26.
I rang. Straight to voicemail. His voice low, civilized offered me options. None of them included show up.
My jaw locked. The clock ticked like a metronome for murder.
10:40.
The heat that note had lit turned, cleanly, to fury. I stood. I picked up my bag. “I’m done,” I told to myself.
I marched down the hallway, and made my way to the front reception. Heels tapping out a rhythm of pure fury on the marble floors.
Daniel was there, standing exactly as he had that morning, composed, unreadable, as if not showing up was standard Ashcroft protocol.
“Where is he?” I demanded.
Daniel blinked once. “Ashcroft is currently off-site.”
I folded my arms. “Right. Of course he is.”
He waited. I didn’t.
“I’m going back to London.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” he said calmly. My laugh was short and sharp. “I wasn’t asking for permission.”
Daniel didn’t flinch. “You’re expected to stay.”
“Expected by who?”
He stared at me.
I raised both brows. “Then call him.”
A pause.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” I snapped. “Call your boss. Tell him Caitriona would like to know why she’s been chauffeured to the middle of nowhere and left to twiddle her thumbs in what might be the world’s most beautiful hostage situation.”
Daniel’s jaw ticked once, the tiniest shift. But it was there.
He nodded once, then turned and disappeared behind a side door without another word.
Ten minutes later, he returned. No drama. No explanation.
Just a simple, measured statement:
“I’ll take you to the clinic now.”
I said nothing.
Just walked past him, chin high, fury barely leashed.
Let him open the car door. Let him drive me out of that estate like I hadn’t just felt something unravel the second I stepped into it.
My phone stayed cold and stupid in my hand. If he wanted me to stay, he could bloody well learn how to answer it.
The drive back to the clinic was quiet. Daniel didn’t speak.
I didn’t look at him. The countryside blurred past in expensive silence, and all I could think was:
He left me there.
He built the perfect trap, lined it with cashmere, and then didn’t show up.
And if he thought he could pull me into his orbit and then vanish?
He’d just taught me how fast I could walk away.
Ella was already in the room when I arrived.
Same seat. Same posture. Perfectly straight spine, legs crossed at the ankle, hands folded in her lap like a sculpture carved out of stillness.
But this time, her eyes met mine.
Not long.
Just enough.
“Hi Ella,” I said softly, setting my notebook down and taking the smaller chair, angled toward her, but not too close.
She nodded. “Hi.”
The quiet between us stretched, but it didn’t feel empty. It felt like something settling.
“Thanks for coming in today,” I said. “You’ve had a week since we last spoke. How are you feeling?”
She exhaled, too measured to be a sigh.
“Fine,” she said.
It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth, either.
Still, it was more than I got the first time.
“Any changes in sleep?” I asked gently.
She hesitated. “I slept through the night. Once.”
A pause.
“I woke up feeling... wrong.”
“How so?”
Ella’s gaze flicked to the window. “Like I was in the wrong house.”
Another pause. “Like I didn’t know where I was. Or… who I’d been before I fell asleep.”
I let that settle.
Then: “That sounds disorienting.”
She gave a small, polite smile. The kind you wear at dinner parties.
“Everything settles eventually,” she said.
“That sounds like something someone told you,” I replied.
Her eyes flicked back to mine.
But she didn’t deny it.
“I’d like to understand your foundation a little better,” I said gently. “The world you came from. The people who shaped you.”
Ella went still.
Not a flinch. But the kind of stillness that lives just beneath water, calm on the surface, impossible to read.
“I know I had parents,” she said finally. “I know their names. But the details are… faint.”
I nodded slowly. “That’s not uncommon. Memory can fade in pieces. Especially when-”
“They were important people,” she interrupted, voice low. “We had money. A house that didn’t feel like a house. Marble floors. Clean hands. Too many doors.”
That last part sounded like a confession.
Not a description.
“Do you know if they’re still alive?” I asked carefully.
She blinked. Once.
Then looked away. “No.”
A beat.
“I’m not sure I want to.”
She sat back slightly, eyes unfocused now like she was watching something behind me.
“There was a piano,” she said. “Someone used to play.”
She tilted her head, uncertain. “Or maybe it played itself. I just remember the sound. That kind of soft, polished loneliness.”
The image pulled something tight in my chest.
“And how did you feel in that house?” I asked.
Ella’s eyes sharpened for the first time.
Like she wasn’t ready to be asked that.
Then, softly: “I remember the rug in the hallway. It had curled corners.”
I waited.
“I wasn’t allowed to fix it. I asked once, and she said no. That it was better that way.”
Her voice didn’t crack.
But her hands had knotted together in her lap.
“I used to stand at the top of the stairs,” she continued, still distant. “And wonder if anyone would come looking for me if I fell.
I let the silence hold, even as my heart thudded hard against my ribs.
Because I knew better than to fill that space.
She finally looked at me.
“Sometimes I think I’ve made it all up,” she whispered. “That none of it was real. That I’ve invented a haunted house because the truth is worse.”
I said nothing.
But I believed her.
Every word.
“Do you have anyone now,” I asked gently, “who helps you feel safe?”
Ella’s eyes drifted toward the window again, but not like she was thinking. Like she was remembering.
“Yes,” she said softly.
“Someone who knows you well?”
She gave the faintest smile, the kind that doesn’t touch your eyes. “Better than I know myself.”
“And does that help?” I asked.
She paused.
Then: “It keeps me upright.”
I waited.
“I think sometimes he forgets I’m not made of glass,” she added. “But only because he never let himself break.”
There was something so raw in the way she said it, not pity. Not admiration. Just… grief.
Ella’s fingers tightened briefly around her wrist. The only sign she was still unraveling something inside herself.
“I think they expected him to be a shield,” she said quietly. “To stand up. Absorb the impact. Never ask why.”
“They?” I asked gently.
She didn’t answer.
Just tilted her head slightly, as if she could still hear the voices.
“He was the one who stayed awake,” she murmured. “When it got loud. When it got too quiet. He always stayed awake.”
I watched her carefully.
And for a moment, just a moment, I thought I saw her eyes flash with something old and bone-deep.
“They called it strength,” she said. “But it was survival. He kept moving so the dark wouldn’t catch him.”
The room felt colder then.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
I didn’t speak.
Because something in her voice had shifted . Not cracked, just lowered. Like she’d dropped the weight for a second and almost let me see it.
“No one ever told him he could stop,” she added after a pause. “So he didn’t. Not even when it broke him.”
She looked down, hands folding again.
“I think something in him shattered. A long time ago. Maybe more than once.”
A silence stretched between us, taut and humming.
“And did he have anyone to hold him through that?” I asked quietly.
Ella’s lips pressed together.
Then, softly: “He didn’t let them.”
I let that settle.
But she wasn’t done.
“He watches everything,” she said. “Every voice. Every shift in breath.”
She turned slightly toward the window, like the memory lived outside the glass.
“He’s loud,” she added. “Not in volume. In presence. But you don’t know why you’re holding your breath until he looks at you.”
I froze.
Because I knew exactly the kind of man she was describing.
“Does he frighten you?” I asked, more instinct than strategy.
Ella shook her head, calm and immediate.
“No,” she said. “He frightens other people.”
A pause.
I exhaled, slow.
“And why is that?”
Ella didn’t smile.
Not this time.
“Because he’ll never lose someone again without a fight.”
Something behind my ribs ached at that. I didn’t know why.
“Did he?” I asked. “Lose someone?”
Her gaze flicked to mine just for a second.
Then: “Everyone loses something.”
A beat passed.
Then she looked up at me, steady now.
“If he liked you,” she said, “it would be because you don’t rattle.”
I blinked. “Sorry?”
“You’re calm,” Ella said. “Anchored. He’d trust that. He needs that.”
Her voice was velvet, but the truth underneath was jagged.
“And he’d ruin it, of course,” she added, as if she were talking about the weather. “But not on purpose.”
She stood then. Graceful, contained.
And before she stepped through the door, she looked back just once.
“You’d know him if you saw him,” she said.
“But by then, it would already be too late.”
The rest of the afternoon passed in quiet notes and soft conversations.
I saw one last patient before leaving. A woman in her fifties with a gentle voice and a habit of apologising for everything she felt. We talked about grief. About breathing. About how silence could be both shelter and punishment.
By the time I left the clinic, the sun was already lowering, casting long amber streaks across the hallway floors. I gathered my notes, shrugged into my coat, and told myself I was ready to not think for the rest of the evening.
I’d survived the day.
Ella’s words still lived somewhere under my skin, but I kept them pressed down for now.
One foot in front of the other.
Just home.
Just dinner.
Just… peace.
Thank you for wandering into the chaos with me, darlings. If you’re still here, blushing or bristling on Cait’s behalf, then you’re absolutely my people. Drop me a comment and tell me what you think, what you felt, and which moments made you want to shake them both. I adore having you here with me, turning these pages together 🖤
Ax
Girl! You should probably get this printed. ❤️
The estate is such a perfect manifestation of Alex, all control and curation, and the part that hit me hardest was that he built the prettiest cage he could, then refused to stand inside it with her.