Unraveled by Her Read Online Free Page B

cuffing my right hand to another chain and attaching it to a chair leg, leaving my left hand free.
    For a second I toy with flying at her to claw her eyes out. But what would be the point, with the trigger-happy Mrs. Hatch watching me like a hawk, and the killer guard dog, Pluto, probably about to tear into the room any second and go for my throat?
    Before I can ask Georgiana to define what she means by “get started,” Tamara yanks my hair so hard that for a second I’m afraid she’ll snap my neck.
    â€œOver to the desk, bitch,” Tamara says. She forces me over to it, pushes me down on the chair, and slams a Montblanc fountain pen onto the desk so hard that I’m surprised she doesn’t dent it.
    Montblanc, the pen I used to write those interminable lines Robert ordered me to do over and over during my fourth dungeon test!
    That, though, is the happiest of all the memories I have that are associated with Montblanc. My memory of Mont Blanc itself, the mountain that looms over Geneva, is tarnished by that terrible night on which Robert and I were so blissfully happy, and then that mysterious purple funeral wreath was delivered to him bearing a warning against me.
    A purple mausoleum. A purple wreath, which sowed bitter distrust of me in Robert’s heart, and shattered our romantic idyll.
    â€œSo did you send Robert the wreath, Georgiana? Or was it you, Tamara?” I blurt out, before I can stop myself.
    â€œGigi sent it,” Tamara says, and smirks.
    Gigi? Gigi—the beautiful doe-eyed Geneva boutique assistant who couldn’t keep her hands off Robert even as she helped select the spectacular designer wardrobe he bought for me. Why on earth would she want to send Robert the purple funeral wreath that drove him away from me and almost destroyed our love forever?
    â€œBut why in the hell would she send that wreath to Robert?” I ask.
    â€œVery simple: Tammy, Gigi, and I all attended Les Orchidées finishing school in Switzerland together, and, like the Three Musketeers, we made a pact that for the rest of our lives we would look out for each other, come hell or high water,” Georgiana says.
    The next moment, she swiftly removes my restraints with the expertise of someone accustomed to locks and chains.
    Le Château. I wonder . . .
    But before I can follow my train of thought to any kind of logical conclusion, she massages my wrists until the blood flows painfully back into them.
    My hands are free now.
    Shall I go for her eyes? Her throat?
    Just as I am weighing the possibilities, I hear a ferocious bark and brace myself to be attacked by the Rottweiler or Doberman I assume is slavering outside. Tamara jumps up and flings open the mausoleum door—whereupon the tiniest and cutest miniature white poodle I’ve ever seen in my life charges toward me.
    A miniature poodle! The evil Mrs. Hatch has a miniature poodle! Then again, Hitler loved his dog, Blondi . . .
    Tamara scoops the poodle up with one hand. “There, there, Pluto, Mommy will take care of you,” she says, and showers him with kisses.
    Out of the blue, Georgiana produces a pair of thin latex gloves, puts them on, and passes the other pair to Tamara, who follows suit.
    Then Georgiana places a large piece of beige writing paper in front of me, and I stare at it, nonplussed.
    â€œWrite exactly what I tell you,” she says.
    â€œI’m a ghostwriter, Georgiana, not a secretary. I don’t take dictation,” I snap, before I can stop myself.
    I feel the muzzle of the Glock dig into the back of my neck, and my blood freezes.
    â€œYou do now, bitch,” Tamara says, ramming the Montblanc into the palm of my hand and closing my fist around it in an iron grip.
    The pen feels like a lead weight in my hands. But perhaps I could scratch her eyes out with the nib . . .
    Though if I do, she’ll probably go into shock and fire the Glock straight at my head.
    Or