The Tourist (Sold #1)

19. Chloe

CHAPTER 19

Chloe

M oving into Eaton and Shelby's home feels like stepping into a different world. Their house is beautiful, but it lacks the Spanish flair that made Diego's place feel so uniquely him.

With its sleek modern lines and minimalist décor, this house looks pristine and perfect. I’ve never been a perfect person, and I have to admit I’ve always been a bit lazy when it comes to tidying. I’m also a hoarder of stuff, especially books and notebooks, so this house is rather too clean and orderly for me.

Diego told me a bit about Eaton and Shelby’s story. Shelby was brought to Las Vegas by Eaton, who told her that he owned her because her father had murdered his mother. Eventually, they discovered this was a lie and part of an evil plan instigated by Richard Armstrong.

How many lives could one man destroy?

Shelby’s father and mother were both in love with Eaton’s mother, and when Richard Armstrong found out, he killed his wife and Shelby’s father. Long story short, Shelby’s father predicted this might happen and had written a will ensuring all the money he’d accrued from his business dealings was protected and in Shelby’s name.

Thankfully, Eaton and Shelby fell in love, and together, they killed Eaton’s father.

"Welcome, Chloe! We're so glad to have you here," Shelby greets me warmly.

"Thank you," I reply, trying to match her enthusiasm. "I really appreciate you letting me stay."

"Of course!" she exclaims. "Come on. I'll show you to your room."

I follow her down a long hallway, and we pass several rooms before Shelby stops in front of a door and and pushes it open.

"This is yours," she says, stepping back to let me walk inside.

The room is spacious with a large window. The walls are painted a soft cream color, and there’s a queen-sized bed topped with a fluffy white comforter and a purple cushion that adds a splash of color. It’s lovely, but it feels like a hotel room—impersonal and temporary.

My room at Diego’s felt much more like home. I know it seems like I’m being judgmental and ungrateful. I’m not usually like this, and I’m not sure why I am. I guess I’ve become comfortable living at Diego’s.

"I hope you like it," Shelby says, watching me carefully. “If you need anything, we can get it for you. Do you have any pictures or photos? You can hang them on the walls. Make this room your own.”

"It’s beautiful, Shelby. Thank you," I reply, putting my suitcase down on the bed. "Really, it’s perfect as it is."

She smiles, but I can see a hint of concern in her eyes. "If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. And if you want to talk... well, I’m here."

"Thank you," I say again, I know Shelby has also suffered at the hands of Richard Armstrong. I’m sure she will be a big help to me.

She leaves me to settle in, and I take a moment to look around. There’s a small desk by the window, perfect for writing, and a cozy armchair in the corner. I walk over to the window and look out at the backyard where several cats are lounging in the sun.

Shelby has a lot of cats, and Diego made sure I wasn’t allergic to them before I came here. Just as I’m thinking this, one of the cats jumps up onto the windowsill.

"Well, hello there," I say, reaching through the open window to scratch behind her ears. She purrs at me. "What’s your name?"

"That’s Betty," Shelby says from the doorway, making me jump. "She’s a stray from Texas. Sweet as can be, but she has a mind of her own."

"I can tell," I reply. "She’s lovely."

Shelby nods. "All the cats are friendly, so feel free to spend time with them. They’re great company."

I devote the next few hours to unpacking and trying to make the room a little more like home. But as much as I try, I still feel out of place. I can’t help my mind drifting to Diego. I think about the warmth of his home and the sense of safety I feel there. Finally, my thoughts turn to what happened between us last night.

The memory of him going down on me is vivid but surreal, like something from a dream. I close my eyes, letting the sensations wash over me once more. His touch was so different from any I experienced in captivity. Instead of fear and pain, there was tenderness and care. Diego was gentle, his movements deliberate, and each touch was focused on my pleasure and comfort.

I recall the way he looked at me, his eyes filled with concern and affection. There was no trace of the cold, detached eyes of my captor. Diego’s gaze was warm, reassuring, and it made me feel safe.

When Diego kissed me, it wasn’t just a physical act. It was a promise—a declaration that I was more to him than a body to be used for his own pleasure. His lips were soft, and his kisses tender. As he moved his mouth toward my core, I felt a mixture of anticipation and fear, but he was patient, whispering words of comfort, letting me know that I could stop him at any time.

The first touch of Diego’s mouth at my center was electric, sending shivers down my spine. It was an odd sensation, feeling pleasure in a place that had previously only known pain. But as he continued, his tongue and lips moving in perfect harmony, I began to relax. My body responded to him, and I allowed myself to feel good.

I can still recall the sounds of my orgasm—my breath hitching, his murmurs of encouragement, and the rustle of the sheets. I remember the way my body trembled, the tension melting away as he brought me to the edge and then over. It was a release not just of physical pleasure but of the emotional burden I’ve been carrying.

Afterward, as we lay together, wrapped in each other’s arms, I felt a strange sense of peace. It was as if a small piece of my shattered soul had been mended by his touch. Diego made me feel human again. He reminded me that I was capable of experiencing joy and intimacy.

Now I’m here and alone, but I do understand Diego’s reasoning. Neither of us can move forward and live freely while Serena is out there, alone and scared. There are still too many things to be resolved.

When evening falls, Shelby calls me to dinner. She’s cooked a roast meal, and the delicious smell fills the house. My stomach growls in anticipation.

I make my way into the dining room, and find Eaton is already seated at the table. He looks up and gives me a smile when I enter and nods as I sit down.

"I hope you’re hungry," Shelby says, setting a platter of chicken, popovers, crispy potatoes, and vegetables in front of me. "I made plenty."

"Thank you, Shelby. It smells wonderful."

We start eating, and the food is delicious. The chicken is perfectly cooked, and the vegetables are seasoned just right. But despite how good it is, I find it hard to eat. My appetite is nowhere to be found, and each bite feels like a chore.

"Is everything all right," Shelby asks, watching me push a potato around the plate.

I nod, forcing a smile. "Yes, it’s wonderful. I guess I’m just not that hungry. I have some days when…"

“You don’t need to explain.” Shelby holds her hand up in understanding while Eaton continues eating in silence.

After dinner, I retreat to my room, feeling more out of place than ever. The house is lovely, and Shelby and Eaton are kind, but it doesn’t feel like home. I already miss Diego’s presence, his warmth, and the way he makes me feel safe, and I miss our conversations. They were easy, and I felt I could tell him anything.

Betty curls up beside me in bed, purring as I stroke her head. It’s a soothing sound, but sleep doesn’t come easily. My mind is a whirlwind of thoughts and memories, and when I finally doze off, the nightmares return.

In my dream, I’m back in that dark, cold cell.

The smell of damp and decay fills my nostrils as I struggle against the restraints around my wrists and ankles. I can hear the men outside the door, their voices muffled but threatening. The door opens, and they come in, their faces shadowed and menacing.

They hold me down, and I see the needle. Panic rises in my chest as my master injects the heroin, the burning sensation spreading through my veins. My body goes limp. I’m trapped in a haze and unable to move, unable to fight.

I can feel their hands on me, rough and hard. They pass me from one to another. Each touch is a violation. I try to scream, but no sound comes out.

I’m trapped, helpless, and alone.

I wake up with a start, my heart pounding and sweat drenching the sheets. I look around the room, disoriented, but the familiar sight of Betty curled up beside me brings a small measure of comfort.

I can’t go back to sleep, so I turn on the lights, and getting up, I take a seat at the desk. The article I’ve been working on sits unfinished on my laptop, and I feel a sudden urge to complete it. Writing has always been my refuge. It’s my way of making sense of the chaos.

I continue to write about my experiences, describing what I’ve endured and how it feels to be back, trying to rebuild my life. I write about the relatives of those still in captivity who are waiting for news, not knowing if their loved ones are safe. I pour my heart into the words, hoping they will make a difference, hoping they will bring some measure of understanding.

Hours pass, and the words flow easily. When I finally finish, I read through the article, feeling a strange mix of relief and sorrow. Tomorrow morning, I will send it to the editor of the magazine I worked for in London. I’m hoping it will be published so it can help someone else.

I climb back into bed, curling up beside Betty, and I feel a glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, things will get better. For now, I’ll hold on to the small comforts—the warmth of the cat beside me, and the knowledge that I’ve taken another step toward healing. Maybe I’ll feel whole again, one day.

As I lie there, exhausted, I begin to relax, and it doesn’t take long before the cat’s purring lulls me back to a dreamless sleep.