4923 Pelican Passage is a liar. To the mailman, the middle-aged single father who always pulls up to the mailbox at exactly one seventeen in the afternoon, it’s the home of a wealthy businessman who receives bills from places like Tiffany’s, Mercedes Benz and paper subscriptions for The Wall Street Journal and The New York Times. To the teenage driver delivering dinner, the house is a tangible definition of storied, unimaginable success with its marble columns, backyard oasis with a heated, guitar shaped pool and cascading waterfall. To the quietly nosy neighbors, whose homes sit in the same gated, New Hannah Cove community, but whose values are millions less, 4923 Pelican Passage bolsters pride because their own lives take place on the same street as its aloof, enigmatic owner. To everyone, River’s Rowan — that’s what he named the house (it’s not a home) — is a place of awe.

Unless you know what I know, it is a beautiful property.

Rowan trees grow along both sides of the long drive, their berries a vibrant red. They grow along the outer edges of the property, too, encircling it. This is deliberate, like everything else. They’re meant to protect the land, the house, its owner … I’m not sure whether they’re meant to protect me or not. I am his, and he guards what is his, but I am only his because of how deeply he loathes me. It is interesting that rowans offer protection against witchcraft; perhaps the younger ones were planted in preparation for me, to help protect him from me. I don’t really believe that, but I like the thought that he might be scared of me, and one never knows: maybe I am a witch. Once upon a time, the Norse god Thor was in the middle of drowning when a rowan bent over the water, allowing Thor to grab hold and pull himself back to land. He grew up hearing this story all the time, he says, and loved the thought that nature itself would bend to care for him. And so, the rowans are planted strategically to care for his estate.

River’s Rowan includes forty-seven acres. I’ve not seen them, but I have the map memorized. I know the creek is an acre to the east of the front gate, the barn sits two acres to the north and there are ten point six acres of trails he marked himself. The gardens span eighty three thousand square feet (which is about two acres) and start near the creek. He grows every manor of flower and plants, there are fountains, too. The crops and the processing barn lie to the south: he’s a Wall Street tycoon who grows everything from potatoes to cucumbers, strawberries to oranges. There are always fresh flowers in the house and every day the menu includes freshly picked produce. The farm managers harvest the crops, process the best for the house and then sell the remaining to the townspeople, mainly local chefs for their restaurants, and the grocer’s. He’s good at everything: business, farming, gardening, even entertaining, they say.

4923 Pelican’s Passage, better known as River’s Rowan, is a shiny liar. It shows you only what he wants you to see and tells you nothing about who he really is. Only I know who he really is.

The west side of the property is under development he says when asked. There isn’t much there. Only the underground cell; I’m taken there whenever he gets angry or has an overnight visitor or just feels like it. It’s not on the property map, but I know right where it is. I’m in this paradise, the big house, River’s Rowan, right now because he’s missed me, and because I promised I’d be good, promised I’d do whatever he wants me to do without a word of complaint. I’d missed him, too. I’m not sure who’d win the Oscar for best performance: him, me or the house. But, here I am. Sleeping in a room with a bed, and a window. Monitored by the ankle bracelet, security cameras and the house staff, but free to move within the estate as I wish. It is my second day in the house; my third month as his captive, hidden bride. Every time I stare at the map, hopelessness floods my senses: the place is too massive and protected by everything from the trained bloodhound to motion sensor lights, security cameras to rowan trees. I will never escape.

Unless….

I’ve always wanted to be a witch.