Mr. North - Hart Callie(ang)

Mr. North Callie Hart

Contents 1. Beth 2. Beth 3. Beth 4. Beth 5. Beth 6. Beth 7. Beth 8. Beth 9. Beth 10. Beth 11. Beth 12. Beth 13. Beth 14. Beth

15. Beth 16. Raph 17. Beth 18. Beth Epilogue Calico Also by Callie Hart

C opyright © 2017 by Callie Hart All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Published by HEA Press

One

Beth I f you could go back and change a single moment in your past, what would it be? The most embarrassing moment of your childhood? The second you said fine, I don’t love you anymore, let’s call it quits? Perhaps a missed opportunity. That guy you passed on the street, the one who caught your eye. Maybe he smiled. Would you use your chance to go back and talk to him? Introduce yourself? Perhaps offer to buy him a drink in a bar? Maybe you’d take back a cruel string of words. Maybe you’d say something you left unspoken. Personally, I’d go back to the day shortly after my twenty-seventh birthday, when my best friend, Thalia Prestwick, shoved a brown manila folder into my hand, telling me she knew how I could make some easy money. I would slide that damn thing back at her across the café table as quick as you like, and I would get the hell out of there. I’d never step foot into the towering pillar of glass on Park Avenue. I’d never have the attention of an entire city focused solely on me. Things would turn

out very differently for me if I could go back and change that moment in time. Instead, when Thalia hands me the manila folder in the Williamsburg café on a balmy, almost-springlike Thursday afternoon in April, I merely arch an eyebrow at the thing, and say, “What do you mean, extra money ? I don’t need another job, Thalia. I barely have enough time to study as it is.” “This isn’t a job. Well, it is ,” she follows up. “But not a real one. You play chess, right?” I frown at my friend. “Not since high school.” “I’m sure they haven’t changed the rules in the past seven years, Bee. And anyway, you don’t need to be good . You just have to be able to make conversation.” Thalia’s brunette hair is neatly brushed and immaculately braided, unlike my own crazy auburn mane. She reaches across the table, taking a strand of my hair in between her fingers, studying it closely. “And you’re not a blonde. That’s a huge help.” “I know plenty of excellent chess players who are blonde,” I say, swatting her hand away. “That’s a terrible stereotype.” “No . I mean, the guy who’s looking for someone to

play with has something against blondes. I’m not saying blonde women are too stupid to pl—” She rolls her eyes. “Never mind. Just listen.” She taps the folder with an expertly manicured index finger. “I’ve been running a little side line recently. I’ve been expanding on the whole Blizzard Buddy thing.” I’m about to ask her what the hell a Blizzard Buddy is, but she must see the question forming on my lips. She holds up a hand, cutting me off. “Blizzard Buddies are people who hang out with other people during storms. They come over to your place and eat pizza and drink beer while a snowstorm rolls across the city, and then they go home afterwards. No harm. No foul. And no funny business ,” she stresses. “People pay other people to hang out with them in New York? That sounds dangerous, Thalia. Tell me you haven’t been doing that?” “Of course I have.” She shrugs a shoulder, taking a drink from her coffee cup. “The money’s good. And besides, I like meeting new people.” “Who needs to pay someone to come hang out with them? Jesus. Do I need to remind you how crazy people are in this town?” My friend tuts disapprovingly, tapping her finger against the folder again. “All of these men and

women are thoroughly investigated before anyone goes over to their places. They have to provide a million forms of ID, have psychometric tests, and also undergo a criminal record check, girl. It’s safe as houses.” Houses fall down all the time. They get broken into. People are killed in their own damn beds on the regular. People are raped. Thalia steamrolls ahead, though, not giving me the opportunity to voice my concerns. “It’s a couple of hours in the afternoon, three times a week, Bee. And for six grand, I think you can clear your schedule.” I nearly spit my coffee across the table. “Six grand?” Like hell there’s no funny business if a guy’s willing to pay six grand for a girl to go over to his place. I have to suppress my desire to reach over and slap Thalia upside the head. She can’t be this stupid. She just can’t . “You have plenty of money. Why the hell are you getting caught up in this kind of shit?” Thalia doesn’t bat an eyelid. “Look, just because I have money doesn’t mean I can’t have a job. You’re beginning to sound like my mother. I provide a legitimate service to lonely investment bankers who work too much to have a social life. I

get to hang out in nice apartments, drink fine wine and eat gourmet meals, and I get paid to do it. There’s nothing wrong with that.” “It was beer and pizza a minute ago.” “Sometimes it’s Budweiser. Sometimes it’s Moët. I’m not fussy. Look, this isn’t just some guy, Bee. This guy is—” “No. I’m not doing it, Thalia. I have too much on my plate already, and so do you. You realize we’re only months away from taking the bar exam, right? We’ve been studying for years for this moment. If I drop the ball now, it’ll all have been for nothing. I wanna be a lawyer, not a chess buddy for some socially awkward rich boy.” Thalia winks. “Can’t be a lawyer if you can’t pay your tuition fees.” She has a point there. Working part time at the library hasn’t exactly been bringing in a monster paycheck every week. I spent a while tutoring freshmen at the beginning of the year, but the pay was abysmal, and half the time the little shits didn’t even show up, let alone settle their bills. Thalia snaps off a piece of the biscotti we’re sharing and pops it into her mouth. “So what if this guy’s social skills aren’t the very best New York has to offer?

He’s harmless. And he owns an entire floor of the Osiris Building on Park Avenue. The top floor. That’s the motherfucking penthouse, Beth ,” she stresses, as if I might have misunderstood her. “Unless you wanna move into your brother’s dingy basement apartment and sleep on his couch, or worse, move back to Kansas,” she says, delicately wrinkling her nose. “This offer is too good to be true. You should be snatching this folder out of my hand and thanking the gods that this chess-playing weirdo has come along, Bee. Seriously.” I eye the folder once more, my brows pulling together, holding my breath. Thalia leans across the table and touches her fingers to the scar on the right side of my temple, making a pensive hmm ing sound. “How long have you had that?” she asks. I brush her hand away, scooting back into my chair, out of her reach. My heart is slamming around inside my chest cavity like a goddamn pinball. I can’t bear people pointing out my scar. Can’t bear them even looking at it, let alone touching it. “Always. Since I was a little kid.” I shake out my hair, making sure it’s covered up. “Huh. I’ve never noticed it before. I know a guy,” my friend tells me nonchalantly. “He could have that fixed for you in no time. You’d never even know it was there to begin with.”

I feel sick to my stomach as I pick up Thalia’s file and slip it into my purse. She has no idea what she’s talking about. I’ll always know it’s there. The scar on the side of my head is small—barely visible, really. A tiny seven-millimetre line that only rears its ugly head when I get flushed and hot, or I scowl. It might as well be a mile wide and a mile deep, though. I see it every time I look in the mirror, and I’m transported back to the barn. I see my mother on the floor. I see that evil motherfucker with the snake tattoos groping around between her legs. And I feel the weight of my guilt crushing down on me from all sides, oppressive and inescapable. I should have helped her. I should have acted. I should have rescued her. I should have saved her. “Hey! C’mon, girl. Stay with me!” Thalia snaps her fingers in front of my face. She’s laughing, her gaze locked on the file that’s now sticking out of my purse. “Don’t you even want to look inside it?” she asks. “Oh…” I wasn’t even thinking just now. I picked up the file and put it away automatically, ready to get up and run if Thalia asked any further questions about my scar. I’ve inadvertently accepted her offer by collecting the file. Or at least that’s what she thinks. I should give it back to her right now, but honestly, I can do without the argument.

“I should at least tell you the guy’s name,” Thalia says, dumping a healthy stream of sugar into her refilled coffee. The guy’s name in the file could be Prince Fucking William. It could be Brad Pitt, and it wouldn’t make a difference. I don’t spend time with strange men. I don’t spend time with men, period. Not after what happened to my mom. Thalia lets out a frustrated groan when I don’t play into her game. You’d think she’d be used to my total disinterest in guys by now. I’ve never told her about that day at the farm, though, so she doesn’t realize she’s wasting her breath. She looks like the cat that got the cream as she sends me a mischievous sideways glance. “The guy’s name is Raph,” she says slowly. “Raphael North.”

Two

Beth T he name Raphael North is synonymous with many things. But first, let me clarify something: when Thalia spoke that name, I didn’t react the way she obviously expected me to—like a star struck teenager who’s just been told they’re about to meet One Direction live and in person. I kept my cool, blinked a bunch of times to make it look like I wasn’t in shock, then I downed the rest of my coffee, doing an admirable job of not choking on the biscotti mush at the bottom of the cup. With watering eyes, I told Thalia I’d see what I thought once I’d read her precious file and I would call her later on tonight to discuss the matter. Then, cool as you like, I got up, gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek, then turned around and walked away. Now, sitting on the subway, almost home, I’ve allowed myself a moment of…what? Alarm? Yeah, I guess you could call this alarm. I’m trying really hard not to sneak the envelope out of my bag and

start reading the information inside. Back to the name. If I said the name Raphael North to someone on the street in New York, their eyes would light up with recognition. If I asked them what they knew about him, their responses would be varied. “He’s a philanthropist.” “He’s a womanizer.” “He died on the stroke of midnight back on New Year’s Eve, 2014.” “He’s the guy who crashed his car into the side of the Waldorf Hotel.” “He’s this year’s most eligible bachelor, according to New City Style Magazine.” “He’s ranked fifth richest man in America.” “He lost his vision when he was sixteen. Now he has robotic retinal implants so he can see.” The exhaustive list would grow more and more ridiculous by the second. There are a few rumors that contain an element of truth to them, though. He was, and still is, a philanthropist and

businessman. He’s responsible for the design and construction of numerous tech devices over the last ten years, from the automated one-man air ambulances that can navigate treacherously narrow spaces even regular helicopters just couldn’t dream of approaching, to AV headsets so convincing and lifelike that it feels like you really are five miles beneath the surface of the ocean, or walking suitless on the surface of Mars. He’s behind a number of medical breakthroughs, too. An MRI imaging scanner so precise it can detect pre-cancerous cells in unborn fetuses. An EPI-pen designed from recycled materials, so easy and cheap to make that it almost bankrupted a number of big pharma companies. He gifted the patent and trademark of that last one to the American Hospital and Emergency Care Association, who were then able to produce thousands upon thousands of the pens to distribute to children of low-income households completely free of charge. And, yes. By all accounts, he is a womanizer. He sure as hell did crash his car into the side of the Waldorf on New Year’s Eve, 2014, and last but not least, he really is one of the richest men in the country. He might not have been papped by photographers

in a restaurant or seen driving a fancy sports car through the city recently, but every so often an elusive shot will appear in the society pages of a newspaper, showing a grainy image of him from a distance. There really are those who believe he’s dead, and a lookalike is used to attend his board meetings in order to prevent share prices in North Industries from plummeting, but the people who spread rumors like that are the same people who are trying to convince people the Earth is flat. So… I get off the subway at my stop and I practically jog home. The elevator in my building is notoriously slow; I can’t possibly wait for it today, so I take the five flights of stairs up to my small apartment three steps at a time. As soon as I’m through the door, I throw my keys on the dining table and tip my bag upside down, scrambling through my college books and papers, hunting down the envelope. And there it is. I wonder what People Magazine would pay for this envelope? The National Enquirer would give me at least a couple of hundred thousand and that’s lowballing it. I could sell the contents of this envelope for a small fortune and pay off my entire student debt in one fell swoop. The sensation that rushes through me when I consider that is dizzying. No debt whatsoever? Even if I do pass the bar exam,

and even if I do become a partner in some highpowered law firm some day, it will still be a decade before I earn enough to demolish the debt hanging over my head. It’s almost too much to bear. I almost take my cell phone out and start Googling contact numbers, but then I remember Thalia’s words when she said goodbye to me just now: “I’m trusting you with this, Beth. Please…don’t do anything stupid.” I stop short, shaking my head. If Thalia thought selling the information she has on Raphael North was a good idea, she would have done it herself. And I can just imagine how angry and hurt she would be if she found out… No, it’s not worth it. I tear open the folder, removing the papers from inside, and I sit myself down at the table, still wearing my jacket, and I read. The photograph that’s been included in the pack isn’t one of the infamous ones that have been plastered all over the news for years. It’s not the grim, severe, handsome picture of him in a suit, body angled to the left, chin slightly raised, giving him an imperious, cool, sort of imposing appearance—the one that’s used on all of his business related materials. And it’s not the one of him smiling politely, his eyes flashing with anger as he talked to a Hannah Albright, CRS’s

anchor, in the infamous interview he gave before his accident. Nor is it the tired, haunted mug shot that was plastered all over the internet on January 1, 2015. This is a brand new photo altogether. He’s looking directly into the camera, and it feels, weirdly, as if he has his hand around my damn throat. His eyes… I take a moment, placing the picture down on the scuffed wood in front of me. His eyes are so arresting. Not just green. They’re the palest, brightest of greens. The color of spring and sea grass, the visual embodiment of what I imagine the smell of fresh cut grass would look like. They’re so bright, they almost look inhuman. His thick, jetblack hair is wavy, longer than the close-cropped cut he always used to sport back when he was frequently spotted out in public. Full mouth, with a perfect cupid’s bow. Narrow-bridged, straight nose. High cheekbones. Slightly crooked jawline. Huh. I never noticed that before. The left side is slightly less square than the right. Barely worth commenting on, but it gives his face a unique character that wouldn’t exist if his features were perfectly symmetrical. He’s wearing a Yankees t-shirt and a pair of black, faded jeans—completely at odds with the immaculately tailored suits that come to mind when

I think of him. His hands are in his pockets, and he looks…wow. He looks kind of nervous . Over his shoulder: a wall of glass. New York City in its entirety stands at his back, the view from the impressive floor to ceiling windows behind him casting a striking backdrop. I’m not going to lie; I stare at the photograph for well over a minute, a little stunned. He is not what I expected. Not what I expected at all. Way more casual. Not relaxed, per se. But definitely… different. Women all over New York have been daydreaming and fantasizing about this man for years. I’ve shared a city with him ever since I moved here to study at Columbia, but Raphael North might as well reside on the dark side of the moon. He’s that unreachable. He’s that unobtainable. And now, here I am, flicking through a dossier on him, potentially about to meet him. How fucking strange. When I eventually look at the rest of the papers, I find most of it is the questionnaire Thalia was talking about. The bottom sheet is a criminal record check, which states that Raphael North, 05/05/1983, has no current recorded convictions or outstanding warrants. I set that to one side, and then I begin to read. The first items on the questionnaire are fairly straightforward.

H ow old are you ? 33 Where are you from? New York, born and raised Do you have any siblings? No A nd then , the lying begins. Or at least I think he’s lying. W hat do you do for work? Astronaut Highest level of education? GED Favorite country to travel to? Serbia Where do you plan on being in 5 years? Dead Religion? Scientologist J eez , that one gives me pause… And then, things take a more hostile turn. W hat is your greatest fear ? None of your fucking business Have you ever had to make a tough decision that has affected you and those around you? None of your fucking business

Who is your favorite fictional character and why? None of your fucking business Favorite movie? None of your fucking business Tell me three things you like about yourself: None of your fucking business What are you passionate about? None of your fucking business I could read on , but it would be pointless. There are three single sided pages of questions, and Raphael North’s response to each and every one of them is the same. He’s answered them in painstakingly neat, almost elegant handwriting. It’s not the rushed, slapdash cursive of someone rushing to finish filling out a form. It looks like he genuinely spent time forming every single word he recorded on the paper. At the end of the document, there’s a box that says, ‘Tell us about your ideal companion.’ Inside the box, there are three words: No fucking blondes. Just as Thalia said, then. For some reason he really has a strong aversion to blondes. I lay my hands flat on top of the papers, and I think. He really did not want to fill out the questionnaire, obviously. By the looks of things, he really didn’t feel too comfortable with the picture, either.

Picking up the papers, I’m halfway through sliding them back into the envelope when I see black ink on the reverse of the final page. L ook . I just want to play chess with an actual human being. Nothing weird. Nothing underhanded. Nothing intense or unpleasant for either of us. S end me someone real . T he last line screams out at me from the page. I don’t know why, but it clangs around the inside of my head like a tolling bell. He wants someone real. What must it be like for someone like him, constantly under such immense pressure? Constantly avoiding the public eye? I imagine it would be quite lonely to be him, Park Avenue royalty, stuck in his tower, looking out over the city, so close and yet so far removed from everything going on at ground level. He must have been playing chess against his laptop for the longest time now that he just wants someone to engage in polite conversation while he kicks their ass. I don’t know why, but the coarse, brusque response he wrote to Thalia’s frankly rote questions have made me like him somehow. The short message he’s written on the back of the paper has done

more than that, though. In a strange, awkward way, it’s made me want to understand him. I send Thalia a text, and my heart beats faster as I type the words. M e : Okay. I’m intrigued. I suppose I can give it a shot. She replies almost immediately. T halia : I knew it! I KNEW you’d do it! A nd then … T halia : Good thing I already told him yes ;) He’s expecting you at 4 tomorrow. I’ve emailed you the instructions. Don’t be late. And don’t forget to let him win!

Three

Beth I can’t do this . I can not fucking do this. I don’t know what I was thinking. This isn’t just meeting up with any old guy to chat and play a friendly game of chess. This is Raphael North, for crying out loud. I’m not ready for a meeting like this. I need more time to ready myself mentally, to prepare, to calm my damn nerves. I want to call my mom, but I already know what she’s going to say: “Elizabeth, men like Raphael North have had everything handed to them on a platter their entire lives. Do you really think he’s ever heard the word no before? Do you think he’ll hear it if you’re screaming it from the rooftops while he’s pawing at your body?” Raphael North could be a saint and it wouldn’t matter to my mom; she’d still assume he was going to try and force himself on me at some point. My whole body is jangling with adrenalin and panic as I pick out clothes for the meeting. Thalia’s instructions were never-ending. They included a very specific dress code, a list of topics that should

not be discussed, ranging from the weather (?), to sports (?), to anything related to Raphael’s past or his family. There are directions to Raphael North’s home address, which I could probably have told her. Every man and his dog in this city knows where Raphael lives. The Osiris Building is a work of art. The kind tourists stand in front of and have their pictures taken, huge cheesy grins plastered all over their faces. It’s rumored that Raphael designed the building and had it built. It’s rumored that he still owns the entire structure, and the other seventy floors that soar straight up into the sky are merely rented by their occupants. Four o’clock in the afternoon seems to take forever to come around. It’s Saturday, so no class. I putter around my small one-bed apartment, cleaning and reorganizing things, trying not to admit to myself that I might be about ready to bail on the whole thing. I can’t, though. I made a promise to Thalia, and I do my best to make sure I don’t break those. My nerves don’t manifest themselves the same way they do for other people. Thalia feels lightheaded or sick. My mom gets very chatty when she’s anxious about something. Me, on the other hand? I get hungry. By one in the afternoon, I’ve already eaten an omelet for breakfast, a grilled cheese sandwich,

a chicken caesar salad, and the remnants of some Chinese takeout that’s been sitting in my fridge for three days. I tell myself that I eat the leftovers because it’d be a shame to throw it out, but the truth is I’m worried sick. I can be shy, and I’ve never found myself sat in front of a breathtakingly attractive, mysterious, secretive inventor/philanthropist/celebrity before. I have no idea how I’m going to react in that setting. I could be fine, but then again…god, it doesn’t even bear thinking about. I could be a complete and utter train wreck. At one thirty, my cell phone rings. I assume it’s Thalia, since I’ve ignored her last two calls (she’s already spoken to me three times this morning, and her nervous energy has done nothing to help my own jitters), but it’s not. It’s my brother, David. “Hey, Spooch,” he says when I pick up. Fucking Spooch. He’s been calling me that for as long as I can remember. We go through phases of weeks and sometimes even months where he forgets to torture me with the ridiculous nickname, but then, without fail, he’ll remember and it’ll resurface with a vengeance. “What’s up, Dickface?” Unoriginal, I know, but I have to land my blows where I can with him.

He laughs. “Mom said you asked her if you could move in with me,” he says. “Oh, lord. I did not . She told me I should .” “And what did…you…say?” By the sounds of things, he’s eating something. Knowing him, pizza. “What do you think I said? I told her I’d rather be homeless.” He cackles, the same way he used to cackle when we were kids and he’d stolen one of my favorite toys. “Well, fuck you, too, little sister. I don’t want to live with you, either.” “I know you don’t. You’d actually have to put on pants from time to time.” “Mmm,” he grunts. “Yeah. Fuck pants.” “Did your call have a purpose, or were you just checking to make sure I wasn’t going to show up on your doorstep tomorrow with all of my things in trash bags?” “Hey, I know you’d…rather sacrifice your whole degree program and head back to Kansas before you allowed such a…ding to your pride.” He swallows whatever he was chewing. “And yeah,

my call does actually have a purpose. The band’s playing at The Gallery next Friday night. Will you come? Pretend like you know the lyrics? Act like you like us and shit?” My brother’s been in the same almost-nearlyabout-to-make-it rock band for the past six years. While I’ve been slaving over my laptop and a towering mountain of textbooks, he’s been tending bar, playing guitar, and hitting on women professionally. “Sadly, I do know all the words. I guess I can pretend to like you guys if I absolutely have to. What’s in it for me?” “Hmm.” David thinks about this. “I’ll set you up with Mal. He broke up with his girlfriend last week. I know you’ve got the hots for him.” “The day I stoop to dating a failed real estate agent cum drummer is the day hell freezes over, Davey boy. How about you give back the record player you borrowed from me eighteen months ago? I think that’s a fair trade.” “Hey, what are you doing later?” This kind of diversionary tactic is typical of David. He doesn’t want to give me back this record player. I’ve been asking him for months, he says he’ll bring it by, and then he never does. It’s not even a half decent player. He just hates returning things. Period.

“I’m playing chess with Raphael North,” I say in my most easy-breezy tone. “What about you?” “Mutually masturbating with Olivia Wilde,” he fires back. “You’re so weird, Spooch. You’re one of the only people on Earth who’d fantasize about playing a game of chess with a Fortune 500 guy.” “Uhhh… I am not fantasizing about anyone,” I say evenly. “Hilarious. You’re twenty-eight years old and you still haven’t figured out how to lie properly. I know how many girls want that guy’s dick in and around their mouths.” “Don’t quote Superbad at me, David. I’m busy. And I assure you, I have not been day dreaming about sleeping with Raphael North.” “Pssshhhyeah right. Whatever you say, sweetheart. You’re not fooling anyone. Women are all the same. You see a couple of dollar signs and your panties hit the floor at the speed of li—” I hang up the phone, cutting him off. My brother is a grade-A dick. I don’t have the energy to listen to him complaining about money-grubbing women who have no morals, and even if I did, I would still have hung up. I can defend myself until I’m blue in

the face, and I’ll never be able to convince my brother I actually am playing chess with Raphael North this afternoon. And really, is it any wonder? I honestly don’t believe it myself.

*** I haven’t worn business attire in about five years. Not since my father died and I donned my only formal black dress to the funeral. As soon as we got home from the service, I threw the dress in the trash and went and sobbed on my bed for five hours solid. A week later, the dress reappeared in my closet, wrapped in a dry-cleaner’s garment bag, so I took it out into the yard and burned it in a metal trash can like in the movies. Unlike in the movies, the can tipped over and the fire immediately caught on the long grass, nearly claiming the house along with it. My mother didn’t even say a word about it. She stood on the porch, watching me beat at the flames with a wet towel, arms folded across her body, and then she went back inside, as if resigned to her fate. If the house was consumed by fire, then so be it. She would be swallowed by the inferno right along with it. My father’s death came out of the blue. None of us were expecting it. The heart attack was massive

and sudden. No way he could have survived it, the doctors said, but of course my mother had been with him at the time. She’d tried, and failed, to save him. I think for a little while there, the idea of dying was kind of appealing to her. Guilt hung around her neck like a yoke, undeserved. It took a long while for her to come through the other side. I stand in front of the mirror, smoothing my hands over my bright red pencil skirt, fiddling with my button down shirt, trying to decide how much I should tuck in and how much I should leave out. This is a nightmare. I’m already so uncomfortable, I feel like I’m about to pass out. At three-fifteen, the intercom buzzes, signaling that my ride is here. I was going to order an Uber, but then Thalia messaged to let me know Raphael had organized for a car to collect me. When I head downstairs, this time in the elevator, my pulse skipping all over the place, and I walk out the front of my building, there’s a sleek black Tesla with tinted windows waiting for me at the curb. I was expecting a town car or something equally as archaic and Gossip Girl, and so the Tesla is a surprise. A pleasant one. I’ve never ridden in a Tesla before, though I’ve wanted to forever. I head to the vehicle, about to open the door, when a tall guy wearing a baseball cap turned backwards

hops out of the driver’s side and rushes around the car. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, don’t touch that handle,” he says. My heart starts slamming in my chest. “Oh, god, shit, I’m sorry, I—” He holds his hand up, cutting me off. “It’s more than my life is worth to let you open your own door, Ms. Dreymon. Please,” he says, opening the door and stepping away so I can climb into the back seat. My pulse is still throbbing at my temples and in my ears. My skirt feels like it’s trying to squeeze me out of it like a tube of toothpaste. I have to sit ramrod straight, my back arched away from the seat in order to feel like I’m not going to bust out of the stupid thing. The guy closes the door, runs around the car and climbs back in. Once inside, he turns around and smiles at me. “Hi. I’m Nathan. Raphael calls me Nate. You can, too.” What would Mom say about me getting into a car with a strange guy I didn’t know? She’d probably have a goddamn fit. This guy doesn’t feel like a threat, though. He’s smiling like he’s having the best day ever. He’s fine, Beth. He’s just a normal, friendly guy, doing his job . I forcefully push down my initial nerves and I shake the hand he offers me

between the front seats. “It’s very nice to meet you, Nate. You can call me Beth.” “No can do,” Nate says, grinning. “Boss already told me not to. He’s particular about…formality .” I eye him, his casual clothes, his back to front ball cap, the darts of ink I can see poking out of the wrists of his long sleeved t-shirt, along with around the neckline; the guy must be covered in tattoos. Nate smiles. He’s a good-looking guy in his own right, the bridge of his nose dashed with more than a handful of freckles. “And yet you’re hardly dressed formally,” I say. Nate winks. “There are different avenues of formality, Ms. Dreymon. I conform to at least ninety percent of what Raphael considers proper and what isn’t. I run riot with the other ten percent.” The ride across the city is longer than it should be, and tense. Nate doesn’t ask me any personal questions. He asks me what books I’ve been reading, and asks for my advice over whether he should attend his ten-year high school reunion. I tell him no, that looking back is never a good idea, no matter how much fun you had as a teenager. His wicked laugh implies he had an awful lot of fun indeed.

I don’t notice the Osiris Building creeping up on us. It’s one of the most noteworthy landmarks of the New York City skyline from a distance, but when you’re amongst the madness and the mayhem, the other towering buildings tend to block your view. One minute I’m fine, talking to Nate, rambling away, and then the next I’m staring straight up at the spear of glass punching out of the ground twenty feet away from the car. As always, a crowd of people is gathered around the building’s base, posing and taking photos. Nate hits a button on the Tesla’s dash, and the steel posts blocking off the narrow entranceway down into what I’m assuming is an underground parking lot disappear, sinking into the ground. I was right; we wind our way down into a parking structure, and we’re suddenly surrounded by luxury cars. So many hundred-thousand dollar vehicles. Everywhere I look, there are Lamborghinis and Aston Martins. Bugattis and Fiskers. This must all be very old hat to Nate; he drives past row after row of sports cars without so much as glancing sideways. David would have a freaking field day in here. Nate opens the door for me and helps me out, a gentleman dressed in gangster’s clothing. He guides me toward a bank of elevators, shaking his head as

I reach out to hit the call button. “No, Ms. Dreymon. This way. Raphael has his own elevator.” Nate leads me to an unmarked door painted industrial grey. There’s no lock to insert a key, only a small black box at head height next to the doorframe. Nate taps something into his cell phone, and a green light appears on the little black box, blinking slowly. He leans forward and looks into the green light, first his left eye and then his right. A loud clunking noise echoes around the garage, the sound of a bolt sliding back, and Nate then opens the door as if this is a totally normal way of passing a security check. “After you,” he says, smiling, holding the door open for me. I walk through to find myself in a very small lobby area with pale peach and white marble underfoot, shot through with veins of glittering gold. The elevator in front of us only has one button, which Nate hits. “This probably seems like a lot, doesn’t it?” he asks. “The building, the private elevator, all the secrecy? Unfortunately, things have to be this way. Raphael guards his privacy very fiercely. If the cloak and dagger stuff comes off as a little dramatic, then it’s because it really is. There’s a very good reason behind the security and safety we have in place. There are plenty of people in this

city who don’t have Raphael’s best interests at heart.” “And it’s your job to protect him from them?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me. He nods, watching the white light descend down the floor numbers to us. “Amongst other things. Driving. Managing his calendar. Making sure his many businesses are operating on an even keel. He likes to keep me busy,” he says, smiling. The elevator dings and the doors roll back to reveal the most luxurious elevator car I’ve ever seen. There’s an overstuffed sofa in there, dove grey carpet, and instead of mirrors everywhere, framed pieces of art hang from the walls. It resembles a very small, very tastefully decorated living room instead of a means of getting from one floor to another. Nate doesn’t step forward. He braces his hand against the wall and bends at the waist, pulling off his shoes. “I’m gonna have to ask you to hand over those lovely pumps,” he says. “This elevator doesn’t open into a hallway. It opens into the penthouse itself.” “Oh? I’m sorry, I don’t…” Nate gives me an awkward smile. “Raphael’s old fashioned. He doesn’t allow people to wear shoes

up there. Like, at all.” “That’s…understandable, I guess.” It’s not really. Why the fuck would he not allow people to wear shoes inside his apartment? My rational brain is making up excuses: he doesn’t like the clutter; he has a dog with a chewing problem; someone once tried to shank him in the carotid with a Jimmy Chu stiletto. The suspicious part of my brain has found other reasons why this might be the case, though. Primarily that he actually is a serial killer and he wants his victims barefoot, so they can’t run and escape him. It is his home, however. I want to be respectful and make a good first impression. If I’d even considered for a second that I’d have to remove my footwear, I might have made an effort to remove the chipped nail polish on my toenails, though. Lord, what is this guy going to think of me? He’s not going to be looking at your feet, Beth. He’s going to say hello, sit you down, beat you at chess, and then he’s going to tell you to get the fuck out. He’s a busy guy. He has seriously important things on his mind. He’s not gonna give a shit about your toenail polish. He probably won’t look at you properly long enough to recall what you look like five seconds after you’re gone. You’re a means to an end. That’s all.

I’m beginning to feel a little antsy now, though. Once I’ve allowed my brain to start over thinking things, my suspicions run wild. Can this guy be trusted? Should I be wary of him? Is he going to try and touch me? Will he be a gentleman, or is Raphael North a misogynistic pig that will try and abuse me in unspeakable ways? Oh, god. I want to go back to the car. I want to— “Ms. Dreymon?” Nate says politely, gesturing for me to step forward. For Christ’s sake, Beth, get your shit together! It’s going to be fine. Everything’s going to be fine! I slip off my pumps, collecting them by the ankle straps, following Nate onto the elevator. The carpet is ridiculously soft beneath the soles of my feet. I almost groan, but manage to rein it in. Smile broadening, Nate reaches over and takes my shoes. “I’m used to Raphael’s strange idiosyncrasies. I’m sure he sounds like a complete fucking lunatic to other people most of the time.” I blink, trying not to look a little taken aback. “Not at all. It’s really not a problem.” It kind of is, though. I feel vulnerable right now. Uncomfortable. My heels were a part of the suit or armor I donned to come here today, and without them I somehow feel even less equipped to deal with the situation

that lies before me. I try not to think about how tight my chest feels as the elevator begins to rise. I definitely block out the numbness that’s spreading to my fingers and down the backs of my legs. I’ve been so anxious about meeting someone before that actually I’ve passed out once; I can’t allow that to happen today. It would ruin everything, so I concentrate on sucking air in through my nose and blowing it out through my mouth. My ears pop somewhere around the thirtieth floor, then again at the fifty-sixth. My hearing has just righted itself when the doors roll back and we’re met with a wall of daylight, glass and sky. My knees almost buckle out from beneath me as Nate ushers me out of the elevator and into the empty, marble tiled room beyond. About thirty feet long and perhaps half as wide, the space is sparsely decorated. Two off-white leather sofas face each other on either side of a low-lying coffee table in the middle of the room. There’s a soft, pale grey rug beneath the sofas, but the remainder of the floor is bare marble. At the far end of the room, a desk and chair have been arranged so that the desk is flush with the glass, the chair looking out over the city. Dotted here and there, huge potted plants sit on the ground, providing a splash of deep

emerald green to the otherwise pale, light space. “This is the anteroom,” Nate says. He pads off to the left in his socks. Looking behind us, back into the elevator, I can’t see where he’s put our shoes, but they are no longer in his hands. “If you’ll follow me, please?” Nate calls over his shoulder. The marble is cool under my bare feet. I should have worn stockings; I remember my grandmother telling me when I was thirteen that all girls who wore skirts or dresses, no matter how long they were, without stockings were all whores. She was well entrenched in dementia by that point, but I find myself wondering if I should have put some on now as I follow after Nate. I’m flooded with adrenalin. I hug the right hand side of the wall, the one side of the room that isn’t made of glass but solid, bare brick, and I try not to think about falling off the building. It feels extremely exposed up here, precariously balanced between the Earth and the clouds. “Don’t worry,” Nate says, smirking. “You get used to it. I couldn’t go all the way to the edge for weeks when he first brought me up here. I kept thinking about how long it would take me to hit the ground if the glass shattered and I was sent tumbling out into all that empty space.”

I swallow. Hard. “Great. Now I’m thinking about that, too.” “Don’t worry. It’s all tempered glass. A herd of elephants could lean against those windows and they wouldn’t even so much as groan.” That does reassure me a little. Nate carries on. Soon there’s a glass door in the brickwork wall, but a curtain on the other side hides the room beyond. Nate rings a small brass doorbell, then stands with his hands behind his back, waiting. I’m filled with an immediate, very urgent need to run away. I’m sweating like crazy. I feel a little dizzy if I’m being honest. I’m lost in a haze of panic when Nate reaches out and places a hand on my shoulder. “He’s worse than a stern grandfather,” he says. “But not as bad as, say, an asshole boss with a power complex. Like everything else in this weird and wonderful little world at the top of the Osiris Building, Raphael takes a little getting used to. But trust me… he’s a good guy.” His words are reassuring. Enough that I can take in a deep breath without feeling like I’m about to keel over. There’s a small clattering noise on the other side of the glass door, and then the curtain pulls back and the moment has arrived. Raphael North stands on the other side of the abnormally thick

glass. He’s dressed in a plain dark blue t-shirt, and a pair of washed out blue jeans. His feet are completely bare. His hair is even darker than it was in his picture, if that’s at all possible. Almost curly, too. It’s then that I realize it’s wet—he must have just gotten out of the shower. There are small dark patches on his t-shirt where water has obviously soaked through the material. He looks at Nate first, his expression utterly blank, and then…then he turns those startling vivid green eyes on me and I’m breathless all over again. It feels like I’m tumbling over some steep cliff face, a weightless sensation turning my stomach over as I fall. Inside, I’m back to wanting to flee the building. Externally, I’m praying to deities of faiths and religions all over the world that I don’t look like I’m about to slump in an unconscious mess on the floor right in front of him. My top lip begins to twitch—something that only happens when I’m really, really anxious. Without thinking, I press my fingertips to my mouth, as if I can put a halt to the twitching by touch alone. A strange look passes over Raphael’s face. A slight movement at the corner of his mouth. I can’t decide if it’s displeasure or amusement. Either way, the reaction is fleeting, barely noticeable at all, and then his face is a blank mask again. He places his hand on a curved silver handle on the other side of the door,

and then pulls it toward him, opening it. There are no barriers now. Nothing standing between myself and a man whispered and gossiped about by an entire city. Screw that, an entire nation. I’m in an enviable position right now, but I’d gladly thank the universe if the ground opened up and swallowed me whole. The first words Raphael North speaks to me will haunt me until the day I die. He angles his head ever so slightly to one side, then says, “Your toenail polish is chipped, Ms. Dreymon.” Lord have mercy. His voice is deep but soft. It has no hard edges, but at the same time his tone is overflowing with self-confidence and command. “I’m sorry, I…wasn’t aware of your no-shoe policy.” He simply arches an eyebrow at me. So much for him barely even looking at me. He’s going to remember what I look like after I leave all right. He’s going to remember what I look like for the rest of time. His gaze doesn’t politely slip over me, conforming to social niceties as he introduces himself. No. He flat-out stares at me, taking in each and every hair on my head, every aspect of my face. His eyes hover for a second at the base of my throat, and his lingering attention sends a shiver

skating down my spine. His inspection of me is deeply personal. Not in a sexual way, per se, though the intensity of his eyes on my skin is making me feel naked. He’s sizing me up from head to toe, assessing me, judging me, looking for… I have no idea what he’s looking for. I have no idea if he finds himself disappointed or pleased by the time he tears his gaze away from me and turns back to Nate. “Thanks, Nate. You can go. I’ll message you when it’s time to take Ms. Dreymon home.” “Sure thing. I’ll see you soon,” he says to me, grinning as he walks back toward the elevator. “And good luck.” “Luck?” He nods. “Yes. For the game. I hope you thrash him .” *** I fix my eyes on Raphael’s back, right between his shoulder blades, as he walks me down a long, fairly wide hallway. There are framed magazine covers on the walls here. It would make sense if they all featured him in some way—he’s been on enough

magazine covers that he could probably wallpaper the entire penthouse with them if he felt like it— but there isn’t a single picture of him in sight. It takes a second for me to piece together the theme that connects the framed covers. American Scientist. National Geographic. The New England Journal of Medicine. Giving USA. Non- Profit Times. Their straplines all contain buzzwords like breakthrough, revolutionary, discovery, groundbreaking and innovative. The covers are indeed featuring him in some way after all, but they’re not focusing on Raphael North, the party boy socialite. They’re focusing on his philanthropic achievements. They are about the good works he’s done, the inventions, the patents, the design, the manufacturing, and the charitable works, all his projects. His true legacy. He’s at least a full head taller than me, a looming presence. He doesn’t say a word as he leads the way, taking me god knows where, and I’m grateful of the fact. I need these precious moments to pull myself together. We pass a number of internal doors, all firmly closed. At the end of the long hallway, Raphael takes a right, and I am left speechless by what I see. If I thought the anteroom where we left Nate was grand and spacious, the room, if it can even be called that, is just ridiculous.

Again, only one side of the room is walled by brick. The other three sides of the space are glass-walled and seem to go on forever. Overhead, there’s nothing but sky. Bright blue sky, for as far the eye can see. It’s a cloudless day, and through the sloped glass roof above us, an airplane, barely more than a flash of silver lost in a sea of blue, is making slow progress across the horizon, leaving behind it a narrow trail of white. “There are people out there who believe the government is putting chemicals in chemtrails to make us all infertile,” Raphael says. He’s standing way closer than I realized, barely a foot away from me. I snap my focus back to him to find him watching me intently. No doubt about it—I’ve been gawking for the last thirty seconds, barely able to take the view in. Barely able to breathe. “People think you’re dead ,” I blurt. Both his eyebrows lift an inch higher at that. “What I mean to say is that people are always coming up with weird conspiracy theories. It doesn’t make them true.” He nods, the ghost of a smile flashing across his face, not at his mouth but at the corners of his eyes. “Would you sit?” he asks. I haven’t even taken in the furnishings of this area of the penthouse yet. I was too blown away by what I saw out of the

windows. Now that I’m looking, I’m unsurprised by how light this space is, too. Pale wood furnishings, obviously expensive; a huge sectional sofa that could easily seat at least ten people; a movietheatre-worthy flat screen. The floor here isn’t white and rose marble; it’s smooth concrete painted a dark grey. In the center of the room, a world map has artfully been painted in silver and gold on the floor, huge, complete with intricate coastlines, vast mountain ranges, lakes and rivers. Beautiful doesn’t even come close. Raphael places his hand on the small of my back, and the contact is surprising. There’s something aloof about him. Distant. If he’d avoided any sort of physical contact during this meeting, I wouldn’t have been shocked at all. “We’ll be playing over here,” he says stiffly, guiding me over to the northern corner of the room, where a small table has been arranged with two wingback chairs sitting opposite one another. On the table, a chess set has already been prepared. The pieces are works of art, the black side carved out of what looks like polished stone, and in place of white bone or stone, the opposing side’s pieces have been shaped out of what looks like solid copper. “Which do you prefer?” Raphael asks. “Light or

dark?” I grip hold of my purse, wringing the strap in my hands. “I don’t really have a preference.” Raphael glances at me with those sharp eyes. “That’s a pity. I hoped you’d be a woman who knew what she wanted.” Ouch. His tone is even, his voice quiet, but his words are sharp as razors. I feel like I’ve just been judged in some way, and I haven’t exactly impressed. Raphael sits down on the left, behind the copper pieces. “I’ll let you stretch your legs with the obsidian. When was the last time you played?” His questions are clipped, perfunctory almost. “It’s been a couple of years,” I admit. “I haven’t had a lot of time for chess recently.” His head snaps up. “Why?” I sit down, studying the set before me. It really is a lovely thing. Picking up the rook from the edge of the board, I turn it over in my hands, taking a closer look. “I’ve been studying for the last eight years. I don’t have a lot of free time.” “You’re a doctor?” he asks.

“No. Lawyer. At least I will be once I’ve passed the bar.” “Hmm.” There’s a critical edge to that hmm that makes my defensive streak rear its ugly head. “You don’t approve of lawyers?” “Not particularly. They plagued my adolescence. Every time I opened my mouth, there was someone in a pantsuit ready to cover my mouth in case I said something inappropriate. I should have guessed by your choice of outfit that you were a bloodsucker in training.” I tug self-consciously at the front of my dress shirt. “Thalia told me you requested business attire.” “I didn’t. She made an assumption,” Raphael says, picking up the copper rook, the mirror to the piece I’m holding in my hands. “People do that a lot,” he continues. “Maybe once upon a time, it would have been normal for you to come here dressed for a job interview, but not any more. And that’s not what this is. I prefer for people to feel comfortable in their own skin when they’re around me. If you choose to come and play with me again, Ms. Dreymon, please wear whatever the fuck you like.” I know he curses—he swore eighteen times on his

questionnaire alone—but hearing him say fuck does something to me. Something…odd. He’s being pretty damn cold, but there’s something so edgy about him, so slick and confident. It has me a little turned around. I fidget in my seat, trying to gather my thoughts, which are currently scattered to the four winds. “I will. Thanks,” I reply. “Good. Then shall we get started?” “Yes.” I whisper the word. It seems to catch in my throat. The immense space is totally silent, though, so even the soft rasp of my voice sounds like it echoes. I place the rook back on the board, and so does Raphael. Since I’m black, and white goes first, Raphael makes the first move. Strange that he took the advantage of first move for himself. Most people I’ve played in the past with, especially guys, make a point of giving up the first move to prove they’re the more superior player. Raphael doesn’t seem to give a shit about appearances, however, in more ways than one. He brings his e4 pawn out first, a strong opening. A forceful opening. He’s an aggressor, then. Some people might go for a softer opening, to test out their opponent, but not Raphael. He’s coming out guns blazing. I counter, moving my pawn to e5, and Raphael

meets my gaze, smirking a little. “Tell me something about yourself,” he demands. His knight to f3. “What would you like to know?” Something about watching him watch the board is very distracting. I’m not pinned under the full wattage of his eyes, which is definitely a relief, but I still feel like he’s monitoring me intently as he plays. His brow creases ever so slightly in the middle as he picks up his bishop and moves it to b5, and I realize I’m staring at that small groove of concentration above the bridge of his nose. “I want to know why you’d come here,” he says. “Isn’t going to a stranger’s house alone still considered dangerous?” I gape at him. “You answered the ad on Craigslist . Who does that ?” I pick up my knight, moving it to f6. Raphael moves immediately afterward, relocating his a pawn to d3. He looks up from the game, then. Looks up at me. Looks into me somehow. I sink back into my chair, shying away from how weirdly vulnerable he makes me feel when he focuses on me like that. I feel…I feel like a tuning fork that’s been struck, vibrating, humming on a cellular level. “I answered the ad because I’m an eccentric

recluse who just does shit like that. You’re a smart girl, a girl who’s studying to be a lawyer. A pretty girl. Someone who’s been warned her whole life about getting into cars with men she doesn’t know.” “You sent Nate to get me.” “Yeah. And did he look like the kind of guy you’d expect to be driving around in a Tesla? He wears his ball cap back-to-front like a frat boy for fuck’s sake.” I open my mouth, floundering for something to say. Raphael just stares at me. “It’s your move, Ms. Dreymon.” I look down at the board. I’ve completely lost where I am now. I scan the pieces, figuring out where he moved last. I move my bishop to c5 right next to his. I’m thoroughly perplexed right now; the way Raphael is speaking is very to the point. Brusque, even. I’ve never met someone so combative before, and to be like this five seconds after we meet? I don’t know what I’ve done to offend this guy, but I’m beginning to think this was all a horrible idea. “I’m sorry, I seem to be a little confused. Did you want someone to come here to play chess with you, or did you want someone to come here so you

could insult them? For the record, I did think this was a risky thing to be doing. I said as much to Thalia, at least three times. I even turned down the job twice. And then…” He presses the knuckle of his index finger into the table, hard. It’s a subtle action; I wouldn’t see if it if I was trying to stay a step ahead of him in the game. He presses so hard, his skin blanches white. “And then your friend said my name, and you changed your mind.” Fuck. That is what happened. Raphael clenches his jaw, lowering his gaze. His knuckle is red now as he picks up another of his pawns and moves it to c3. “It’s okay, Ms. Dreymon. I know I’m a source of fascination to a lot of people. I’d be surprised if you weren’t curious.” He pauses. And then, “Am I not allowed to be curious about you in return?” I castle my king. “Nice ,” Raphael concedes. “You aren’t being curious. You’re being rude.” “Hmm.” He’s doing that thing again, looking at me like I’m a new species of animal, never seen before. “I’m gonna think about that,” he says. I sit very still, trying to understand what the hell is going on

right now and why he’s acting so strange. It’s as though he hasn’t had a normal, regular conversation in a very long time. With business meetings, trips overseas, rushing about from one conference to the next, I’m sure the majority of his time is spent discussing business matters and not much else. Even studying law, I often find myself realizing that that all I do is discuss landmark cases from the eighties and nineties, arguing about legislation and government regulations. When the time comes to have a fun, light conversation with someone outside my law circle, there are times when I can’t quite think of anything to say. That’s not what this is, though. This is something else entirely. It’s as if Raphael has forgotten all of his social skills. Surely that can’t be the case. It wasn’t that long ago that he was out wining and dining with New York’s most popular social influencers, staying out until three am on the weekends, getting caught making out down alleyways with beautiful, unobtainable actresses. We shuttle through another two rounds of fast moves, neither of us saying anything. Chess games can last for hours, days sometimes. There are speed rounds too, of course, held against the clock. We seem to be oscillating between rash, quick decisions and labored, drawn out plays that take longer than

they should. After about fifteen minutes, Raphael takes a deep breath and leans back in his chair. “You’re right,” he says. “I was being rude. I’m sorry.” Wow. Of all the things I thought he was going to say, I’m sorry isn’t one of them. He doesn’t strike me as the type to apologize. For anything. Ever. I don’t know this man, though. Despite all of the speculation and drama online, I have no real knowledge of him. It may seem like there’s a mile high, flawlessly smooth, impenetrable wall erected between us right now, but in truth he could be as open and welcoming as Thalia. I might just need to get to know him. “No problem. I’m nervous. I might have overreacted a little,” I say. “Can we start over?” For a second I think he’s talking about the game. “Neither of us has taken anything yet. Neither of us has lost anything. It’d be a waste to start from scratch.” The corners of his mouth twitch, almost turning into a smile. Almost, but not quite. I realize my mistake, then. “Oh, you mean…yes, of course. I’m sorry. You can ask me anything.”

He nods, just a very small dip of his head. “Are you an only child?” “No, I have a brother, David. He’s a year older than me. He lives in New York, too.” “But you’re not from here?” “No, Kansas originally.” “So you’re a Midwestern girl, then. Charming. Your family are farmers? Were you surrounded by fields of wheat as a child?” “That’s quite the stereotype there.” “So what then?” He castles his own king to d5. “What do your parents do?” “Sunflowers.” “Sunflowers?” “Yes. They grew them commercially. Sold them wholesale to florists and event planners. Things like that.” “On a farm?” “Yes.

“So your family are farmers. You grew up in fields of flowers instead of grain. That must be why you have such a sunny disposition.” He’s straight-faced. I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or he’s teasing me. His words certainly aren’t truthful. I’ve been tense and edgy since I arrived. I sure as hell am not in possession of a sunny disposition. We each take another turn. Still, we’re just skirting around the board, testing each other, looking for any signs of weakness in each other’s defenses. Then, he takes my pawn with his knight. “You have a boyfriend?” he asks. I take his pawn with mine. “No.” He watches me place his pawn next to the right hand side of my board, his gaze lingering on the piece I just took for a second. Then he takes a deep breath. “Why not?” “My studies haven’t left me much time for a relationship. I work part time as well.” “So you’re too busy for love.” “I’m sorry? That’s a really strange way of putting it.”

He shrugs. Looks to his right, out of the window, over the city, his eyes seemingly unfocused. “But true. You’ve prioritized the foundations of your career and your ability to care for yourself over romantic connections.” “I suppose so, then.” “You don’t want children,” he says. Not a question. A fact. There are people I’ve known for years who have never asked me these questions. It’s confronting that Raphael is asking me them now. They trip off the end of his tongue like he has every right to know the answers. I find myself responding without giving it a second thought, despite my discomfort. “I haven’t even thought about it.” He looks at me, hands resting on his legs, index finger tapping absentmindedly against the outside of his knee. “That’s not true,” he says, shaking his head a little. “I’m betting you’ve thought about it a lot. I’m betting you feel bad about wanting a career more than you want a family. Sons join the military, like their fathers. They take over the family business. They become doctors like the men who came before them. Women aren’t meant to just be mothers and homemakers anymore, Ms. Dreymon. You don’t have to feel bad about the choices

generations of women have made in the past. They weren’t choices, after all. They were the only avenues open to them at the time.” A fierce prickling sensation travels over my skin; it starts on my scalp and travels down over my cheeks, around the back of my neck, behind my ears, down my spine, over my shoulder blades. It feels like individual pinpricks of fire singeing my nerve endings. I grind my teeth together, my nostrils flaring. “Why are you angry?” he asks. “I’m not.” “The look in your eyes says otherwise. Am I totally wrong? Do you want children?” I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of letting him know he’s right. Not only right, but precisely on the money. Over the years, I’ve seen high school friends online get married, buy houses and start families. I’ve watched their lives evolve into something completely unrecognizable from my own and I haven’t observed this evolution with jealousy. I’ve witnessed it with fear. Fear that it might happen to me, too, before I’ve accomplished all of my goals, before I’ve realized my dreams, before I’ve had chance to travel the world, see new

countries, experience new cultures. I’ve feared it, because the people in the pictures on Facebook have all looked so deliriously happy. Content with their lot. The things they held dear, the goals they strived toward so hard and for so long, are now secondary to something else—to the men and women they love, to their children and their dogs. I do not know who I am without my goals. If I abandon them, I abandon the very root and core of myself. Raphael sighs down his nose. Takes my pawn with his second knight. I take his knight, and so it begins. We go to war. The board is our battlefield, and we are both wrestling for supremacy. No more feeling each other out. No more dancing around, waiting for the other to strike. Both queens come out. My bishop. I take his knight. His queen takes my bishop. My queen then takes his queen. This is a ruthless, bloody game, and neither one of us backs down. Rook takes rook. Raphael guards his king fiercely, as do I. “How old were you when you lost your virginity?” he asks casually. “What ?” “I’m guessing you were young. And that you immediately regretted it.”

“Why the hell are you trying to psychoanalyze me?” “I’m just figuring out who you are, Ms. Dreymon.” He sounds so reasonable, not defensive at all, which makes me feel like I’m flying off the handle. I’m not, though. People don’t just ask strangers when they lost their virginity. It’s not polite. It’s really fucking rude . “How does knowing when I lost my virginity help you figure out who I am?” “It’s the small, unexpected details that often give me the most insight into a person,” he replies. “When I lost my virginity is not a small detail to me. It’s private. Personal.” “I lost my virginity when I was sixteen to a girl in a graveyard. She was five years older than me. I lasted about three seconds before I lost it and came. She was seriously unimpressed.” He cracks his thumb knuckle, looking me dead in the eye. “See? It’s that easy. You could have just said, I didn’t lose my virginity until I was twenty-one. Or fifteen. Or twenty-eight. You could have said the brutal rape my mother suffered through when I was a small child made me wary of forming physical connections with people. You could have said—”

My cheeks start to burn. What. The. Fuck. Did. He. Just. Say? He’s still talking, I can see his lips moving, but all I can hear are those words playing on repeat. He knows about my mother’s attack? How ? My father never even knew about what happened that day. My brother. Mom made me promise I would never tell a soul, and I kept that promise. So…how the fuck does Raphael North know about it? My eyes must have glazed over. Raphael’s stopped talking, and he’s gone back to cracking his knuckles. “I’m sorry. Perhaps that was tactless of me,” he says. “Tactless? Bringing up my mother’s rape during our very first conversation was tactless ? God, I can’t fucking…” I shake my head, about to get up out of my chair. Raphael holds out a hand, leaning forward in his chair, though. “I haven’t had a proper conversation with a normal human being in a very long time, Elizabeth. I’m afraid my social skills leave a lot to be desired. I’m very sorry if I’ve offended you. Just...don’t get angry. Please.” This guy…this guy is something else altogether. I’m boiling mad, but I don’t want him to see that. I slam his pawn I’ve just taken down next to all the other

pieces I’ve claimed. Six thousand dollars, Beth. Six thousand dollars. I keep the number in my mind, focusing on everything I’ll be losing if I walk out of the apartment now. Grinding my teeth together, I say, “Okay. How about this? I won’t completely lose my temper and storm out of here, but I’m going to take a leaf out of your book and tell you that what happened to my mother is none of your fucking business . I don’t know how you even found out about that, and I don’t want to know. I never want to speak with you about it again.” Raphael sits back in his chair, very still for a moment. His body is relaxed, though, at ease. His breathing is steady and even, unlike mine. I’m holding my breath. A long, terrible minute stretches out before us. A rhythmic thumping, pounding sound breaks the silence. Raphael turns to watch as a helicopter rises beside the building, maybe only a hundred feet away, hovering in place for a second before it peels off to the left, lifting higher into the sky. When he turns back to me, he’s smiling sadly. “Fair call, Ms. Dreymon,” he says. “I deserve that. I’ll never bring it up again. You have my word. And congratulations.” “What for?”

“On winning the game.” He nods towards the chessboard. “You have me in check mate in three moves. See?” I look down at the remaining pieces, running through the remaining plays, and I see that he’s right. My bishop to his king. I always, always play three or four moves ahead if I can, trying to analyze and anticipate where my opponent is going to go next. This time, however, I’ve been on the back foot, strategizing on the fly. His moves have been unpredictable, his game strong. And, let’s face it, I’ve been pretty damn distracted. Raphael gets to his feet and offers out his hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Dreymon. I have some pressing work I must attend to now, though. I trust you can see yourself out?” “Yes. I know the way.” I stand and shake his hand, my stomach twisting itself into knots. Damn. This has not gone well. This has not gone well at all. Raphael doesn’t speak again. He inclines his head, a deferential gesture completely at odds with how he’s behaved the last forty minutes, and then he turns and walks away. He exits through a door at the other end of the room, and the silence he leaves behind is deafening.

It’s a straight shoot back down the hallway to the anteroom. When I leave through the glass door, Nate is already standing there, waiting for me. “You haven’t been crying,” he says with a grin. “That’s impressive.” Crying ? What the hell? How many other women has he had come here to play chess with him? And how many of them have fled his penthouse in floods of tears? “I’m not that easy to intimidate. I don’t make a habit of allowing assholes to get under my skin.” Nate’s head rocks back, and he roars with laughter. “Perfect,” he says between gasped breaths. “You’re just…that’s fucking perfect. Come on. I’ll drive you home.” He opens a small closest inside the actual elevator and gives me back my shoes. On the way home, Nate chats to me about the weather, about sports, about his past. He talks to me about everything I was warned not to discuss with Raphael North. My mind is only half on the conversation. As we pass through the familiar streets of New York, I wonder just what Raphael North really wanted when he answered that ad on Craigslist. Yes, we were playing a game from the moment our eyes met through that door in his apartment, but it wasn’t fucking chess. And the thing that vexes me the

most about that? The thing that has my fists clenching by my sides the entire ride home? I can’t for the life of me tell who really won.

Four

Beth “S o ? How did it go? What was his place like? Was he handsome and charming? Tell me everything. I have to know.” For such a smart, empowered, independent woman, Thalia sure does like to act like a gossiping teenager from time to time. It’s nine P.M. I silenced my phone and have been avoiding looking at the screen for the past four hours, but I just knew she’d end up at my building, hammering down my door if I didn’t tell her what happened and soon. So I checked, and sure enough I had five missed calls from her. “There’s not much to tell,” I say. “We played our game. Yes, he was handsome. His place was insane. He was a little…cold.” “Cold? What do you mean, cold?” I mean his attitude was positively glacial. I don’t say that to Thalia, though. I don’t want her to worry. Instead, I say, “Like…odd . He asked me a bunch of really personal questions.”

“And?” “And I don’t think he liked that I didn’t bend over backwards to give him the answers he wanted.” “Oh, boy. Please tell me you at least let him win the game?” I’m quiet for a moment, and then I say, “I didn’t even notice until he pointed out that I was going to win. I was so angry, I figured I was bound to lose. I was all over the place.” “Beth! What the hell!” “I’m sorry! What do you want me to do, go back in time and spill my deepest darkest secrets to him like a good little girl? It’s too late now. I blew it. At least he’ll pay us for this session. You can keep the money. I don’t mind. I have a couple of interviews tomorrow anyway.” “What are you talking about?” Thalia asks. “You can’t go to those job interviews. You don’t have to. Raphael’s assistant emailed and said he wants you to go back on Monday.” “What?” I can’t think of anything else to say. He wants me to go back? That makes no sense. I was off kilter and annoyed, and he was pushy and

aggressive. The artic chill that was blowing off him ninety percent of the time I was sitting opposite him almost had my teeth chattering. “You must have done something right,” Thalia muses. “But next time, try and remember which side your bread is buttered on, girl. This is easy money, and that guy is heavenly to look at. Fucking heavenly . Don’t waste this opportunity, or I will bitch slap you so hard you won’t remember your name for a week.” If anyone else were saying this to me, I’d think they were pissed at me for jeopardizing their cut of the money Raphael promised to pay every month. Thalia’s business minded, though. While she never misses an opportunity to make some money, she doesn’t particularly need it. Her parents are loaded. Not quite Raphael North loaded, but still, she came into her inheritance when she was twenty-one. She told me when we were drunk one night that her parents hate that she’s studying law. She said she didn’t have to work another day in her life if she didn’t want to, and that her parents had grand dreams of her becoming a tennis pro. Their dream, though. Not hers. So the two grand she’s taking out of the money from Raphael is peanuts to her. And she knows the other six are vitally important to me. “When you see him on Monday, can you do me a

favor? Can you try and be cordial? He didn’t hit on you, did he?” “No, he didn’t.” If anything he seemed slightly repulsed by the idea that I’d lost my virginity earlier than I should have. I don’t tell Thalia that part. “He didn’t seem like a criminal or a murderer, either?” “No,” I admit. “Just a jerk.” “You can handle hanging out with a jerk for a couple of hours a week here and there, girl. Promise me you’ll do it. Promise me you’ll be civil.” Now that I’ve had the chance to meet Raphael, I’d love to decline the offer to spend any more time with him. I hate that he knows about the trauma I witnessed when I was a kid. I fucking hate it. Thalia is the only person I’ve mentioned it to, and I see the way she looks at me sometimes, like she feels sorry for me. Like I’m broken in some ways because of it. If Raphael North looks at me that way, I don’t know what the hell I’ll do. My reaction won’t be pretty, though. On top of that, Raphael’s looks are so distracting, his home so imposing. It clouded my head to be around him, and that

coupled alongside the fact that he really was hostile made for one hell of an awkward hour. But. God, I hate when there’s a but… “All right. For the money. But this can’t go on forever, Thalia. I’m going to have to buckle down and really start studying for exams soon. Once that time comes, I’m going to have to stop this, anyway.” “Fair enough,” she concedes. “I get it. But in the meantime, think of all the cash you can put aside.” “I am,” I tell her. “I really am.” *** I cancel the interviews I have lined up the next day. It feels foolhardy to do it, but if I’m going to continue to visit Raphael, then I don’t need the extra two hundred bucks I’ll earn working fifteen hours a week in a coffee shop. And I do need that extra time to study. I spend all day going over the notes from Professor Dalziel’s missed class, making sure I have everything down and I understand the side notes that have been added by his T.A. Then, on Sunday night, I get a text from a number I don’t recognize.

U nknown : I did the research. There’s no evidence that chemtrails contain elements known to cause infertility. I sit there on my couch, surrounded by textbooks, paper everywhere, and I stare at my cell phone’s screen. I know who the message is from but I can’t quite force myself to believe it. I’m meant to go and see him tomorrow morning. Why would Raphael text me, especially if only to comment on some fleeting thing we mentioned in passing? How did he get my phone number? Thalia must have given it to him. Or maybe he went and hunted it down on his own. He has the resources to do that kind of thing, I’m sure. Am I supposed to reply to this? And if so, how ? I think for a solid ten minutes, torn by what I should do. His message wasn’t a question. He didn’t ask me anything, so I have nothing to respond to per se. But if I don’t send something, would that be rude? Shit. What would I do if it were Thalia who’d sent the text and not Raphael? Hmm. I’d reply with an emoji probably. Hardly an intellectual means of communication, but emojis are safe. You can’t confuse the tone of an emoji. A happy face is just that. A crying face, a high five, an emoji blowing a kiss. They’re impossible to misinterpret. I go to

respond, surveying the options open to me. The smiling guy with the red cheeks? Extreme happiness? Probably not appropriate. Flamenco dancing lady? Definitely not. The laughing-so-hardI’m-crying dude? Nope. What about a simple smiley face? That’s none threatening. It says, ‘it’s funny that you looked that up.’ Okay. Smiley face. Smiley face. Just send the damn thing already, Beth. Come on! I tap the smiley face icon and then hit send as quick as I can. I’m my own worst enemy. I overthink everything in these situa— Wait. Wait . Oh…god… I stare at the phone screen, not quite able to process what I’m seeing. There is no happy, yellow, round smiley face icon on the screen I’m looking at. Not even close. The single emoji sitting there next to my name, the only thing I’ve replied to the hottest, wealthiest man in New York… is brown. The poop emoji. It stares back at me, mouth open, eyes wide,

laughing at me. Fuck. I can almost hear it mocking me: “Too late! Can’t take me back now, motherfucker! I have been unleashed upon the world.” “Shit. Shit, shit, shit !” Literally. Shit. I throw my phone down on the couch beside me and cover my face with both hands. How? How the hell did I manage to send a shit emoji for no apparent reason to Raphael North? This is not good. Thalia is going to murder me. I scramble, picking up my phone, about to text her, to ask her what the hell I should do, when I see the little bubble text box pop up in the conversation: Raphael is replying. I mouth the word fuck silently as I watch that damn box flash on the screen. And then…an emoji. Two of them: a monkey, and another poop. The speech bubble appears again. U nknown : Hey, if you’re about to start slinging shit around, at least let me defend myself. M e : I am SO sorry. I did NOT mean to send that. U nknown : No offence taken. I’m aware that I invoke strong reactions from people sometimes. D amn it . It was an accident, but now Raphael

obviously thinks I’m trying to insult him. Change the subject. Change the subject. M e : Ha! I’ll be sure to tell my conspiracy theory friends that chemtrails are 100% safe, then. R aphael sends a hand emoji —a peace sign. That seems a little out of character, but at least he doesn’t appear to be mad. M e : I’ll also be sure to tell them the reports of your death have been greatly exaggerated. H e doesn’t reply . I watch my phone, waiting for its chime for fifteen minutes, knees up under my chin, but nothing happens. After a while, I go back to my textbooks. An hour later, as I’m making coffee, a new message pops up on the screen. I’ve saved his number now, so I immediately know it’s him. R aphael : I wouldn’t be so quick to spread that rumor if I were you. The jury’s still out on that one.

Five

Beth T wo classes today , both of them early. Thalia passes me slip after slip of paper like we’re back in high school. It’s hard enough to concentrate on the lecture as it is, but with her constant questioning, it’s a miracle I manage to take any notes at all. Over lunch, she asks me if I’m going home to change before I go and meet with Raphael. “Nope,” I tell her, taking a bite of my wrap. “He said I should wear whatever makes me comfortable.” Concern flashes across Thalia’s face. “It’s probably a test, Beth. You should still wear something smart.” “What’s wrong with this?” I look down at myself, at the pale blue strappy shirt and the black jeans I’m wearing. When I look up, Thalia’s nose is wrinkled. “My father says jeans are blue collar working men’s clothes. They’re not smart or professional.”

“Might I point out that you’re wearing jeans right now. And also, your father is in his seventies. Of course he thinks that. He’d probably wear a shirt and tie to go hiking, if he could still hike.” The troubled look doesn’t leave Thalia’s face. “I don’t know, Beth…” “He wears jeans. Why shouldn’t I?” “North ? Raphael North was wearing jeans when you met him?” “Yes. Ripped jeans. And a t-shirt.” “You’re fucking with me. That man never left his apartment unless that perfect body of his was expertly packaged in a Giorgio Armani threepiece.” “I don’t know what to tell you, Thalia. He was very casual the other day. Very casual. He practically laughed at me when I said you’d forced me to wear business attire. I’m going to our meeting this afternoon wearing this, or I’m not going at all. It’s that simple.” “You might want to wipe your chin before you get chipotle sauce all over yourself, then,” she says dryly, pointing at my face. I use my napkin just in

the nick of time, barely catching the dollop of sauce that was about to land in my lap. “You’re going to let him win this time, right?” Thalia says. “Yeah, this time I’ll make sure I’m paying attention. So long as he doesn’t offend me the moment I walk through the door, I should be okay.” Even as I say this, I know the chances of that happening are slim to none. The man doesn’t seem to be capable of opening his mouth without saying something to upset me. By four o’clock, I’ve worked myself into a ball of nerves again. Nate calls me from outside my building, and I go jump into the Tesla, opening my own door and climbing into the backseat before he can stop me. “You’re trouble,” he says, laughing. “I know it when I see it, and you are trouble with a capital T. You’d have to be to come back for a second round with Raphael.” We laugh and joke on the way over to the Osiris Building, the drive much quicker than it was on Saturday. I try not to worry about the text faux pas from last night. I try not to worry, period. Easier said than done, though. I toe off my sneakers in the

elevator and hand them over to Nate. He smirks when he sees my freshly painted plum toenails, but he doesn’t say anything. I gave myself a full pedicure last night before I went to bed. My feet have never looked better. Nate buzzes on the doorbell by the glass door again, then gives me a squeeze on the shoulder. “Give him hell, spitfire.” I laugh under my breath. “I’ll try.” Today, the curtain on the other side of the door doesn’t go back. The door just swings open, and there is Raphael—tall, cheeks a little red, eyes wild, hair wet again. There are damp spots on his shoulders too, making the dark, burned red of his polo shirt even darker. His eyes blaze when he looks at me. “You’re early,” he states. “Am I?” “Yes. Fifteen minutes early.” “I’m sorry, would you like me to come back later then?” I’m joking, but it’s very obvious that Raphael is considering saying yes. He frowns slightly, and then steps away from the door, holding it open for me.

“No. It’s fine,” he says tightly. “Go on through. We’re playing in the lounge again, by the window.” I go inside, walking the long length of the penthouse, aware that every single one of the doors that line the hallway toward the lounge are all closed again. No chance of seeing what lies beyond. Calling the space at the other end of the hallway a lounge simply doesn’t do it justice. It would be more appropriate to call it a loft, or even a hangar. The chess set is set up exactly where it was two days ago. I sit down in the same chair, and Raphael sits opposite me. He takes hold of the chessboard, though, spinning it around so that the black pieces are in front of me, and the copper pieces are in front of him. “Fair’s fair,” he says. So today, I will have the advantage of going first. How very generous of him. He seems a little tense today. More than he was on our first meeting, which is saying something. The muscles in his jaw are popping as he grinds his teeth together. A small vein stands out at his temple. I can’t stop staring at it. There’s something about him right now. Not just one thing, but a number of small things that, combined, make him thoroughly intriguing. I can tell something’s bothering him, but I can’t tell what will happen if I ask him if he’s okay. There’s a

prickly energy pouring off him as he eyes the board. It’s as though he could snap and explode at any second. He’s been silent since he switched the board around, but his body language is absolutely screaming. I take my cue from him and I keep quiet. I open the game, already plotting how I will lose. Raphael doesn’t look up at me. He watches the board with such a single-minded focus that I doubt he really even knows I’m here. I can’t decide which version of Raphael is more unnerving: the impolite version of him that asks impolite questions, or the brooding, silent version of him that hardly acknowledges my presence. He plays furiously, barely waiting for me to put down my pieces before he’s picking up one of his and making his next move. Five minutes pass. Ten. Then fifteen. I claim his pieces, and he claims mine. Twenty minutes into the game, he slumps back in his chair, rubbing his index finger along the line of his chin, looking out of the window. “Congratulations,” he says.

“I’m sorry, what ?” “Congratulations. You have me in four moves.” “No, no, I—” I check the board, and I see it. Four simple moves and my rook will have him in checkmate. Damn it! How the hell did that even happen ? I pinch the bridge of my nose, sighing. “Would you like to go again?” I ask. “That was a pretty fast game.” “Honestly, I don’t want to play. I’ve had an…interesting day.” “Oh. Okay, well…” What does that mean? Am I being dismissed? He doesn’t seem like he’s in the mood for company. Not that he did last time, either, but there you go. “Do you read?” Raphael says. “Yes, of course. I read all the time.” He finally tears his gaze away from the window, looking right at me. “Have you ever read any of Anatoly Vasiliev’s books?” “No, I haven’t.” He grunts, a sound of disappointment. “He wrote a

novel called, Waking Dreams in the Garden of Men . It’s about this guy who wakes up one morning, goes to work…” Raphael pauses, looking out over the city again, frowning, as if something’s caught his attention. “He goes to work, and all of his friends, the people he’s worked with for many years, are all gone. Replaced with strangers, who all seem to know him, know personal details about his life, his family…they all seem to share personal experiences with him, and yet he doesn’t know a single one of them. When he goes home, there’s a guy waiting for him inside his house. He claims he’s his brother, but the man doesn’t have a brother. He has sisters. Three sisters. He checks his house for their photographs so he can show them to the imposter who’s broken into his home, but all he can find are pictures of the two of them together. He spends the rest of the book trying to figure out if he’s dreaming in this bizarre new world, or if his other life was the dream all along, and where he finds himself now is real.” “That sounds confusing,” I offer. “I’m not sure it’s my kind of book.” “It’s horrible,” he says slowly. “It’s not anyone’s kind of book.” “Then why did you read it?”

He blinks at me, like this is the most bizarre question I could possibly have asked in this moment. “Because it’s a work of fiction,” he says. “I like reading fiction. It’s not real. You can close the book and end the story whenever you like. Would you like to go up to the roof with me now, Ms. Dreymon?” “The roof? I don’t think that’s a good idea. It’s…cold .” Cold is the first word that springs to mind. What I want to say is it’s too fucking high. I’m afraid I’ll fall over the railings and tumble to my death. “Okay,” Raphael says. “In that case, would you like to see something no one else has ever seen before?” Thalia would have a quip about his dick on the tip of her tongue right now. She’d definitely have some crass little comment to fire back at him. Plenty of women have seen Raphael’s dick if the media are to be believed, but she’d make it work somehow. Instead, I say, “Okay. So long as it doesn’t involve heights.” Raphael smirks—the first sign of amusement from him since, well…since we met. “No heights, I promise.”

He gets up and holds out his hand to me. “Come with me.” My hand feels dwarfed in his; it’s been a long time since I’ve been held by my hand, and it’s a strange feeling. A thrill of…something fires through me. His skin is hot, burning almost. His fingers intertwine with mine, and I can’t hide my surprise. It’s not the way someone would take another person’s hand if they’re showing them the way. It’s the handhold of lovers, people who care deeply about each other. Raphael doesn’t seem to notice the startled look on my face as he guides me toward the door he disappeared through at the end of our last meeting. Nor does he let go of my hand. He’s a man on a mission as he pulls me through the door and into a short hallway. This time there are no doors on either side, only a wide marble staircase leading upward at the other end of the hall. There are mountings, on the walls, though. Gold hooks drilled into the bare brickwork, where pictures obviously used to hang. They’ve all been removed now, though, it seems. Raphael finally releases his hold on me at the foot of the stairs. “Are you afraid of the dark?” he asks, as he begins to head up. “No.”

“Good. This test room has to be completely pitch black for the technology to work.” At the top of the stairs, he hurries me along another hallway—this place is huge—and then opens a door to his right. Flicking a light on, he gestures me inside, then closes the door behind me. The room is small, maybe only four meters by six. The walls are lined with a thick, black felt, and the floor is protected with some sort of rubberized coating. My pulse races away from me as Raphael locks the door. Shit, shit, shit… “Don’t lock yourself away with people you don’t know. Never be alone with people, especially men, Elizabeth. It’s not safe. It’s never safe.” My mother’s words echo inside my mind, like a death toll. I should be more careful. I should have asked to keep the door open or something. If he’s locked it… “Don’t look so afraid,” Raphael says abruptly. “You’re in no danger. I know what this must look like.” “Oh? I don’t know what you mean.” I squirm, rubbing my hand against the back of my neck. Fuck. I must be so easy to read. “This room looks like some sort of torture chamber.

It isn’t. You just have to trust me,” Raphael says. Trust is earned, not freely given, though. My heart is skipping all over the damn place as he moves to stand in front of a computer sitting on a desk against the wall. The desk and the computer are the only items of furniture in here. A bundle of black cables hang down from the center of the ceiling. Raphael opens a drawer in the desk and takes out a soft shell container, which he unzips. Inside: some kind of headset. No, not a headset. Way less bulky. More like a pair of glasses that wrap all the way around my head, encompassing my peripherals. He connects the glasses to the cables that hang down from the ceiling, then he also connects a series of what look like electrode pads to the glasses, too. Then he turns to me. “Are you feeling brave, Ms. Dreymon?” I’m absolutely, categorically not feeling brave. Telling Raphael so seems impossible, though. He seems so…solid . So damn confident of every move he makes. I study the strange VR glasses, tapping my fingers nervously against my legs. “What is it?” I ask. “What’s it for?” He looks down at the equipment he’s holding and shrugs. “It’s a virtual reality simulator. Nothing

more.” “What is it going to show me?” “Something profound.” There’s a weight and gravity to his words that sends chills down my spine. “And…it’s not dangerous?” “Most definitely not.” “Okay, then. Sure, I’ll try it.” Aside from the idea of being completely vulnerable and at his mercy while I’m wearing the VR glasses, I am intrigued. It’s not every day someone offers you the chance to witness something never seen before. Something profound. And Raphael doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy to exaggerate. His movements are quick and self-assured as he first connects the electrodes to my temples and at the base of my skull. “You might feel a slight pulsing sensation,” he says. “It’s nothing to worry about.” I don’t feel anything at first, but as he slides the arms of the VR glasses over my ears, a gentle throbbing sensation, not painful, just strange, beings to pulse at my temples. Raphael is standing so

close. Close enough that I can see the pale, almost silver flecks in his remarkably green eyes. The corner of his mouth twitches as he looks down at me, apparently transfixed. He smells like the ocean. Like something fresh and wild and untamable—a natural, clean and heady smell that leaves me breathless. “You’re nervous,” he says softly. “I’m fine.” “Your pupils are dilated.” “So are yours.” Raphael angles his head to one side, observing me. He keeps doing this, as if he’s caught off guard by me in some way, sucked deep into some train of thought I’m not privy to. Silence fills the small room, echoing off the walls. Five… Six… Seven… Eight… He seems to land back in the moment with a jarring

shock. Inhaling deeply through his nose, he quickly finishes hooking everything up to the VR glasses, then he places it down over my eyes. “Can you see anything?” he asks. “No.” And I really can’t. I’m in utter darkness. Not the kind of darkness you experience when you close your eyes. This is the kind of darkness you experience underground, deep down in the bowels of the earth, where there are no lights to guide you. It’s an absolute darkness that reaches inside you and settles heavily inside your mind—a living, breathing kind of darkness. “The throbbing will intensify now,” Raphael says. He’s moved away from me. I can sense that he’s on the side of the room, over by the computer. My suspicions are confirmed when I hear the tapping of keys, and then the low hum of something mechanical booting up. I slide my hands into the pockets of my jeans; I don’t want him to notice that they’re shaking, or that I’m clenching them into fists. The throbbing, just a dull thump a moment ago, grows until it’s more of a solid drumming at the both sides of my head. Still it doesn’t hurt, but the sensation is kind of unsettling.

“Okay. Are you ready?” Raphael asks. “Yes. I’m ready.” “Good. You might notice a series of flashes. Tell me what you see.” At first there’s nothing. I wait, holding my breath. The blackness envelops me, never ending. “Nothing?” Raphael asks. “No, not yet.” “Okay, how about now?” There’s an odd buzzing in my head, and then all of a sudden it’s like a light switch has been turned on. A bright blue light fills my vision. It’s everywhere —up, down, left and right. Bright, sky blue everywhere I look. “Wow. I can’t see my body,” I say, looking down. “Everything’s just…blue.” “And what about now?” The color instantly shifts to red. “Red,” I answer. “And…how about now?”

“Purple.” “Good. Tell me the names of the all the colors you see as you see them. And be specific. Not just red, blue, green. What shade are they? What do they remind you of?” “Okay. Everything is yellow now. The color of pale butter. Spring sunshine. Now, mint. Or aqua. The color of the ocean in Malta.” The color changes every five seconds or so, morphing from one hue and tone to the next. “Orange, the color of amber and citrine stones. Green again, Irish green, the color of emeralds and healthy grass. The color…the color of your eyes. Now pink, dusky, the color of rose petals and my favorite blush.” God. The color of your eyes? What the hell is wrong with me? I wish that hadn’t slipped free. My mouth was moving before I could put a stop to it, though. Fuck. My. Life. We continue on for another five minutes. Ten. I manage to find names and descriptions for so many different colors. My apprehension, along with my embarrassment, melts away as we continue with our game, until Raphael finally tells me it’s over. Disappointment floods me. I’ve never experienced virtual reality before, but I’ve heard amazing things about it. The landscapes and vistas created by

Raphael’s company, North Industries, are meant to be the very best, most impressive graphics in VR. So, while the colors he just showed me were crisp, vivid and bright, I can’t help but feel a little cheated. How on earth does he think that was profound? Raphael removes the VR glasses, and everything is still pitch black. I can’t even see the light coming from the computer screen. Panic grips hold of me, then, slamming into me with the force of a ten-ton truck. “Why can’t I see?” I ask. My voice is edged with panic. I reach out, my hands scrambling, and I find Raphael’s arm. “I can’t see. Oh, shit,” I whisper. “It’s okay, it’s okay.” Raphael takes my hand, squeezing it. “The electrodes on your temples are disrupting the electrical pulses from your eyes to your brain, preventing messages from traveling down your optic nerve. That’s what the throbbing sensation is.” “What? Why? Take them off!” Raphael grabs hold of my wrists now, stopping me from ripping the electrodes from my skin. “Stay calm. Stay calm. Beth, listen to me. Stay calm. You’re not blind. Not really. It’s temporary. The moment I remove the electrodes, you’ll be able to

see perfectly again. But first, I want you to listen to me.” His hands, locked around my wrists, are strong. I panic for a second, trying to tear myself free, but he holds on fast. Taking a deep breath, I force myself to stop fighting. This is going to be okay. This is going to be okay, Beth . I say it to myself over and over again. “That’s it,” Raphael says soothingly. “You’re doing great. Now…the electrodes have a secondary purpose. While they’re blocking electrical impulses from your eyes to your brain, they’re also redirecting a secondary set of impulses directly from the glasses. The impulses are sending visual data directly into your brain, bypassing the eyes altogether. Do you understand what that means?” “No, not really,” I say, swallowing thickly. Raphael doesn’t say anything. He continues to hold onto my wrists, and I can hear his breathing, slow and steady, close to my ear. I can feel the warmth of it skating across my skin. “Think about it,” he says softly. I calm my mind, doing as he asks. Despite being filled with the overwhelming fear that this change in my vision is permanent, the feel of him so close to me is strangely comforting. I turn over the information he just gave me in my mind, slowly

making sense of it. If the VR glasses can transfer visual information directly into a person’s mind, completely bypassing their eyes, then… Then… “Oh my god,” I whisper. “Oh my…god!” I sob, the sound choked and filled with emotion, echoing around the small room. “If you can do this…if you can transfer visual data like this into someone’s brain…” Raphael lets go of me. Slowly he removes the electrodes from the sides of my head, from the base of my neck. One moment I’m drowning in darkness, the next I’m back in the dimly lit, small room, and Raphael is standing in front of me, a tiny ghost of a smile teasing at the corners of his mouth. He looks so different when he’s almost smiling. The tense quality that shrouds him falls away, and I see the makings of an entirely different person altogether, hovering there in the shadows. “You can make people see,” I whisper. “This technology can make…the blind see.” He nods slowly, and I cover my mouth with both hands. For some reason my eyes are filling with

tears. “It’s just colors at the moment. But we’re developing the technology fast. Soon it will be basic images. Within the next few years, we’re hoping we’ll be able to transmit exact read outs of a person’s surroundings through even smaller sensors that look identical to reading glasses.” “So…” I can barely form coherent thoughts right now. “You’re saying that someone who’s been blind their whole lives…will finally be able to see what they look like? They’ll be able to see what their parents, their children, their wives and their husbands look like?” Raphael nods. I look at the glasses he’s holding in both of his hands, and then I look up at him. “You did this? You figured out how to do it?” “The idea was mine. The basic science was mine. The project required more than basic science, though. A whole team of scientists and engineers have slaved on this over the past three years. They’re miracle workers.” I don’t know what to say. I can’t think of a single thing that comes close to being enough . Instead, I

reach out and I take the VR glasses from Raphael, turning it over, memorizing the lines and the shape of it. “This…this is going to change so many lives,” I whisper. Raphael’s smile evaporates. He turns away, clearing his throat as he shuts down a complex looking operating system on the computer screen. With his back still to me, he says, “I’m afraid I have a meeting now, Ms. Dreymon. It’s time for you to go.” “Oh. Of course.” His head is lowered when he spins back around, holding out his hand for the VR glasses. “Do you think you can find your own way out again?” “Yes, I can.” “Wednesday. I want to play again. Are you available?” “I—I have a late class on Wednesday. I won’t be free until after six.” “Then come at seven. You can eat here with me while we play. Agreed?”

Eat here? With him? Dinner? The suggestion leaves me a little surprised, but I can see from the void expression he’s wearing that he doesn’t mean dinner . He means the consumption of sustenance while we play our game and nothing more. “Yes, that should work.” “Perfect. Goodbye, Ms. Dreymon.” He turns back to his computer screen, and that’s it. I’ve been summarily dismissed. I make my way out of the room, down the stairs, through the lounge, down the hallway and back to the glass door, and for some reason I feel the need to run. To get away from the penthouse as quickly as I can. My heart is slamming in my chest, but I can’t seem to figure out why. I pull open the glass door, fully expecting Nate to be there waiting for me, but he’s not. Instead, a tall, fair haired guy wearing a pair of Ray Bans and a pale blue Ralph Lauren polo shirt stands in my way, his hand raised, his finger outstretched, by the looks of things a second away from ringing the doorbell. The guy reels back at the same time I do, hand on his chest. “Jesus fucking wept, you scared me. What the— who are you ?” He eyes my bare feet, eyebrow raised. “I’m Beth. I’m…I’m sorry.” Beyond flustered, I sidle past the tall, handsome guy in the doorway,

skirting along the wall in the anteroom. “Mr. North said I should see myself out.” The amused look on the guy’s face transforms into something else. Something like intrigue. “Well, well. Raphael’s been keeping secrets. I’m Paxton Ross. Pax, if you and I are going to be friends. I went to boarding school with Mr. North back in the day. How, pray tell, do you know him?” “I—” Well, shit. What am I supposed to say? Raphael doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy to ever let anything ruffle his feathers, but he probably doesn’t want a longstanding friend knowing he’s been responding to weird ads on the internet. “I met him through a mutual friend,” I say, scrambling. “Oh? Which friend might that be?” “Thalia. Thalia Johnson.” Pax raises his chin, narrowing his eyes at me. He looks more than a little suspicious. The look fades, though. “Ah, yeah. Thalia. I know her father fairly well. How’s she doing at college? Columbia, right? She’s studying law?” A jolt of electricity burns through me like lightning. I reeled off Thalia’s name without thinking,

assuming he would accept my word at face value. I didn’t for a second think he would really know her. And if Pax knows her, then…does Raphael actually know her, too? “Yes. That’s how she and I met,” I explain. “I’m also studying law.” Pax gives me a tight-lipped smile, and then looks over my shoulder into the penthouse beyond. “All right. Well, it was lovely to meet you, Beth. Hopefully we’ll run into each other again sooner rather than later.” “Yes, I’d like that. Have a good meeting.” In the elevator, I almost forget to open the hidden closest and retrieve my sneakers. On the ground floor, Nate is still nowhere to be seen. I order an Uber and I wait out in front of the building, on edge and uneasy. As soon as I get home, I call Thalia, the dial tone endlessly ringing out in my ear. For once, she’s the one who doesn’t pick up.

Six

Beth T halia’s not in class the next morning. I’ve tried calling her six or seven times, and she hasn’t answered. I even went to her apartment this morning to ask her about Pax, but she didn’t answer her buzzer. I’m beginning to get worried. She may be late all the freaking time, but she never actually misses class. And she never dodges me, either. I float through my lectures in a blur, my body going through the motions, taking notes, bookmarking important cases to come back to later, but my mind is somewhere else. It’s in the dark, the sound of Raphael North’s voice sliding over my skin like silk. It’s caught on some vicious loop, trying to figure out why my meeting with Paxton Ross gave me such a tense, sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. It’s wondering where the hell Thalia is, and if I should start calling around to hospitals yet. Later, I pick up some Chinese takeout on my way home. I sit myself down on my couch to study, but I’m all over the place. I can’t concentrate, can’t

focus worth a damn. For those fifteen seconds after Raphael removed the VR glasses, when I thought something terrible had happened to my vision, he held onto my wrists and stood so close to me. Through the panic and adrenalin, there was something so reassuring about having him standing right there, right alongside me. I have no idea why I would feel that way. He’s been nothing but professional the two times we’ve met in person. There’s something about him, though. Something captivating. Dizzying. His weird questioning, his clipped responses to my own questions—he’s a complete mystery to me. There’s no figuring him out at all. And those eyes of his… I literally have to force myself to read the pages on the textbook in front of me, staring at every single word, committing each to memory. It’s going to be a long damn night, that’s for sure. At eight-thirty, Thalia eventually calls. I watch my phone ringing, her name flashing up on the screen, and I consider not answering for a second. I’m kind of mad at her. She’s been avoiding me, and by the looks of things, she hasn’t been honest with me, either. I don’t like dishonesty. It’s the one thing that can sour a relationship for me, even a friendship. I do answer in the end, but I don’t feel good about it. “Hey.”

“Buzz me in. Your intercom’s not working,” she says. So she’s outside. It’s rare that Thalia will travel all the way over to me. We usually meet by Columbia, since traveling across the city can be such a nightmare. Her coming here means something is up without a doubt. I hang up and drag myself off the couch, walking over to the intercom. I hit the entry button, waiting for the telltale buzz and click through the speaker of the door being opened and closed down on street level, but the speaker remains quiet. I’ll have to report that to the maintenance guy, Ray. Three minutes pass, and I wait by the door, chewing nervously on my thumbnail. I have no real reason to feel nervous, but I have this feeling in my gut…some niggling itch I can’t seem to satisfy. Thalia knocks once on the door, then opens it and enters. She’s got a full face of makeup on, which is odd for her, and a black sequined dress and killer heels. She looks fantastic. And worried. She takes in the flat look on my face and her shoulders slump. “Okay, listen. I already know what happened today, and I can explain. I should have explained a long time ago.”

I walk back to the couch and sit down. She follows, her heels clicking on the floorboards behind me. “You’d better,” I tell her. “Because I’m seriously confused right now. And confusion does not make me a happy woman.” Thalia sits down in my armchair next the to sofa, placing her purse—very sparkly, very unlike her— in her lap. “Okay. So…” She blows out a breath, puffing her cheeks. “This is hard,” she mutters. “So…I know Raphael. He didn’t answer the ad online, though I am running that business,” she adds quickly. “I met him at boarding school. And Paxton, too. He and I used to date. We were all inseparable—me, Pax, and Raphael.” I pull at a thread on the seam of my jeans, frowning. “Okay, Great. So why didn’t you tell me you knew him in the first place?” “Because…I’ve told people in the past and I’ve always regretted it. I’ve watched it their eyes, the moment when they stop being interested in me as a friend, and they transition to seeing me as a way to get close to Raphael. Over the years it became really frustrating. I just stopped telling people. I stopped telling people about all of it. My parents and their money. My ridiculous upbringing. The summer-long overseas trips, and the brand new SUVs. It made people uncomfortable, and it made

me uncomfortable, too. That way, when I met someone and made friends with them, I knew they wanted to hang out and spend time with me because they liked me, not because of what I have, or what I could do for them.” “Do you honestly think I would have done that?” I ask. I’m not angry that she would lump me in with such shallow people, but I guess I am a little hurt. “No,” she says, shaking her head. “I knew I could tell you everything a couple of weeks after we first met, but by then…you have to understand, Beth. My life up until I joined this program was pure chaos. It was parties every night, way too much cocaine, way too much alcohol, way too many allnighters and fake people fawning over me. When… when everything changed and I came to Columbia, I had this opportunity to become someone else. And I liked the person I became. I put party girl Thalia to rest, and I became regular, every day Thalia. It felt good to be her. I didn’t hide the truth from you because I didn’t trust you. I hid it for me . So I could carry on being regular, every day Thalia for just a little while longer.” I snap the thread from my jeans, winding it around my finger. “Okay. I guess I can understand that. But three years, Thalia. We’ve been friends for three years, and you’ve been keeping secrets. I hate

that.” She hangs her head. This is what true guilt looks like. I’ve seen her pretend to feel bad about plenty of things, primarily not handing in work on time, being late for everything, ever , and failing to show up at all for group assignments altogether, but this is a new look on my friend. There are red spots on her cheeks, that fiery, quicksilver glint that’s always flashing in her eyes dulled just a little. “I’m sorry. I knew this was gonna come out the moment I asked you to go see Raphael. I was planning on it coming out. I just thought I’d have more time to figure out how to tell you, and when I was going to do it. I didn’t think Pax would show up at Raph’s any time soon. I thought he was going to be in China until July at least.” “Are you still dating him?” “No. Kind of. When he’s in town, we meet up and have sex. We broke up a long time ago, though. He’s…he’s still Party Boy Pax. He was never going to change.” A flicker of pain passes over her face, there one second, gone the next. “Do you still love him?” She purses her lips, a small line forming between her eyebrows. “Yes. I suppose I always will. I’m

never going to be able to not love Paxton Ross.” A storm of emotion hangs over her, heavy and oppressive. Her shoulders are rounded, her back slumped, and my own hurt dissipates just a little. Whatever happened in the past between her and Paxton has left her bereft. He must have broken her heart to still be affecting her like this, years later. “He’s not a particularly good person, though. Deep down,” she says. “It’s hard to remember that sometimes, because most of the time, when I’m with him, he’s always so fun and easy going. He has the most amazing ability to make anyone laugh, no matter the circumstances. And he’s so fucking smart and engaging. He can charm the sun out of the sky on his worst day. But then, when it comes down to it, his core beliefs and core morals…they leave something to be desired.” “I’m sorry, Thalia. Sounds like you’re better off without the guy.” She gives me a sad smile. “You’re right. Still, sometimes, it’s hard to bear that in mind.” We sit in silence for a long moment, and it feels like I’m meeting the real Thalia for the very first time. How sad. After a while, I say, “And Raphael? If you’re friends with him after all this, why didn’t you just go play chess with him?”

“Well, for one I can’t play,” she says, smiling. “And secondly, Raphael struggles to spend time with me. I remind him of the past, and the past isn’t easy for him. He prefers to look to the future as often as he can. That’s why he dedicates so much of his time and energy on his projects. He wants to make tomorrow better than today. He wants to solve everyone else’s problems, but he point-blank refuses to face his own.” This, somehow, makes sense to me. Thalia speaks about him from years of experience spending time with him, no doubt traveling, exploring the world, taking advantage of the opportunities available to a group of kids with unlimited bank accounts at their disposal. I know the truth in her words, though. There’s something deeply troubled about Raphael. Something dark and tormented, something gnawing at him from the inside out. “He knows I’m here right now,” Thalia tells me. “And he made me promise to ask you to continue going to play with him. I know it’s a little weird now that you know the truth, but honestly, you’re the first person he’s allowed into his apartment besides a few work colleagues and Pax for a very long time. You going to play with him is progress, Beth. Progress I never thought we’d make with him. I understand if you’re mad at me for keeping

things from you. I know it might not seem like much to you, these few hours you’re spending with him every week, but it means a hell of a lot to me, and to Pax. So, please…don’t stop going over there to punish me.” I close my eyes, groaning as I fall back against the sofa, tucking my legs up underneath me. “I’m not that angry, Thalia. I’m not going to punish anyone. That’s crazy. I guess I’m just confused. If Raphael’s that unwilling to spend time with people, even his friends from high school, then why the hell would he want to spend time with me ?” Thalia takes her cell phone out of her purse, tapping quickly. She gets up and comes to sit down beside me on the couch. “I posted this photo on Instagram a while back,” she says, showing me her phone. It’s a shot of Thalia and me standing outside a bar back when there was still snow on the ground. We’re both wearing hats and scarves, grinning into the camera. This was the night Thalia tried to knee David in the junk for hitting on her. The band actually played well that night, and the two-for-one margaritas at the bar got the better of us. We were pretty wasted by the time we went outside and took that photo. There’s no caption, only the photo. It’s been months since I’ve checked social media accounts, so I didn’t even know she’d posted it.

“He saw this,” Thalia says. “He asked about you. Who you were. How long I’d known you. I told him, and then I didn’t think anything else of it. Last week he emailed me and asked for me to arrange for you to come to play chess with him. His idea, not mine. I was shocked, but I agreed. It’s been so long since he’s shown an interest in meeting someone he doesn’t know that I just agreed right away. I still don’t know why he asked me to do it. All I know is that he’s a good guy, Beth. He’s a solid, good person. He’d never do anything untoward to make you feel uncomfortable, and he’d never do anything to hurt you. Beyond that, it’s been eighteen months since I’ve seen him faceto-face, and even then that was through a glass door. I was being selfish, too. I wanted to hear how he’s doing from someone who’s seen him recently and in person.” “Eighteen months? God, Thalia. Is he mad at you or something?” Sadness pours off her in waves. “No. Maybe. We still speak on the phone. Email all the time. He’s… he’s just Raphael . There’s no other way to explain it. If you keep going to play with him, I’m sure you’ll figure that out for yourself,” she says quietly. She bites on her bottom lip. “Will you still go?” “I don’t know,” I grumble. “It would make me feel

better if we could meet somewhere on neutral ground. A coffee shop, or, I don’t know… somewhere other than his apartment. The place is pretty overwhelming.” Thalia pulls a face. “That’s not going to happen,” she says. “Public places are impossible for Raph. He’s recognized everywhere he goes.” “What about here, then? Surely he could make the effort to come here. I know it’s not exactly the Ritz Carlton, but it’s also not a dirty, rat infested hole in the ground.” “I know, Bee. I love your apartment. You know I love hanging out here with you. I can guarantee Raphael doesn’t think he’s too good to come to your place. I can promise you that. It’s just…he doesn’t like to risk traveling through the city. I know he’s not going to go for it. Just…please. Please keep going over there. I know he’ll be less stuffy the more time you spend together.” I should say no. This whole situation was weird to begin with, and it just got a whole lot weirder. Despite the secrets, Thalia’s been so good to me, though. She came and looked after me for weeks when my father died. She’s stayed up all night studying with me when I’ve needed the motivation and the support. She’s consistently been a good

friend to me, even when she’s been inconsistent in every other area of her life. I grab the pillow beside me and hug it to my chest, resting my chin on top of it. “Yes. Yes, I’ll keep going. But on two conditions.” Her eyes shine brightly, filled with relief. “Of course. Name them.” “You have to get him to stop calling me Ms. Dreymon.” “He’s gonna complain.” “I don’t care. It makes me feel old, not to mention on edge.” “Okay, I’ll make it happen. And the second condition?” “No more money.” “Beth!” I hold up my hands. “I’m serious. He’s your friend. He’s one of your closest friends by the sounds of things, even with the whole refusing to meet with you in person thing. What kind of asshole would I be if I took money from him now?”

“You know he’s not paying me, right? That whole cut thing was just to make it seem more above board.” “It doesn’t matter. I won’t take a cent from him. It’s too weird, Thalia. Just…no .” She looks disappointed, but she nods. “Fine. I’ll tell him. He’s not going to like it, though. He’s not going to like it one bit.”

Seven

Beth I text Raphael the next day at four, just before I go into class. M e : Please don’t send Nate to pick me up today. R aphael replies almost immediately . R aphael : Why? What did he do? M e : Nothing. He’s been great. I’d just prefer to ride the subway. R aphael doesn’t answer . I turn my phone off when I enter my lecture, and I bury it at the bottom of my bag. If I don’t, I’ll be checking it every five seconds to see if I have any messages, and I’m already fighting to pay attention to my workload as it is. My contracts law lecture is so dull I have trouble staying awake. Once it’s finally over, I quickly head to the bathrooms and get changed into the light, fairly casual dress I neatly folded into my bag before I left my apartment this morning. I trade my Chucks for some pretty suede boots with a

kitten heel, though the effort is wasted really, since I’ll be leaving them in the elevator. Still, they complete my outfit. I apply a tiny amount of makeup, some blusher and some mascara, some lipgloss to add a bit of extra color to my face, and then I hurry to the subway. It’s packed, but I’m so used to traveling this way now, that the sea of people all crammed tightly together in the narrow space doesn’t bother me anymore. A busker is playing jazz on a trumpet somewhere, but sound travels so strangely underground here; it’s impossible to know which walkway he’s playing down. A guy with salt and pepper hair taps his foot along to the rhythm as we wait for the train. When it arrives, people pour out of the carriages, talking into their cell phones, heads down, lost in their own private worlds. I take a seat, and I allow myself to check out for a minute. My eyes skip over the countless ads displayed on the walls of the carriage, my mind wandering. The Lion King ; Wicked ; The new David Baldacci book; A pharmaceutical advertisement for depression; A fifty percent off sale at Kingston & Bradshaw Mattresses. Twenty minutes later, I’m off the train and walking through packed streets toward the Osiris Building. It occurs to me once I get there that I’ve only ever accessed the penthouse through the private elevator in the parking lot. Damn. I dig out my phone, about

to text Raphael to ask him if there’s another way up, but he’s already messaged me. Twice. R aphael : The subway isn’t safe. It’s Nate’s job to collect people on my behalf. I didn’t check my phone after class, so I didn’t get his message. He obviously expected me to acquiesce and let Nate pick me up. Does that mean Nate went and waited for me at my apartment? I really hope not. The second message reads: R aphael : Go to the front desk. Tell Oliver I’m expecting you. I don’t know if his tone is irritated or not. It’s so hard to tell on a text. Shit. Oh, well. What’s done is done. Can’t be helped. Now that I’m not getting paid for this, I feel a little less anxious about the whole thing. I head inside, straight to the front desk, and I’m about to ask for Oliver when I notice the guy standing in front of me is wearing a name badge bearing that very name. He smiles politely. “Can I help you, Madam?” “I’m here to see Mr. North,” I tell him. And then, “I’m expected.” I’ve always wanted to say that. Feels very professional. Oliver’s smile amps up to a thousand watts.

“Oh, yes, of course. Beth, correct? Please. Follow me.” He leads me through the lobby of the building, skirting groups of people dressed in suits and ties, briefcases clutched tightly in their hands, until we reach a door marked “private” with a polished brass plaque. He opens the door with a key and ushers me through. I find myself in another small waiting area like the one down in the basement, with another private elevator. “You’ll see yourself up, Beth?” Oliver asks. “Mr. North prefers us to remain down here in the lobby.” “Oh, yes. No problem.” Oliver hits the call button, bows ever so slightly, then leaves me alone to wait for the elevator car to arrive. When it does, I get on and remove my shoes, secreting them away in yet another hidden closest. I check my watch: 6:47. Nearly fifteen minutes early again. Instead of ringing the bell, I walk over to the window opposite, and I stand there, taking it all in. Raphael was obviously upset that I was early last time, so I figure I’ll just wait here until seven rolls around. The view really is phenomenal. The Osiris Building is so tall that the other buildings on the horizon all seem dwarfed by it. I never realized how many helicopter pads there were on the roofs of the

buildings in Manhattan. To the east, I can see the water in the distance, a flat mirror that stretches on into nothingness. The Hudson River winds its way toward the sea like a shining ribbon of grey silk. I can’t hear a thing. This high up, the sounds of the sirens, the traffic, the chatter—they have all disappeared. A solid, tangible, weighty silence fills my ears instead. It’s almost feels like I’m observing the city from space. Everything feels so far away, like I’m untouchable here in this penthouse. “Surreal, isn’t?” The voice at my back startles me. I didn’t hear the glass door open. I didn’t hear Raphael step out into the anteroom, or approach me from behind. He’s wearing a black button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a pair of black pants. His shoes are a burnt brown color—incredibly expensive looking leather. His dark clothes, coupled with his almost black hair, make the green in his eyes all the more vivid. He slides his hands into his pockets, taking a step toward me. “Does it make you feel small and insignificant? Or does being so high up, being able to see so far, make you feel powerful, like you own it all somehow?” he asks quietly. The Raphael North

Intensity Spectrum seems to be hitting an all-time high this evening. He stalks towards me, head slightly tilted down, looking up at me from under his perfect, dark brows, and it feels like a hand strokes down my spine, directly between my shoulder blades. “Small,” I tell him. “It makes me feel small. How does it make you feel?” He looks past me, his gaze briefly flickering over my shoulder, out of the window, before returning to me. “That depends.” “On what?” “On my mood. On the day.” He takes another step forward. There’s something animalistic about the way he moves. Leonine. Predatory. His eyes rove out of the window again, but I still know he’s really watching me and nothing else. “What about today?” I ask. He smiles softly. Stops in front of me, barely two feet away. “Today? Today, the view is making me feel powerful.” His eyes never leave me. I get the feeling he’s not talking about the bustling city through the glass

anymore. I feel like he’s talking about me. I am the view. “I didn’t want to ring the bell until it was time,” I say, shifting from one foot to the other. “Oliver called up to let me know you’d arrived,” he says. “And I didn’t want to keep you out here waiting. Shall we go inside? The food isn’t quite ready yet, but I have some wine breathing. Do you like red?” “Yes. I love red.” He nods a little, fiddling with his shirtsleeve. “Perfect. Follow me.” I think he’s going to take me back to the lounge, but he doesn’t. Instead, he opens a door along the hallway, the third on the right, which leads to yet another hallway. A single door stands at the end of it, and it’s open. The room beyond is magnificent. Another glass ceiling, and another impressive panorama of the city. The room faces west, and the sun is finally going down over the skyline, oranges, yellows, and blazing reds. In the center of the room, a long, banquet style dining table sits, almost fifteen feet long. At one end, two places have been set, and a vase full of pure white calla lilies sits before them. A simple glass decanter of wine is also waiting by the place settings. Raphael makes his way over and pours two glasses, then returns to

hand one to me. “Your dress is…” His eyes travel down my body, and I can’t deny how his attention makes me feel: flustered, a little anxious, vulnerable and on show. I should have worn something fancier. The shirt he’s wearing is a thing of beauty. It looks like it probably cost more than my monthly rent. I have an overwhelming urge to place my hand against his chest and feel the fabric. To feel the solid, sculpted flesh underneath. God, what the hell is wrong with me? I look up, blinking furiously. “It’s simple,” I say, almost apologetically. “I didn’t realize this was going to be such a formal evening.” Raphael smiles crookedly. “It’s not formal. And I was going to say your dress is beautiful. The color makes your eyes seem…alive .” Funny how I was just thinking the exact same thing about him in the anteroom. “Do I normally have dead eyes, then?” I arch an eyebrow. “Not at all. They just seem to be shining especially brightly this evening.” I drink from my wine glass, not really sure how to respond to that. Is he flirting with me? It feels like he is, but then again I’m hardly an expert on the subject these days. It’s been a long time since

someone tried hitting on me; I probably wouldn’t recognize if it were happening either way. The wine is incredible—rich and full-bodied, sweet, with just the right amount of tannin to give it a solid texture on my tongue. “You like it?” Raphael asks. “Yes, it’s lovely. What is it?” He takes a sip himself. “A Syrah my mother bought me for my twenty-first birthday.” “Sounds like something you should have saved for a special occasion.” A strange, curious look settles over Raphael. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but his body language is guarded. Eventually, he speaks. “Thalia told me she came clean with you last night. About our history. She also said you’ve decided you won’t allow me to pay you for your time anymore.” “That’s correct. I also told her to ask you not to address me so formally.” “Thalia said you didn’t want me to call you Ms. Dreymon. I haven’t.” This, technically, is true. He’s being a smart ass,

though, I can tell. “Just because you’re not calling Ms. Dreymon doesn’t mean you shouldn’t address me at all. You should…you should call me Beth .” Raphael shifts, twisting his wine glass around in his hands. This is the first time I’ve ever seen him fidget. He’s always been so relaxed until now, so still, to the point where he’s almost seemed statuesque. He clears his throat. “Why? Why do you want me to call you that?” “Because it’s my name. Because that’s what everyone else on the face of the planet calls me when they speak to me. Because that’s what my friends call me.” His hands still. “Is that what I am? Your friend?” “I—I hope so. I know you can’t just call someone a friend overnight, it takes time, but eventually…” “Eventually, you and I will move from chess opponents, to acquaintances, to friends?” “Yes. If that’s what you want?” He turns to look to his left, away from me. It’s so hard to read him when he looks away like this. Perhaps that’s why he does it—so I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Is he…is he angry ?

“Would you prefer we remain chess opponents?” I ask. “Ask me again at the end of our dinner…Beth .” He tacks my name on the end after a pause that feels like it might go on forever. I like the way he says my name. The way his full lips press together at the start of the word. The way the very tip of his tongue catches between his teeth at the end. It’s sexual, somehow. Laden with suggestion. There doesn’t seem to be any intent on his part to make it sexual. He just exudes this magnetism that drives me crazy, and it’s getting harder and harder to ignore. “Let’s sit down and play. Dinner will be ready soon,” he says. I haven’t noticed the tablet sitting on the table until Raphael picks it up and hits the home button, lighting up the screen. He sits down at the head of the table, watching me, waiting for me to sit down too. I take up my place to his right, and he reaches into his pocket and takes out a coin. Not just any coin. A silver dollar. “Call it,” he says. “For white.” “Heads.”

“All right. Heads it is.” He deftly flicks the coin, and the flash of silver spins end over end before he catches it out of the air and places it on the back of his other hand. When he takes his hand away, tails is facing up. “Looks like I’m white,” he says matter-of-factly. “I didn’t bring the big board in here. It would have gotten in the way. I hope you don’t mind playing on this.” He taps the tablet, and the black and white squares of a chessboard fill the screen. “Not at all.” Somehow playing with the tablet is less intimidating. The obsidian and copper set is beautiful and one of a kind, but it’s much easier to have a thin screen to tap on. Raphael makes the first move, per the coin toss. I know I ought to play sloppily, especially after what Thalia said about me letting him win, but…I don’t. I just can’t seem to force myself to throw the game the time. There’s an odd, combative tension in the air, and it’s making me want to hand his ass to him. Raphael smirks as we play, his gaze lingering over me as we each take our turns. After fifteen minutes or so, there’s a quiet rap at the open door, and I look up to see a guy standing there with two covered plates in his hands. “First course is ready if you are, Mr. North?” He’s

maybe in his late thirties, dressed in a smart deep purple shirt and black pants. Not a waiter’s uniform. Just a well-designed outfit. His sandy hair is swept straight back, razor short on the sides, and tattoos spiral down his bare forearms. Raphael smiles, gesturing for the man to enter with the dishes. “Yes, thank you. Beth, this is Denny. Denny, this is Beth.” He introduces us to one another like we’re both old friends of his, not people employed in his service. Or previously, albeit briefly employed on my part. Denny puts down a plate and offers out his hand to me, grinning warmly. “Pleasure to meet you, Beth,” he says, pumping my arm up and down. “Likewise.” He seems so happy; it’s impossible not to return his enthusiastic greeting. “I’ve got some sorrel soup for you guys,” he says, setting down a plate before me first, and then Raphael. He removes the cloches to unveil shallow, oval shaped bowls beneath. The pale green soup inside has been artfully dashed with sour cream by the looks of things, and small sprigs of watercress. It smells absolutely delicious. “Thank you, Denny,” Raphael says.

“Yes, thank you.” “Absolutely. I’ll be back in a little while with your main courses. Shout if you need me in the meantime.” He leaves the dining room, humming softly under his breath. “We’ll pause to eat,” Raphael says. Probably because he wants to take a second to regroup; I’ve taken six of his pieces already, and he’s only taken two of mine. He picks up the napkin from my table setting, and with a flick of the wrist he unfolds it. Sliding forward, he reaches across me, laying the cloth over my thighs. His face is closer to mine than it ought to be. Close enough that I can see the tiny knick on his jawline, just below his ear, where he’s caught himself shaving. His eyes, only two inches away, are pale and flecked with silver, like threads of silk. He smells fresh again, like citrus and clean laundry. He doesn’t turn his head to look at me, but he glances sideways, smirking just a little. “You’re holding your breath,” he observes. “I’m not.” “You’ve gone red.” “I’m just—it’s the wine. I always get a little rosy when I drink red wine.”

“Mmm. Okay .” Raphael leans back, eyes lowered. He doesn’t believe me. “Why did you ask Thalia to have me come here?” I blurt. The question’s been burning in my mind ever since she told me the truth. A thousand potential reasons have come to mind, ranging from Raphael somehow finding out that I’m really good at chess, to the possibility that I remind Raphael of some long dead relative or something. At no point have I allowed myself to consider that he asked me to come here because he saw me in that photo and decided that he was attracted to me. But with moves like the one he just pulled with the napkin… Raphael picks up his spoon and points it at me. “Why do you think I did it?” He doesn’t miss a beat, doesn’t seem remotely surprised that I’m willing to bring this up, now that that whole Craigslist ad charade is over. “I don’t know. Honestly, I’ve been wondering, and I can’t think of a good enough reason that would have made you ask for me specifically.” Raphael dips the spoon into his soup, then slowly slides it into his mouth. He makes the simple act of eating soup the most erotic thing I’ve ever witnessed. He’s unhurried, unworried, totally at ease. I feel like I’m about to throw up. When he’s

finished with his mouthful, he carefully places the spoon down beside his bowl and looks at me intently. “I used to laugh with Thalia, the way you were laughing with Thalia on Instagram. I used to be able to drink and socialize and be a goofball with her, and with Pax. I haven’t been able to in a long time, though. I was intrigued. I could tell by looking at that photo that you’d taken my place in Thalia’s life a little, and I was interested. I was interested in what kind of person you were. I wanted to meet you. I wanted to make sure you were going to be good for her.” What a strange thing to say. A strange thing to feel, as well. I look down into my soup bowl, thinking for a second. “If you’re so concerned about Thalia, about someone else replacing you in her circle of friends, why won’t you just spend time with her?” “I would if I could. But…” His brow creases with lines. “It’s not that easy.” “You’re in love with her.” I say this because I am so sure of it now. There’s no way he can possibly feel anything else for her given the way he’s speaking. Raphael’s pained expression turns to one of surprise, however. He bursts out laughing. “God, no. No way. Thalia is my sister. Or she might as well be. That’s definitely how I see her. She sees

me the same way.” “Then why? Seriously, she misses you so much. I can tell by the way she speaks about you.” The muscles in Raphael’s throat work overtime. He frowns deeply as he studies his hands. “I was in an accident. Something terrible happened, and afterwards…everything was different. It couldn’t ever be the same again. So, no. I can’t be a part of Thalia’s life anymore. Not the way I used to. But that doesn’t mean I don’t get to be curious about what’s going on with her.” A deep well of sadness opens up inside me. His words when he speaks about Thalia carry such obvious affection, and obvious pain. “The accident? Was it…?” It doesn’t seem like Raphael wants to talk about the accident, he practically shrank back into his seat at the very mention of it, but I can’t stop myself. I don’t see why I should. I’m tired of the secrets. I’m tired of not knowing what’s going on. I’m tired of being uninformed and trying to navigate this whole situation blindly. Raphael looks up at me sharply. “Was it what?” “Was it when you crashed your car into the

Waldorf?” I ask. “It was all over the news. It’s hard not to hear about these things.” The muscles in his jaw tense, his back straightening, like an electric current is suddenly flowing through him. “Yes,” he says simply. No further explanation offered. No words of self-defense. No apology. Just that one clipped, hard-edged word, and the steel that forms in his eyes. Well. Apparently he’s not going to expand on that. I’d ask further questions, try to glean more information from him, but I already know him well enough. He won’t tell me anything else. He won’t give me what I want, the stubborn bastard. Doesn’t stop him from grilling me, though. “Since we’re asking questions, why did you refuse to let Nate come and get you earlier?” he asks. I take another mouthful of my food. “I like riding the subway. I enjoy it. And I’m sure Nate has better things to be doing for you than shuttling me around the city.” “What do you like about the subway?” He ignores my comment about Nate altogether. “I like the people watching. I like how you don’t have to sit in traffic. And I like to read all of the

adverts. I find them interesting.” “The adverts?” His voice rises at the end. “Yeah, what’s wrong with that?” “Nothing. Nothing at all. People just usually try and ignore the ads. The general populous hates feeling like they’re being tricked or brainwashed into buying something.” “I don’t like that part,” I tell him, swallowing down more sorrel soup. “I just like the snappy strap-lines and the pictures.” Raphael pushes his bowl away. “That’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard. There were over five hundred sex crimes reported on the subway last year.” “I carry mace.” Raphael’s brows rocket up to his hairline. “Is that true?” I shake my head. “No. I carried some mace a long time ago. I accidentally hit the button in my bag, though, and the fumes made me throw up. I had to toss the bag, too. It was my favorite.”

“Is it because of Nate?” he asks. “Would you feel better if you drove yourself over here?” “No, I told you. Nate’s awesome. It has nothing to do with him. And besides, I’m not going to be buying a car any time soon.” “Because you can’t afford one, or because you don’t want one?” I stop eating. I raise my eyes until they meet his. We are entering very dangerous territory. “Both .” “Because I have cars you can borrow, Beth. It’s not a big deal.” I stare at him for a moment, and then I wipe my mouth with my napkin, pushing my soup bowl away as well. “Please…don’t do that.” “Do what?” “Offer to lend me something that most people have to save for a very long time to afford. Like it’s nothing to you.” “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m a problem solver, Beth. Loaning you a car merely seemed like a good solution to a problem.”

“I don’t have a problem. I told you. I like riding the subway.” Defiance rings clear in my tone. I’m daring him to say another word on the matter. Daring him to open his mouth and say something that will light the fuse on my very short temper. He doesn’t, though. He merely nods, rubbing his palm against the smooth, polished surface of the table. “When I saw that photo of you and Thalia together, it was more than simple curiosity,” he says. “I looked at your face, and you didn’t remind me of a single person. No one from my family. No one from school. No one from here, or from working at North Industries. You were just…a brand new person. Someone I had no negative associations with. You had this look of pure happiness on your face. Your mouth was open, your eyes almost closed, smoke on your breath… You looked so free. You were absolutely beautiful. I felt drawn to you, and I wanted to meet you.” He shrugs in a complacent, unaffected way. The way a person shrugs when they talk about wanting something, not knowing what it might be like not to get it, as if the thought never even occurred to him. “It looks like you got your wish,” I say softly. “It looks like I did. The problem with me is that I’m never satisfied, though.”

“Oh? How so?” Denny chooses this exact moment to return. He strolls into dining room like he hasn’t got a care in the world. “Are you both ready for me to clear some dishes and bring out your mains?” he asks. “Yes, thank you, Denny,” Raphael says, his voice cool. He doesn’t look at Denny; his gaze remains fixed solely on me, burning into my skin. My cheeks grow hotter and hotter with every passing second. No doubt Denny can feel the pressure in the air; you could slice through it with a knife. He’s doesn’t ask if everything’s okay, though. He simply clears our bowls, humming softly under his breath, taking our spoons and relieving us both of our napkins. Raphael’s gaze doesn’t waver. I’ve never felt so on the spot before—to have someone so blatantly staring at me in front of another person and obviously not giving a shit whether it makes me feel uncomfortable. “I’ll be right back,” Denny says brightly. His eyes meet mine as he leaves, and he winks at me. As soon as he’s gone, Raphael rubs a hand at the back of his neck, and says, “I’m not satisfied, Beth, because now I want more .” I’m on fire. My dress suddenly feels too tight, my ribcage unable to expand. It feels like there’s an

elephant sitting on my chest. There’s no mistaking his tone right now. No way I can’t read between the lines, but I still find myself, saying, “More? What more is there?” “Don’t be obtuse, Beth. You’re a smart girl. You know perfectly well what I mean.” His eyes flash— a challenge there, daring me to deny that his words are true. I clear my throat, a cold, nervous chill racing down my spine. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone so direct before. His intensity is more than a little alarming; there’s some basic, animal part of me that’s telling me I should run from this situation. No other creature would look at another with such hunger in their eyes unless they intended on devouring it whole. And yet I can’t seem to make my body obey me. I’m rooted to my seat, every hair standing on end, prickling with some unknown sensation. I look away, making a move on the chessboard. A tactical, defensive move, as if my strategies in the game can protect me out here in the real world, too. I end up taking Raphael’s knight. “You’ve been pretty hostile toward me,” I say softly. “Honestly, I didn’t think you even liked me.” Raphael smirks. “I’m a hard person to get to know. I come across as difficult or rude sometimes. I

know that. I assure you that I do like you, though.” “You don’t know me,” I whisper. “You don’t know a single thing about me.” Raphael, calm as ever, picks up the tablet and studies the game, considering his options. “When my parents died, everyone assumed I came into a fortune. The North Empire was vast, after all. My father was known internationally as a savvy, trustworthy banker. My mother’s entrepreneurial endeavors here in New York were also well known. But the truth of the matter was that when they died, they left me a mountain of crippling debt. They’d been living on credit for years.” Raphael takes a slow sip of his wine, makes a move on the tablet, then places it down on the table in front of me—a challenge. A gauntlet, thrown down. “Millions of dollars owed. Millions ,” he continues. “They lived to excess for so long that I don’t think they ever really admitted their situation even to themselves. I decided I wasn’t going to let their recklessness with money be the end of me. I vowed to repay the money owed and then some. And I did. It took me three years. Just three years. I invested what money I had myself. I created patents for technologies that were still waiting to meet their full potential. I broke my back to recoup what was lost, and I ended up making more money than my parents

could ever have dreamed of accruing.” Another sip of his wine. Another pregnant pause. “Do you think I’d have managed that without doing my due diligence, Beth? I know plenty about you. You never asked me how I knew about what happened to your mother when you were a child.” A shot of surprise races down my spine, between my shoulder blades. A chaser of anger follows right after it. “You promised you wouldn’t talk about that again.” I take another of his chess pieces, stabbing at the screen. Raphael shrugs, running his index finger around the rim of his wine glass. “I did. I’m sorry to bring it up now, but I’m sure you must be curious.” I was curious. I hate even thinking about that day, though. The mere mention of it makes me break out in hives, makes me feel panicked and sick inside my own skin for days, so I haven’t allowed myself the luxury of further curiosity. It would only have led me to dark places. I clear my throat, looking down at the table. “Just tell me.” “When someone goes to the hospital for a work up after a sexual assault, records are made. Those records stay on file forever.” It feels like a knife is twisting deep in the pit of my

stomach. I didn’t know Mom went to the hospital. She never told me. But then again, why would she? She’s been lecturing me about spending any significant time with men for years, but she’s never brought up what happened to her. It’s hung there between us, alluded to, a black fog that descends on us whenever she feels as if I’m being reckless, but never directly spoken about. And I was just a child back then. She probably didn’t want to scare me any more than I already had been. I barely even notice Denny return once again with our main courses—the most perfect looking, perfect smelling steak I’ve ever seen in my entire life. Denny sets a razor sharp knife down next to my plate, and I find myself staring at it. In my head, I imagine picking it up and plunging it directly in Raphael’s knee. I can’t believe he did that. I just can’t fucking believe it. “So. You’ve been…researching me? My entire family?” I demand. “I’ve merely taken note of the information already out there in the world,” he says. There’s an edge to his voice, like he knows how badly this conversation could go any second. “Your Instagram account’s public. So is your Facebook account. Your academic history is a matter of public record, too. Admittedly, hospital records aren’t just floating

around in the ether. I did take liberties where they are concerned.” What the hell? I don’t know what I should be feeling right now. Outraged that he’s been stalking my social media accounts? Flattered that he’s taken such an interest? Creeped out, or a little thrilled that he’d care enough to look? My initial response is to lean toward creeped out. “You shouldn’t have done that. You could have asked me anything. I would have told you.” Raphael has the common courtesy to look a little chastened. “Would you? Perhaps you’re right. I’m sorry. I have a very quiet existence here. I find it hard to invite people into my life without doing a little background search on them first. I need to know that they’re genuine. Not likely to sell information about me to the press.” He says this last sentence as if he knows all too well I was considering doing just that the day Thalia gave me his profile. “I’m very protective of this space. It’s been my haven for a long time now. I don’t like entertaining the possibility that someone may come here and jeopardize that.” I can kind of understand where he’s coming from, but at the same time I feel like my privacy has been violated.

“Think about this before you decide that you hate me, Beth. If you want to know something about me, all you have to do is go on Google and there you have it. Everything about me from my eye color to my shoe size to my favorite color. My relationships. My successes, my mistakes, my glories and my fuck-ups. You know everything about me, because you’ve read all about me online. The accident, for example. You know all about that, don’t you? You read the police reports in the news. You stared at pictures of my written-off car. You checked out the images of me being arrested, then being driven off in the back of a police cruiser. You’ve seen my mug shots, maybe studied the look of horror on my face as you drank your morning coffee. True?” Ah. Shit. I cast my eyes down at the steak on my plate. My appetite has evaporated into thin air, leaving behind it a hollow, empty sensation in the pit of my stomach. “Yes. That’s true.” “I’m not saying any of that justifies the fact that I looked you up. But…maybe it’ll give you some context.” I hate to admit it. It’s almost impossible to admit it, but it sure as hell has. I’ve been a voyeur, peering through a window into Raphael North’s life for years now. Years . He spent a couple of days doing

the exact same thing to me and I just clambered up onto my high horse and started wagging my finger. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you,” he says. “I promise, I won’t look you up again. From here on out, whatever I learn about you will be information you give to me yourself. Deal?” I consider this for a moment. There are plenty of reasons why I should call this whole thing a day, but there’s something so captivating about this man. I can’t seem to walk away. Can’t seem to clear my damn head of him. He makes me mad, fills me with a righteous fury one second, and then the next I feel like I’m being swallowed by his very presence, pulled unwilling toward him like a fish on a hook. It feels… god. I can’t even decipher what he makes me feel. It’s all so bewildering. “Okay,” I say eventually. “Fine. You have yourself a deal. But seriously…no more internet stalking. For either of us.” “Good.” Raphael pours me another glass of wine, then one for himself. “And since you’re so set on me calling you by your first name, I think, from here on out, it would be better if you called me by mine, too.” “You want me to call you Raphael?”

He shakes his head. “It would be better if you called me Raph .” Raph. It suits him. It’s a beautiful, savage name, just like him. We eat. We drink. We continue our game of chess, and I proceed to attack Raph across the board, showing him no mercy, knowing that Thalia is going to lose her mind. I’ve made an awkward kind of peace with the ridiculously attractive man sitting on the other side of the table, but I can’t shake my need to show him I am not weak. I am not as defenseless as he thinks. At the end of the meal, Raph moves my plate out of the way and leans toward me across the table. “Where would you most like to travel in the world?” he asks. “I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it in a long time.” “Why not?” “Because. When I began studying to become a lawyer, I knew I wasn’t going to be traveling anywhere any time soon. I put it out of my mind.” Raph shrugs—that makes sense. “If you had to make a decision right now, though, on the spot…if you could go anywhere in the world right now,

where would it be?” “Well, I’ve always had a thing for the Brits. I think London would be pretty amazing.” Slowly, Raphael gets to his feet. He holds out his hand. “Let me take you there.” “I’m sorry?” “To London.” “What?” “Right now.” A flash of heat slams into me. “I can’t just up sticks at nine p.m. and get on a plane to another country. I have classes I have to get to. I have a million assignments due.” Raphael doesn’t react to my stressed tone. He simply extends his hand further. “Don’t worry so much,” he says softly. “How about you just trust me instead?” “What about our game?” Raphael glances down at the tablet still sitting on the table between us. “You’ll have me in three moves," he says. “Take a look. You’ve

already won.” I glance down at the tablet, and I already know he’s telling the truth. I allow a small, smug smile to form on my face. Damn right I’ve won. And this time I intended it. *** T he room Raphael leads me to is much larger than the first VR studio he took me to the other day. In fact, this room, up a flight of stairs, must be at least two thousand square feet. A thick yellow band is painted on the floor around the perimeter of the room, maybe about two feet from the walls. The walls are painted a light, industrial grey, the floor, other than the yellow bands, painted black. There are no cables hanging down from the ceiling this time. Raphael fits me with another set of VR glasses, also entirely different to the one I wore last time. The lenses on these glasses are clear, and a series of thin wires loop around the back of my head, trailing down my back. They remain unconnected to anything, though, simply hanging there. Raphael’s face is expressionless as he organizes the VR glasses, fiddling with them, pressing a series of buttons down the right hand arm of the set. The lenses remain clear, but words flash up on them in

front of me, bold and in white: Headset Paired “It’s okay,” Raph says. “You might see a few notifications. They’re nothing to worry about. I should have warned you, though. I’m sorry.” I adjust the glasses on my face, taking a deep breath in through my nose. “That’s okay.” “You’re nervous. You don’t need to be.” “Sorry. It’s just the last time I did this…” “I know. You thought you went blind. I promise that’s not going to happen this time.” “You’ll forgive me if I’m not brimming over with confidence,” I fire back. Raph stops what he’s doing and turns to face me, tilting his head to one side, biting his bottom lip gently between his teeth. “What’s this? Attitude? How refreshing.” I’ll give him refreshing. He won’t find it refreshing when I snap my VR glasses in two and storm out of here. “Just don’t screw with me this time, North. I don’t think I can take it.”

He holds his hands up, a soft huff of laughter escaping between his lips. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Dreymon . Give me a second. The lenses are going to turn black in a second, don’t freak out. It’ll only be for a second.” He stands in front of a computer on the other side of the room, typing quickly into a computer. A number of fans located high on the walls, close to the ceiling, whir into action, blasting cold air into the room. A distinct smell begins to fill the space—something organic, dirty, fresh, with the very slightest hint of food smells mixed in. Something completely unrecognizable and alien to me. Raphael equips himself with glasses of his own, connecting the cables behind his own head, allowing them to trail down his back. Holding some kind of remote in his hand, he hits a key on the computer keyboard, and the lenses of my glasses gradually begin to fade until they’re completely black. Another notification pops up in my vision, again bold and white: COMMENCING PROGRAM LONDON BRIDGE 14% The percentage at the bottom of the notification quickly spirals upwards, twenty-eight percent, thirty-nine, fifty-one, sixty-seven, eight-one

percent. At ninety-one percent, Raphael North takes my hand. For approximately seven seconds, I am standing in darkness, holding hands with the most intriguing, sexy, fucking frightening man I’ve ever met. And then… There is light. I’m looking up at Raphael, and my breath catches in my throat. “How are you…how are you so…perfect ?” I whisper. Raphael’s amusement makes itself know in the slight twitching of his cheek. “Perfect?” “Yes. You’re not…I thought you’d be some kind of avatar or something. But…it’s as if I’m looking right at you. At you . Not some computer generated image.” He nods. “Old VR systems map a persons features. They map their height, their weight, the width of their shoulders. But this system’s different. It uses a series of cameras placed around the room, as well as tiny cameras located in your glasses, to compose an identical version of me. Every slight movement I make, every facial expression, every breath I take, every step. It’s all faithfully replicated and

delivered into your VR feed in real time.” “There’s no lag?” “There is. The transfer of information takes time, of course. But the system we’ve developed for North Industries is so fast, the human mind doesn’t comprehend it.” I’m blown away. I can’t even begin to imagine how long it’s taken to develop technology like this. I take a look to my left and a wave of vertigo hits me right in the gut. I’m looking over the side of a bridge, spanning a river, muddy and murky. The drop is minimal but so unexpected that my knees buckle a little from beneath me. “Holy…fucking…shit !” I cannot believe what I’m seeing right now. Can not believe it. It’s not only Raphael that appears completely lifelike in this experience. The sky, the lazily flowing water below us, the people passing us by on the old, wide bridge. All of it, down to the tiniest detail, looks and feels so real. I say feels real, because I can feel the slight breeze gusting against my face, see it blow and tug at the hair of the passersby as they hurry on down the street. English accents fill the air as people chat with one another and talk into cell phones. A blast of cold air hits me as the clouds briefly travel in front of the sun overhead in the sky.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I hiss. “How? How did you do all of this?” He shrugs. “It wasn’t just me. About a hundred people have all worked tirelessly together to build these worlds. It’s taken a long time. A lot of blood, sweat and tears.” “The gaming community is gonna lose its freaking mind.” Raphael looks down at the ground, ruefully grinning. “The gaming community will lose their minds, yes. But that’s not why we created the program. We created to help surgeons train originally. Hours logged in OR rooms are vitally important to residents. Vitally important to the learning process. But the thing about learning is that accidents do happen. Mistakes are made, and lives are lost. With this program, a surgeon can spend limitless hours training in a very real environment. They can complete limitless surgeries, with thousands of possible outcomes. They can make the mistakes they need to make in order to learn, but no one gets hurt. “We also designed the program with people suffering from disabilities in mind. People born with degenerative disorders or involved in accidents, unable to walk or move around for one reason or

another, can in here. In here, they get to experience what it’s like to be able-bodied.” The lump in my throat is the size of a golf ball. For a second, it’s hard to breathe around. “Why?” I ask. “Why do you do this? Every single technology you develop is geared toward the medical field. It’s all geared to helping people, in one way or another.” I think I’ve asked the wrong question. Raphael swallows, his neck muscles even working overtime here, in this rendered, digital world. “Is there something wrong with wanting to help people?” he asks, his shoulders tight and tense. “Not at all. It’s just…I guess it’s all very unexpected. Most people in your position are investing their money in exciting business ventures. I can see how something like this would make millions when used in certain ways, but medically? I don’t know how that would be a viable source of revenue.” “It hasn’t been designed as a source of revenue,” Raphael says. “It’s been designed as a teaching tool, and an escape.” “So all the money you’ve poured into this…?”

“Will unlikely be recouped at some point in this instance. But the money was spent freely. I went into this knowing there was a chance I wouldn’t get it back. If you make your peace with a potential loss outcome in the very beginning of a project, the actual loss, when it arrives, is much easier to bear.” So…he went into this, knowing he would probably never make his money back? What the fuck? I’m hardly an expert on tech development, but I know this must have cost millions and millions of dollars to create, develop and put into production. Tens of millions of dollars. The amount of money Raphael was willing to kiss goodbye on this project is unimaginable to me. “Would you like to take a walk? Explore a little?” he asks. He applies a faint pressure to my hand, reminding me that he’s still holding it. He’s probably worried about me walking into a wall or something. “I’d like that,” I tell him. Even if I do end up walking into the walls, this is an experience I simply can’t pass up. This looks, feels, sounds and smells like another place entirely. The program is seamless. So convincing that I have to remind myself it’s all just a display on my glasses, fooling my mind into believing I’m standing in another city, in the middle of the damn day.

Raphael takes a right and heads toward the other end of the bridge, observing our surroundings as intently as I do. Makes me wonder if he’s been here before, in this simulation. As we reach the end of the bridge, I notice a fine grid pattern overlaying the road ahead. “The boundary of the room,” Raphael tells me. “Put out your hand and you’ll feel the wall.” So much for my he’s-holding-my-hand-to-make-sureI-don’t-give-myself-a-black-eye theory, then. He doesn’t even release me as I reach out with my left hand, and my palm meets with cool plaster. “If we want to head down that way, all you need to do is hold your hand out like this and clench your fist,” he informs me, demonstrating. “Then turn to your left or right and open your hand. It’ll basically drag and drop the landscape until it’s placed in a position where you can proceed forward.” He opens his hand and the whole world around us shifts—very disorienting for a second, but then completely normal again once the graphics settle back into place. The view that was right in front of us now stretches out to the left. “Pick a direction,” he tells me. I glance around, drinking everything in. To our

right, a street vendor is selling fish and chips from a food truck, and the smell of salt and vinegar hits the back of my nose, carried on the breeze. It’s crazy how accurate this program is. Crazy . I can’t even begin to comprehend how it all works. Raphael and I walk along the riverside, watching small boats zip up and down the waterway. Every fifty feet, we need to take a left, Raphael shifting the simulation so we can keep moving. Eventually, we come to a large square, restaurants and bars lining the open courtyard-like area, and Raphael draws me to a halt. “Have you been here before?” I ask. “Yes. I’ve been here in real life. I spent a summer living in London seven years ago. It’s one of my favorite cities. Holds some pretty fond memories for me.” He looks around wistfully, his eyes landing on the water fountain that’s happily gurgling away about fifteen feet from where we’re standing. “I don’t think I ever stood here, though. This view is new to me,” he says. His eyes, usually so bright and sharp, are somehow slightly unfocused, and for the very first time he looks less like a honed weapon, fixated on its target. He simply looks like a man, wandering, lost in his memories.

He looks down at me, and that soft edge remains for a second. His eyes travel over my forehead, my hairline, down the bridge of my nose, over my lips, my jawline, my cheekbones. He settles on my eyes last of all. “You’re more beautiful than this city, Beth. More beautiful than any city I’ve ever stepped foot in.” Heat blossoms in my cheeks. “Don’t—don’t say that. It’s not true.” “It is, I assure you. There’s something about you that intrigues me more than a place, a landscape, or a work of art ever could.” His hand tightens around mine. I try to take a step back, but he draws me closer instead, stepping into me at the same time. Our chests are flush with one another, his chin level with the top of my head. He reaches around me, sliding his free hand into place so that it’s resting in the small of my back. “I’m going to kiss you, Beth. I’m going to claim our first kiss.” “You can’t just claim something from me. That would be just like the man who claimed something from my mother.” Raphael shakes his head slowly. “No. Not like him. Never like him. I’ll never take from you without

your consent. You will always have the right to say no with me. If you don’t want this, if you don’t want me to kiss you, say so now and I’ll back the fuck off.” I gape up at him. I don’t know how to react. “You’re not telling me to let you go,” he whispers. His mouth lowers, barely an inch away from mine. How can he just… what does he think he’s…the very nerve of the…man…I just can’t seem to… I stare into those eyes of his, my body locked, my spine straight, my lips tingling. I should push him away. I should slap his face. Scream at him. I can’t seem to do anything but lean into him, though. He moves toward me, his actions drawn out, almost glacially slow. I know he’s giving me all the time in the world I need to reject him, to tell him this isn’t what I want, but my voice has fled me. My hands refuse to push him away. My whole body is magnetized, drawn to his in the most powerful, undeniable way. Closer, closer, closer… so close that his lips graze mine, the contact barely a whisper. Raphael studies me, his breath warm against my mouth. “You’re not running,” he whispers.

I close my eyes. I can’t breathe. I can’t fucking move. “Open them,” Raphael says softly. “Open your eyes. Look at me. I want to see the moment you fall in love with me.” What the… I open my eyes. Not in answer to his command, but in response to the sheer, insane levels of arrogance this man possesses. The spell is broken. I shake my hand loose from his, planting it in between our bodies, flat against his chest. I shove him, trying to reclaim some space between us, but Raphael refuses to budge, refuses to let me go. He reaches up with his now-free hand, burying it into my hair at the roots, and he’s not moving slowly anymore. He moves like lightning, stooping down to kiss me, pressing his mouth down on mine with unbelievable force. He’s not rough, doesn’t hurt me, but he sure as hell isn’t gentle with me either. His lips are hot, soft yet insistent, demanding. He cups my face with both his hands, and then his tongue is darting between my lips, tangling with mine, exploring my mouth, leaving no part of me unturned. He huffs heavily down his nose, and for a second I get a feel of what Raphael North is like when he loses control. His chest rises and falls against mine, and my mind goes blank. I’ve never been kissed like this before in my entire

life. I’ve never felt a measure of attraction, happily simmering away in the base of my stomach, catch light and transform into an incontrollable inferno in an instant. I’ve never felt curiosity burst into flames of roaring desire in the blink of an eye. I haven’t known my own body until this very moment. Twenty-eight years have passed since the day I was born, and I’ve been so naive. I’ve never known I was capable of such a depth of need before this moment, and the surprise of it takes me out at the damn knees. I was angry a second ago. Mad enough to rip the VR glasses from my eyes and storm out of the studio, but now I feel like I’ve stumbled over the edge of a rooftop and I’m tumbling, the ground rushing up to meet me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop myself from falling. I dig my own hands into Raphael’s hair, kissing him back. A small, pained groan catches in the back of his throat, and he shifts, lowering himself a little. A solid hardness presses up against me, between my legs, and I let out a stifled moan. Oh god… he’s hard. He’s so hard, and we’ve only been kissing for a matter of seconds. Raphael tears his mouth away from mine, staggering back. There’s a wild, untamable, almost otherworldly light shining in his eyes, and I can’t fucking look away. He swallows, then brushes his hair back, digging his own fingers into his hair,

leaving them there, elbows bracketing his face. “We’re electric,” he says breathlessly. “You’re electric.” I don’t know what to do with myself. People walk around us, oblivious, the way water flows around rocks in a stream. If we were standing on a real street in New York right now, staring at each other, stopped dead on the sidewalk, we’d be getting lynched. People would be screaming and swearing at us for causing an obstruction. They’d be jostling us, shoving, trying to get passed us. And if they’d seen that kiss…it doesn’t even bear thinking about. We’d have been mercilessly heckled and whistled at. We’re in our own personal little bubble, though. No interruptions, no comments, no prying eyes. “Did you bring me here to do that?” I ask him. “Were you planning on doing that the moment you asked me to do this with you?” Raphael doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.” “You had no right. You’re…you’re so fucking full of yourself.” “I am,” he agrees. “I have reason to be. I’m not just some guy off the street, Beth. I’m different, in the same way you’re different.”

“What…what does that even mean ?” Frustration colors my voice. I reach up, about to rip the VR glasses off, but Raphael lunges forward, halting me, his hand on mine. “It means that we’re meant to do this. I knew it the second I saw that picture. You’re meant for me, and I’m meant for you. I’m going to find a way to prove that to you.” I glare at him, hating the fact that he’s making so much sense right now. There is definitely a connection between us, no matter how much I want to rail against it at this specific point in time. I’m a strong person. A fierce person. An independent person. I call my own shots, and Raphael’s arrogance right now is trying to take that away from me. No matter who a person is, they have no right to do that. It’s frightening to feel this way about a man I barely know. More than intimidating. It’s enough to paralyze me with doubt. It took me years to build my courage after what happened to my mother. Years . I was a timid, scared person for a very long time. Every single act of courage I performed, and every single moment of bravery I forced myself through was a hard-won battle. Raphael telling me in no uncertain terms that I am undeniably meant for him feels like he’s taking my free will from me somehow…no matter if I believe

it might be true myself. “You’d better think of a damn good way to prove it to me, North,” I snap at him. Jerking my hand out of his, I remove the VR glasses. Raphael leaves his on, clearly still able to see a version of me inside the simulation. London has vanished for me now, though. All that remains is the industrial grey of the studio walls and the rubberized black coating of the floor beneath my feet. Raphael moves subtly from one foot to the other. He scratches his chin, angling his head down, then he slowly slides his own VR glasses off, turning it over in his hands, studying it with enough intensity to melt the damn plastic. “Our bodies are aligned, Beth. You can feel the connection pulling taut between us every time you’re near to me. Don’t tell me you can’t. Don’t deny something so obvious.” “So what if I do feel it? It doesn’t mean anything, Raph. We’re from different worlds. Our lives are polar opposites. I’m not just going to—It’s not as if I can just—” Raphael holds up a hand, cutting me off. “Our worlds are one and the same. We’re just people, Beth. Who’s told you we can’t be together? Who’s told you we can’t make this work?” “Common sense—”

“Fuck common sense. You want me, Beth. I can feel it pouring off you like wildfire. I can fucking smell it. I want you just as badly. Come downstairs with me. I want to show you something.” “I think I should probably go home. It’s late, and we’ve both got a lot to think about.” I certainly have. I’m going to be thinking about this all night. For days. I’m not going to be able to think of anything else. Raphael shakes his head, his eyes narrowing. He crosses the room, packed muscle shifting over bone, veins standing proud in his corded arms, and the way his eyes flash makes my stomach twist and turn. Fuck. He is so goddamn sexy. Sexy isn’t the right word, though. The energy that pours off him is primal. Base. Deep and penetrating. He may be wearing an Armani shirt, the buckle of his belt may be an understated Tom Ford logo, and the shoes on his feet might have been handmade in Italy, but at his core, all the trappings and fixings of being wealthy mean nothing, because he is raw . He is wild. He is savage, and he is walking toward me with a look on his face that says he wants to eat me. Raphael flexes his hands, turning them to fists, and he smiles, flashing me perfectly white, perfectly straight teeth. “Stop over thinking things and come with me,” he

says. He’s clearly used to people doing as he commands them; he doesn’t wait to see if I’m going to do as he’s asked. He walks right past me and disappears down the hallway to the left. I look around the VR studio for a second, my heart doing backflips all over the place, and then I walk slowly down the hall behind him. What the hell am I getting myself into? I should have left the moment his arrogance level jumped from a three to an eleven inside the VR simulation. I should have been home hours ago, it’s late, and I’ve had more than enough wine. I’m not in my right frame of mind, clearly. I need to leave. I need to go home. And yet I keep putting one foot in front of the other, left, right, left, right, left, right, and with every step I feel as if I’m growing closer and closer to something dangerous. Something… wicked. “Don’t go to strange places with strange men, Beth. Don’t follow blindly. Don’t go into the dark.” Usually my mother’s words, rattling around the inside of my head like a screw in an old tin can, are enough to stop me dead in my tracks, but not today. In my mind, I close a hand around the words until I can’t see them anymore, until they grow smaller and smaller, shrinking, their importance evaporating. I’ve never done this before; I’ve never purposefully tried to shut out Mom’s warnings. Doing so would never have felt safe, but the

interactions I’ve had with the other men in my past have been very different to this. I’ve looked into their eyes and not been able to break through their walls. I haven’t been able to decipher the true meanings behind their pretty words. I’ve never found anyone quite as honest and straightforward as Raphael North. When I look at Raph, I don’t feel that way. I see plenty of hurt, yes. Plenty of pain. I can see it all reflected inwards at himself like a mirror, though, not projected outwards at the people around him. He’s unlike any other man I’ve ever met. I know he won’t hurt me. I know he won’t drag me to the floor and force himself on me. I know he will never take anything from me, be that my emotions or my body. He just swore he wouldn’t. And I believe him. Raph stops in front of one of the many doors that line the hallway. Nothing marks it as special or any different than the others, but it is. I know there’s something waiting for me behind that door that I’m going to find confronting. He stands perfectly still with his hand on the polished brass doorknob. He turns his shoulders, angling his body towards me, and he looks me dead in the eye. “Don’t run,” he tells me gravely. “Stay with me here and experience this. I just want you to see it. I want you to go away and think about it. I want you to spend some time imagining what it would be like to walk into this

room and…participate .” He hovers over that last word, and I can tell: the idea of my participation, whatever and however that may be, excites him. Shit. There’s something very intriguing about this, though. I don’t want to be intrigued. I want to be disinterested. I want to be smart, more importantly. A part of me needs to know what lies on the other side of this door. I’ll forever be curious otherwise. The idea of facing my fear in this particular situation feels very freeing to me. The concept of being free is more than a little appealing. I’ve lived a life overshadowed by fear. I’ve been crushed under its boot heel, unable to form normal relationships or connections with people because of the constant warnings from my mother. While every single one of my friends in high school were going out on dates, kissing boys, eventually losing their virginities, I was huddled under a blanket in my bedroom, biting the insides of my cheeks until they bled because I felt wrong and dirty for wanting the same things. Years have passed, and I’ve overcome so many of the obstacles in my life. I never thought I’d be able to maintain a relationship with a guy or have sex, but I managed to make that work with Robson, my ex, for three years. I can sit alone on the subway now without breaking out into a cold sweat whenever a guy sits close to me. These are huge accomplishments, and yet I still wake up

some nights covered in sweat, imagining myself in my mother’s place, pinned down and unable to move as a faceless stranger pushes my legs apart and steals my dignity from me. What would life be like without that dark seed of rot twisted around the very root of my being? What would it be like to truly be free of that terrifying, awful day? I take a step forward, nodding just once. “Okay,” I tell Raphael. “Show me and let’s get this over with.” Raph’s smile turns wolfish. I’ve pleased him. Slowly, his hand turns on the brass doorknob and the door swings open. Gesturing into the room beyond, Raph steps back to allow me past him. “After you.” My head is pounding as I slip into the silent, dark room. It’s a relatively small space—I can tell even with the lights turned off. The sound of my rapid breathing is muffled in here, like the walls are close at hand and growing closer by the second. My eyes are beginning to adjust to the darkness when Raph throws a switch behind me and a small sconce on the wall blossoms with light. My feet are suddenly glued to the floor. The room is empty bar a single chair in its center. No windows. No pictures or paintings. No mirrors,

even. There’s nothing in here except the chair… and it is no ordinary chair. My fingers subconsciously rise, touching nervously at the base of my throat. “What is that?” I ask quietly. “I had it made specifically for you,” Raph answers. His voice is like crushed velvet, stroking down my back, in between my shoulder blades, making me shiver. “I wanted something special in here. Something only for you. Well. For you and for me.” Raph walks around the chair, standing behind it, placing his hands on the low slung back. “This chair was designed to restrain you while I fuck you. It can be configured in many different ways. For instance, with your legs held together…” He adjusts a small lever to the left hand side, and the polished brass stirrups at the base of the chair snap together, locking into place. “I can have you laying flat on your back if I want to,” Raphael says, lifting another lever underneath the seat of the chair, so that it pivots back, snapping home. “I can tie you at the wrist and ankle using these cuffs,” he says, pointing to the flash of gold at each side of the chair, low down, close to the floor. “I can also tie your hands behind your back and fasten them to this,” he says, showing me a small length of slender chain attached via a bolt at the very back of the

seat. “There are many ways I can use this chair to fuck you, Beth. Once you sit in it, you hand yourself over to me. You’ll be making a very clear statement. You’ll be telling me that I have your permission to use your body as I see fit. You’ll be telling me you’re ready to overcome the thing that frightens you most. You’re entering into a contract of sorts. You become my submissive, and I become your master. Do you understand what I’m saying?” God, where is all of this coming from? I look down at the chair, swallowing hard. It’s mostly constructed from wood, beautifully crafted, but there are areas of deep red silk here and there as well—on the leg braces, on the seat and the backrest, as well as lining the brass cuffs. It’s a thing of beauty, really, a work of art, and yet when I look at it I find myself shaking. So many ways for him to restrain me. So many ways for him to lock me into place, to make me vulnerable. It would be impossible to escape from this chair. If I sat in it and entered into that kind of agreement with Raphael, there would be no backing out. “Why did you have this made?” I whisper. “Why would you assume that I want to have a sexual relationship with you, let alone one…like…this ?” Raphael isn’t wounded or embarrassed by my question. The way he looks at me makes me feel

like I should be the one who’s embarrassed. “You came here to play chess with me, Elizabeth, not to play hide and seek, or Guess-What-Elizabeth’sThinking. You’re horrible at hiding your feelings. I saw the look on your face the very first time you thought about me pushing inside you and it made my dick hard. It made your pussy wet, too. You can’t deny it. I could fucking smell how turned on you were.” Shame rocks through me, hot and overwhelming. When did I imagine him inside me? At what point during our interactions did I allow myself to picture that? I know in my heart that it’s happened. I would only be lying to myself if I tried to deny it. But why the hell would he say something like that, though? A polite person would never give words to something like that, even if it really did happen. It would be far too embarrassing for the other party. “Why are you blushing?” Raphael demands. “Because! What you’re saying. It’s…it’s…” “Rude? Politically incorrect? Fuck that, Beth. Why should I be politically correct? The scent of your arousal teased the back of my nose and it made me feel fucking good. That’s all there is to it. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it, and I’ve had some really important mergers to concentrate on,

Beth. Really, it’s you who was rude by distracting me like that. And you’re doing it again right now.” Shit. Shit, fuck, damn. He’s right. I am turned on. Despite how absolutely terrifying this chair is to me, all this talk of him fucking me has had my insides twisting into knots. I can’t smell anything. I can’t imagine what Raphael thinks he’s smelling, but by the way his nostrils are flared and his pupils are dilated, it must be pretty damn hot. “You said I wouldn’t have to participate today,” I say shakily. Raphael nods. “Of course you don’t. You never have to participate if you don’t want to.” “So then…what happens to the chair if I don’t ever want to use it?” Raphael shrugs nonchalantly. “I’ll burn it.” “I’m sure you’ll find someone else to sit in it.” He shakes his head slowly, his green eyes flashing with something like annoyance. “I wouldn’t do that. This was made for you. It’s measured to your body. No one else would fit it correctly, the way you’re meant to. And besides, Beth, that would be pointless. This is your fear. This is the mountain you need to climb. It would make no sense for someone else to face it.”

He’s right, of course. What would be the point in him tying someone else up in the chair, when they would probably relish the experience? They wouldn’t be challenging themselves for him. They wouldn’t be earning his attention and affection, which is clearly what he wants. The idea of sitting in the chair, allowing the circlets of metal to close tight around my wrists, allowing myself to be strapped in at the ankle and the waist, is making me feel very claustrophobic. “You’re talking yourself out of it. I can see it in your eyes,” Raph tells me. “I’m not. I’m just…” “You’re scared.” I have no idea why proving him wrong is so important to me. I’ve been called a chicken, I’ve been heckled and harassed by people trying to urge me into positions I have no business being in, and it’s never mattered before. I’ve never had a problem saying no to something or someone. In fact, saying no has been the easiest thing in the world for me. Apart from right now, looking up into Raph’s eyes, seeing the challenge there; I want more than anything to rise to his challenge, to tell him he’s wrong, but I honestly don’t know how.

As if reading my mind, Raphael places a hand on the back of the chair, looking down at it in a contemplative manner. “It’s really simple, y’know.” He steps around the chair, locking it back into an upright position. He has to adjust a lever to make the backrest recline a little. Once he’s satisfied with his alterations, he sits down onto it, leaning back. I’m no idiot. I can see the perfect outline of his erection through the material of his pants. Raphael glances down, obviously seeing it too and not caring. He angles his head back, his chin tilting upward, his arms thrown over either side of the wooden rests. He looks like some sort of fallen angel—beautiful and cruel all at once. “I’ll be your buffer. Just this once, I’ll stand between you and your fears. Sit on my lap,” he says. “I’m not eight years old. I don’t need to sit on your knee. Or is this some sort of “Daddy” thing?” I ask, my laughter nervous and jittery. A serious expression forms on his face. “You can call me daddy if you want to. I’d prefer sir, though. Or master. We can figure all of that out later, though. For now, think of this as an experiment. You find out if you like being close to me. I find out if you’re capable of relinquishing control to me. Even just a little.” Normal guys take a girl to see a movie on their third

date. Normal guys take a girl to watch a play, or they’ll cook something delicious at home to make a good impression. Normal guys do not have a torture/sex chair crafted to your very precise specifications. They don’t ask you to sit on their lap in order to see if you’re able to submit yourself to them. And Raph and I aren’t dating. We haven’t been on one date yet, let alone three. This is all really, really fucked up. Raphael rubs his thigh through his pants, eyeing me like he wants to take me right here, right now on the floor of this strange, airless room. “It’s okay if you want to leave. You can go. Turn around and walk out of the door. Take the elevator down to the ground floor, get into a cab and disappear into the night. But you and I both know what will happen the moment you climb into bed tonight. You’ll touch yourself, thinking about this moment. You’ll make yourself come with your fingers or with a piece of fucking plastic, and you’ll feel cheated. You’ll know you’ve missed out on something remarkable.” “There you go again. So fucking full of yourself.” Raph just smiles, allowing his head to hang for a second as he looks down at the floor. “And like I told you, Beth…I have every reason to be arrogant. I’m really good at fucking. I’m really good at

bringing a girl to climax. I’m really good at making girls scream my name. Not to mention, my dick is fucking glorious.” Jealousy surges through me when he says that. He must have had an awful lot of sex to be so cocky and confident. Exactly how many girls has he made come? How many of them have found themselves praying to the god of North Industries? If I ask him, he’ll probably tell me exactly how many. I realize almost instantly that I don’t want to know that information. I drop my purse, allowing it to hit the floor. I cross the room, eyeing Raphael and the huge bulge he’s sporting between his legs. His dick really must be glorious to be tenting the material of his pants like that. I look away, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of watching me stare at him, but when I look up to meet his gaze, Raphael’s eyes are filled with amusement anyway. This moment is pivotal for me. I know it deep within me, inside my very bones. If I sit on his lap, I’m telling him that I want this, and in turn that I want him . I should be taking more time to consider my options here. I certainly shouldn’t be slowly walking towards him, my body pulled to him, no longer responding to my own will. I have liquid fire traveling through my veins. I have light under my skin. I have a raging inferno for a heart. I can’t

seem to stop myself from reaching out to touch my fingertips to his face. This is all so unexpected. I don’t trust my own intuition anymore. I’m completely lost. Raphael doesn’t respond to my touch. His expression is blank as I trace my fingers over his cheek, along the sharp, angular line of his jaw. “You got under my skin,” I whisper to him. “I don’t know how you did it so quickly, but I can’t deny it. You know my past. You know what happened to my mother. You obviously know how that day has affected every moment of my life since. I don’t want to live under the weight of that anymore. I want to be free.” Raphael’s pale green eyes seem to shine a little brighter. “But more than that…” he says, a ghost of a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “You want me .” He places his hands on my waist, lifting me up roughly. He spins me around, turning me, pulling me down onto him so that I’m sitting sideways on his lap. When he puts me down, Raphael plants me directly on top of his rigid boner. I gasp—the sensation and the feel of him is almost too much to bear. Three milometers of fabric separate my pussy from his dick. Three measly layers of clothing that might as well be made out of tissue paper at this point. I can feel everything, and I’m betting Raphael can too.

His eyes shutter a little, his bawdy, confident façade slipping for a second, revealing just how turned on he is right now. “I won’t ever do anything to you against your will, Beth. Ever. You can believe that.” Weirdly, I do. I believed him back in that VR simulation, and I believe him now. I nod slowly, my heart racing out of my chest. “I’m not going to tie you up and fuck you today,” he says softly. “But I am going to put you over my knee and spank you.” “Spank me?” “If you don’t think you can handle it…” Raphael points to the door. “It’s still open. I won’t think any less of you.” He says this in such a teasing way, a challenging way. It’s a carefully crafted barb. His eyes shine brightly, and I can see the anticipation there. I can’t decide what he wants me to do more: get up and go, therefore chickening out on his blatant dare, or stay and accept the challenge. Every part of me is burning now. Fuck, I don’t know how I’m supposed to act. How am I supposed to just hand myself over to him like this? Like my emotional freedom is worth nothing to me. The reality of the matter is that it’s the most important

thing to me in the world. Raphael wants it from me, and it’s the hardest thing for me to give. Maybe that’s exactly why he’s asking this. If I valued something else more, he’d no doubt want that from me instead. It’s messed up. It’s a clear, obvious power play, and it’s making it difficult to consider all my options without losing my temper. The simple solution in this situation is to coolly and calmly leave with my pride and my dignity in tact, but I just can’t do it. My head is filled with him. Always . I smell the scent of him teasing the back of my nose every time I walk down the street. I hear his voice whenever I’m in class, or on the subway. The man is haunting me like the mysterious, enigmatic ghost that he, for all intents and purposes, is, and it’s driving me insane. “Why don’t I get to strap your ass into the chair?” I ask in a hard, clipped voice. “Why don’t I get to give you a good hiding?” Raphael laughs softly, his voice the sound of rustling silk. “That’s not how this works and you know it.” “Why? Because you’re an arrogant asshole who wants everything his own way?” “Yes. That’s part of it, anyway,” he concedes evenly. “A Dom also doesn’t bow down to a sub.”

“Sub? You seem to be making a lot of assumptions here.” I try to keep the snark from my voice, but I’m unsuccessful. What the actual fuck? What have I done to give him the impression I’d be submissive to him? It’s absolutely maddening. He’s being such an outrageous prick. I look back over my shoulder, and I can’t stop staring at him, though—the way the dim light is hitting his shoulders, casting long shadows down his body, and throwing his handsome face into dramatic patches of light and dark. He is the physical manifestation of all my darkest, most sensual desires come to life…and he is impossible to ignore. “How hard will it be? How hard will you spank me?” He answers immediately. “As hard as you can take it.” A thrill of adrenaline rushes through me. My mind splinters into three. The first part is focused on the shape of his full lips as they curve and arch into that smile of his. The second part is focusing on the idea of pain, and how much of it I can handle before I have to back down. The third part is focusing on my underwear, trying to remember which panties I put on this morning. Black lace? Red lace? Boy shorts? Hipsters? God, I hope I didn’t pull out a pair of granny panties in my rush

to get out of the door for school. I find myself nodding, though, relinquishing control of the moment to him. “All right. I’ll let you know when I can’t take anymore.” “I’ll already know when we reach that point.” “How?” “By the way you breathe. By the way your body writhes over my knee. By the way you jump every time I lay my palm to your bare skin.” I let out a sigh, unable to hold the fragile, frustrated sound back. I hate that my body is betraying me like this. I fucking hate it. He is controlling me right now. Trying to, anyway. I can’t decide who I’m more annoyed with right now—him, for having the nerve to try and tame me, or myself for allowing it to happen. I’m turned on, though. I had no idea I could ever be this turned on. I want to kiss him. I want his hands all over my body. I want him inside me, but in the same vein the very prospect is terrifying. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers. “Your mouth is perfect. Your tongue is perfect. Your lips are perfect, Beth. I can’t wait to dig my hands into your hair and fuck your mouth. Are you going to let me? Are you going to let me do whatever I want to

you?” I close my eyes. I don’t know what to say to that. How to respond. I might not have words to express my confusion right now, but my body has a language all of its own and it’s screaming that it wants the dark delights Raphael is offering. All of them, every last damn one. Raphael’s very still one second and then the next, he’s moving, grabbing hold of me, flipping me over, bending my body over his knee impossibly fast. His cock is pressing up between my breasts now, rock solid and throbbing. He takes hold of my dress and lifts the material, exposing my ass. He exhales—a deep, heavenly sound that makes my toes curl. There’s no time for embarrassment. No time to look back and check which panties I’m wearing. Raphael’s bare hand comes down, connecting with my bare ass cheek, and a volley of shock and pain sings through me, demanding attention. “Ahh, fuck!” “Good girl,” Raphael purrs. He rubs the flat of his hand against my skin, as if he’s trying to rub away the pain. “Good girl. That was a rough one. You took it well. Ready for another?” My ass cheek is still burning brightly from the pain, but I nod, clutching hold of the side of the chair in

my hands, bracing myself. “I’m ready,” I say breathlessly. There’s no warning. Raph’s hand comes down on my ass again, even harder than the first time. “Shit! Ahh, oh my god!” I buck, trying to escape the sting that prickles across my skin, but I can’t. It’s a part of me now. No matter how much I twist and writhe, I can’t separate myself from it. Raphael makes a pleased sound. He rubs my ass again, up and down, growling. “You turn such a pretty shade of pink, Beth. The curve of your ass is fucking amazing. I knew it would be. I fucking knew it.” His hand comes down again. I cry out, and Raphael’s growl turns into a snarl. He rubs again slowly, his palm applying a weighted pressure that somehow makes the burn lessen. A moment later, his hand is coming down again, and my shout echoes off the walls of the dimly lit room. “Fuck, Raphael. Fuck !” “Not yet, baby. You’ll know when I’m fucking you. There’ll be no mistaking that.” Again, his hand comes down and again I cry out. Again and again, the pain comes, and I lose myself inside it. I feel like I’m floating on a sea of it, bobbing there,

gasping for breath every time I breach the flat, mirrored surface long enough to open up my lungs. It’s encompassing, enough to swallow me. I want him. I want him. I fucking want him so badly, every muscle and bone in my body is crying out for him. I’m begging him to take me, to throw me to the floor, to fuck me until I can’t remember who I am anymore…and that’s when he stops. My heart feels like it’s stumbling out of my chest as Raphael draws my dress back down, covering my ass with the greatest of care. He cups my ass cheek in his palm through the material, murmuring softly, and I melt from my position over his knee, sinking to the floor at his feet. Raphael takes me by the chin, lifting my face, and he smiles down at me. A strange look of peace has fallen over him. “I might not know everything there is to know about you, Elizabeth Dreymon. There’s still an awful lot I need to learn. But there’s one thing I do know…and it’s this . You are going to fucking love this chair when you finally climb into it. You’re going to make me so fucking proud.”

Eight

Beth “H e kissed you . And then you left.” Thalia says this slowly, as if she’s struggling to process the information. “He kissed you?” I haven’t told her what happened in that small room after the kiss. I haven’t explained why I’m struggling to sit down comfortably today and I can’t stop fidgeting. “Yes, Thalia. He kissed me. Thanks for sounding so disbelieving. I have work to do. I’m not even supposed to be on my phone in here.” I survey the library, looking for Henrietta, the head librarian. If she even catches me with a piece of technology in my hands, I’m done for. Thalia doesn’t care that I’m at work, though. All she cares about is what happened with Raphael last night, and how he is doing. “He emailed me, y’know,” she says. “He told me to ask you if London was everything you’d hoped it would be.” “He has my phone number. He knows how to use it. Tell him if he wants to know, he can message me and find out for himself.”

“What kind of friend are you?” Thalia groans into the phone. “We’re meant to gossip about this stuff. We’re meant to pore over every single detail, overanalyzing every single move he made.” “He’s your friend, Thalia. It’s different.” “Damn straight it’s different. I have a vested interest in both of you. Now tell me what happened on your damn date!” “I didn’t go on a date last night. I went to a prearranged…god, I don’t even know what it was, but it was not a date. I wasn’t expecting him to do that. I wasn’t ready for him to do that. You’re gonna have to excuse me if I’m not bubbling over with excitement.” A jolt of pleasure hits me out of the blue, right between my legs. Raphael didn’t even touch my pussy last night, but he might as well have. I keep experiencing flashbacks of his hand connecting with my bare ass, and it’s all I can do to stop myself from running to the bathroom so I can masturbate. “Regardless of what you were expecting or what you were ready for, it’d still be okay if you were excited, Beth,” Thalia says. “I mean, come on. I know every line of that man’s face. He’s insanely handsome. Like Greek God handsome. You can’t tell me you’re not attracted to him.”

I sigh heavily, sliding a book back onto the shelf from the cart of returns I’m wheeling around the stacks. “I can’t tell you that,” I agree. “But there’s something about him, Thalia. Something broken. He’s a nuclear bomb and his wiring’s all fucked up. At some point, a circuit is going to short and he’s going to blow. The fallout will be devastating. If I allow him properly into my life, it’ll only be a matter of time. Something’ll happen. Something awful will happen. He’ll lose his mind or he’ll break my damn heart, and I can’t do that right now. I am five months away from taking the bar. So are you for that matter. I think we both just need to concentrate on our workloads and passing so we can get proper jobs.” “What, and then maybe you’ll be in the market to have your heart broken?” “Maybe. Who knows?” “You’re being ridiculous.” “I’m being a realist . I’m protecting myself and everything I’ve worked so hard toward for the better part of my adult life.” Another book goes back on the shelf. Thalia is quiet for a moment. She sounds disappointed when she speaks again. “All right. Fine. If that’s how it is,

then that’s how it is, I suppose. I won’t hassle you about it again. Just know…I think you’re making a mistake.” I don’t know why it’s so important to her that I connect with Raphael. On paper, her insistent need to know what’s going on with him and how he’s faring seems odd. I’d normally assume she has feelings for him herself, but I know my friend. There’s something else. Another reason she’s so desperate to know every tiny detail of Raphael’s life, and it’s kind of worrying that I can’t figure out what it is. “Let me know if you want to get dinner later,” Thalia says. “Ahh, I don’t know. I don’t think I can handle any more Raphael North talk.” “I won’t even mention his name, I swear,” she tells me. “Cross my heart and hope to die.” I know she’s lying, though. She won’t be able to help herself. She’ll manage to hold off for thirty minutes, an hour max, and then she won’t be able to contain it. Every other word out of her mouth will be Raph related, and I don’t think I can take it. The man’s taken over my every waking moment as it is. Spending the night talking about him will only

allow him to consume me further. And right now, I’m beginning to wonder what will be left of me by the time Raphael has finished claiming me. *** T here’s a small café in the front of the library building that sells toasted paninis and snacks, but I want something fresh for lunch today. Something green and healthy. I’m heading in the direction of a salad bar I sometimes hit up a couple of blocks away when I feel my cell phone vibrate in my purse. It’s him. I know it’s him. I’ve been waiting for a message or some kind of contact from Raph since I walked out of the penthouse. I already know he’s not the kind of guy to bombard a woman with a million text messages, but I witnessed the look in his eyes when he saw me to the glass door of the penthouse last night. He’s not going to leave this alone. He’s not going to walk away from it. I leave my phone exactly where it is in the bottom of my bag. Whatever he’s sent to me will either ruin my day or make it incredible. I’m still trying to figure out what I’m feeling. I was furious last night. I wanted to punch him directly in the dick for being so presumptuous. Then I wanted to feel his body on mine more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my

life. And then I was so angry with myself on the drive home that I teared up on the subway. I can’t believe I allowed him to sweep me away in a moment like that. I mean, I let him spank me for crying out loud. Who does that? It was crazy. It was pure madness. But…I also felt insanely happy for a moment. I was so drawn to him. The kiss inside the VR simulation was magical. His body pressed up against me, his hold on me firm yet gentle… I was immediately pulled in so many different directions that I couldn’t process what was happening. And bent over his knee with my dress pulled up around my waist, my bare buttocks on display for him… I flush as I walk down the street, clearing my throat, hitching my bag strap higher on my shoulder. I have to look around to make sure no one’s noticed just how flustered I am. Can they tell I’m turned on just by looking at me? It must be so fucking obvious. There’s a line at the salad bar. A huge one. I groan as I join the back of it. Too late to walk somewhere else now; I only have another forty-five minutes to grab food and get back to the library. If I’m late, I’ll be stuck with all the shitty jobs Henrietta’s been hoarding to dole out as punishments whenever she sees fit. My phone feels like a block of C4, a looming threat

at the bottom of my bag. Don’t look at it. Don’t look at it. Do not fucking look at your phone, Elizabeth Marie Dreymon. I repeat this over and over again as a mantra while the line slowly creeps forward. “Excuse me? Beth, isn’t it?” The sound of my name startles me. I turn around, and behind me a tall, blond guy in a dusky grey suit is smiling down at me. Paxton. He takes his hand out of his pocket and offers it to me. “We met the other day. Outside the elevator?” He doesn’t say Raphael’s name. The very mention of it will have people’s ears pricking. “Yes, I remember. You’re Paxton. Thalia’s told me about you since we ran into each other, too.” The smile that spreads across his face is rueful. “I’m sure none of it was good. Thalia and I…we have a checkered past.” I return his awkward smile. “She might have mentioned something along the same lines.” It would be rude to tell him about the dark picture Thalia painted of him. There’s clearly so much history between them, between all three of them. I find myself wondering why Raph will see this guy

but he won’t see Thalia specifically. There’s so much left unexplained here. I’m so freaking curious, but at the same time, I’m exhausted by the situation. It’s complicated and complex, and I’m an outsider. I get the feeling I’m never going to know the truth. “So funny that we cross paths with each other again,” Paxton says smoothly. “You’re on your lunch break? Would you care to join me at my table across the street?” On the other side of the road, L’Assiette, a French restaurant with a reputation for out-of-this-world steak and frites, has stood for nearly fifty years now. I’ve never eaten there before. The extortionately pricey menu and the three-week wait for a table had always put me off. “Oh, no, that’s fine. I don’t want to intrude. I’m sure you’re busy. I was just going to grab a salad to go and eat when I get the chance this afternoon.” “I already have a number of dishes ordered with the kitchen. My business lunch just got cancelled so you’d be doing me a favor, actually. I don’t want people thinking I order so much from the menu for myself, now, do I?” I can’t even see the counter inside the salad bar

from where I’m standing. It’s going to be half an hour before I can order at this rate. I look at my watch, chewing my lip. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,” I say. “Wonderful.” Paxton offers me his arm like some old timey Southern gentleman. I thread my arm through his, already wondering if I’m making a mistake. I’d rather go hungry than invite more drama into my life right now, and where else can having lunch with this guy lead but to more drama. I’m irritated, though. I have no real reason to believe that Raph would be pissed if he knew I was eating lunch with Paxton—he could easily not give a shit—but the possibility that it might bother him gives me a bit of a thrill. Across the street, a platter of oysters is being delivered as we’re led back to Paxton’s table. The waiter bows deeply as Paxton dismisses him with a flick of his wrist. He doesn’t even look the man in the eyes—very different to how Raph engaged with Denny when he was serving us. Paxton shoos away another waiter who tries to pull out a chair for me, making a show of pulling it out for me himself. “I’m very glad I spotted you, Beth,” he says. “I wanted to talk to you the other day but I was late to see Raphael, and you looked like you were in a hurry to get out of there anyway.”

I sit, sinking into the upholstered chair—way more comfortable than any chair in my apartment. I try to hide my surprise at Paxton’s words, but I mustn’t do a very good job. Paxton smiles, inclining his head politely. “I’ve known Raphael for a very long time. I’m sure Thalia explained our little story. How we went to school together, us four friends, joined at the hip.” I accept the oyster fork Paxton holds out to me. “Four? She told me about you and Raphael. There’s another member of your group?” For a second, Paxton’s perfect smile falters. Only a second. It would have been easy enough to blink and miss the stumble in his facial expression altogether. I catch it, though, out of the corner of my eye. He masters his features in a heartbeat. “Oh…no. My mistake. Plenty of people wanted to join our little band, but we were always too arrogant and full of ourselves to pay anyone else any attention. They used to call us the Three Musketeers, you know. Our parents. They used to hold weekly meetings to try and figure out what the hell to do with us, their reprobate children.” I laugh, because I think it’s what he expects. “Please,” he tells me, gesturing to the table. “Eat. You don’t have much time. If I’m honest, neither do I. There’s a mountain of paperwork on my desk. Sadly, no

matter how hard I wish, it doesn’t ever seem to do itself.” As he says this, the waiter returns with two fresh green salads and a plate of grilled meats. The smell is divine, enough to make my stomach audibly rumble. I place a selection of food onto my plate, eating slowly, savoring each bite. “What did you want to talk to me about?” I ask. “Well. I suppose…this is quite a difficult subject to broach. You seem like a smart woman, though, Elizabeth, so I won’t insult you by beating around the bush. I wanted to gauge your intentions toward my friend.” I stop chewing. “My intentions?” “Yes. Your reasoning behind spending time with Raphael. He’s…” An awkward look flashes across his face. “Raphael’s a very wealthy man. Wealthier than the rest of the New York elite combined. The past few years have been tough for him. It seemed prudent that I should figure out what your angle is before he ends up getting hurt.” “I’m sorry. I don’t quite follow. My angle ?”

Paxton’s smile remains firmly fixed in place, but something about him changes. Some sour note creeping into the lines around his eyes. “You’re a broke student who’s recognized an opportunity for herself. I don’t blame you. I’m sure most people in your situation would do the same. You’re in debt up to your eyeballs, you have rent and expenses to cover. An invitation to spend time with the richest man in New York was probably a gift from the heavens. He’s a means to an end. You think he’ll cover your tuition fees. Maybe buy you a nice little loft space somewhere that you can live in rent free.” He nods as he says this, not a hint of anger in his voice. “I get it, I really do. I’ve had dalliances with women and done the same thing. Covered their costs, helped them out financially when they needed it. Given them a car to use every so often. For men in positions of power, it’s fairly normal. But Raphael’s different. He hasn’t formed a connection with a woman in a very long time. He may seem distant. Reserved. Cold, even. But I assure you, he’s quite the opposite. He’s…fragile . I think it’s better for him if he forges a connection with someone of an equal social standing, who doesn’t ask too much of him too quickly.” I can’t believe my own ears. As I’ve been listening to Paxton talk so flippantly about the fact that I’m a money hungry gold digger, the food in my mouth

has turned to ash. My tongue feels like a lump of raw meat. My pulse is hammering out a staccato rhythm that’s making my vision pitch and flicker. I look down at the plate in front of me, fighting my need to throw up. I put down the fork. “You think I agreed to see Raphael because I thought he’d give me money?” “Yes,” Paxton says. “I know about your arrangement. Six thousand dollars a month? That’s an awful lot of money for a few games of chess, Elizabeth.” Bile burns at the back of my throat. Slowly, dizzily, I push my chair back from the table and I stand. I can’t think straight. I can’t…fucking…think… “I told him I didn’t want his money,” I whisper. “I told him I wasn’t going to accept a dime. I didn’t agree to meet with him so I could fuck him for money, Paxton.” He rocks back into his seat, holding up his hands. “Oh, no. No, no, no, that’s not what I meant at all. Not just sex. God, I’m not accusing you of being a hooker. I’m referring to companionship as well as that kind of intimacy. Enjoying meals together. Spending time together. That kind of thing.” “Fuck you. You’re accusing me of being an escort,” I hiss.

Paxton reacts as if I’ve struck him. He jerks away from me, surprised, but it’s a fake surprise. I can see that much now. His face may do one thing but his eyes show his real emotion. He’s been playing this as cool as he can, pretending what he’s saying is completely normal, acceptable, and understandable, but I can now read how much I disgust him by the sharp, hostile steel in his eyes. “Not very ladylike, swearing at a gentleman in public, Beth,” he chides. “Especially after he offered you a free lunch.” My stomach rolls, and I almost learn forward and vomit straight into his lap. Would serve the fucker right. I should never have agreed to come to lunch with him. The fact that I said yes has played into his argument, making me look like I’d do anything to get something for free. “You’re a pig,” I snarl, my eyes pricking like crazy. I can barely see through the tears that are welling there, clouding my vision. “I was trying to help Thalia’s friend. Nothing more.” Paxton nods, retaining his composure, even though mine has completely fled me. He reaches into his pocket and takes out a checkbook, opening it up. He clicks the ballpoint pen he retrieves after it, then looks up at me. “How much do you want?” he asks flatly.

“What ?” “How much do you want to leave him alone?” “I don’t want anything!” “Come on, Beth. Be real. Be honest. Name your number. I assure you I have enough to cover your greed.” “You could pay me a hundred thousand dollars and I wouldn’t fucking take it. You’re a disgusting piece of—” “One hundred grand,” Paxton says. He bows his head as he writes quickly into his checkbook. He rips out a check and hands it to me, smiling. “See. That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” I snatch up the glass of ice water on the table in front of me and I pitch it in his face. He clearly wasn’t expecting me to do this. He gasps, his mouth flying open, his shoulders rocketing up around his ears. Jumping to his feet, he swats at his chest, as if that’s somehow going to dry him off. “Don’t just stand there, get me a towel!” he snarls at the waiter. The man hurries forward, holding out a plain white cloth that was draped over his arm, and Paxton starts dabbing crazily at his soaked shirt and suit jacket. The waiter gives me a stunned sideways

glance and the very ghost of a smile, but I’m too pissed to join him in his amusement. Paxton’s cool, calm exterior is long gone as he pins me beneath a hateful gaze. “You just fucked up,” he informs me. “You really just fucked up.” I lean across the table, so there’s only a foot of space standing between us. My whole body is shaking, lit up with rage. “You know what, Paxton?” I fire back. “You’re the one who’s fucked up .” *** I can’t afford to walk out on a workday halfway through it, so I go back to the library. The next five hours drag by, and even Henrietta doesn’t give me shit for being irritable. When six P.M. arrives, I don’t head home like I normally would. I march myself to the subway and ride four stops over to the Osiris Building. At the front desk, the same guy who helped me the other day is standing behind the desk, smartly dressed in an elegant suit, shirt and tie. He sees me coming, and all worry that I’ll have to remind him who I am flies out the window. “Ms. Dreymon, welcome back to the Osiris. I didn’t know you were going to be visiting us today.”

“I hadn’t planned on it. Something came up, though. Can you please let Raphael know I’m here? I need to talk to him.” “No need,” Oliver says. “You have a standing appointment with Mr. North. He advised us to allow you immediate entry to the penthouse whenever you liked. Here, let me escort you to the elevator.” Well, that’s a shock. He told them to let me up whenever I wanted? When did he give those orders? Before or after he spanked the living daylights out of me? Did he want me to be able to sneak into his place unannounced, perhaps dressed in sexy lingerie beneath a long coat, ready and willing to service him? Oliver punches in the door code and moves aside so I can enter the private access room. He gives me a professional dip of the head, and then goes without another word. I do not take my shoes off in the elevator. It’s a stupid fucking rule anyway. My ears pop as the elevator hurtles up toward the penthouse, and the entire time I’m swearing under my breath to myself, spitting mad. I bolt as soon as

the doors open, striding across the anteroom, up to the glass door. I don’t ring the bell mounted on the side of the wall. I lay my open palm against the glass, hammering on it, until the curtain moves to the side and Raphael is standing there in front of me. Shirtless. He’s covered in sweat, his hair dripping, beads of perspiration rolling over his shoulders, down his chest. His muscular, smooth, perfectly carved chest. He’s wearing shorts and running shoes, and there are headphones shoved into his ears, like I just interrupted him running. I’ve never seen a private gym here at the penthouse but I don’t doubt for a second that there is one. Raph looks angry for a second, then he sees who’s waiting for him on the other side of the door and everything about him changes. He takes a step back, his shoulders squaring off. “Beth,” he says softly. I can’t hear my name through the door but I can see the shape of it on his lips. I reach into my back pocket and I unfold the crumpled slip of paper I’ve kept there ever since lunch. I slap it against the glass for him to see. He leans forward to read and a deep frown forms between his brows. “Why did Paxton write you out a check for a hundred thousand dollars?” he asks.

His voice is much louder now; I can hear him perfectly. “Why don’t you tell me?” His frown deepens. “I know nothing about this, Beth. Nothing .” “So you didn’t start seeing me in the hope that I’d become your plaything? That you could buy me? Buy my time and my body, so you could use me whenever you saw fit? ’Cause that’s what your charming friend implied when he tried to pay me off this afternoon.” Raph’s face is forged steel and carved stone. Hard. Expressionless. “You think I’d do that?” “Yes! I mean, why else would you be paying me so much money to come and play chess with you? Why else would you have had that damn chair made? I can’t believe I was so fucking stupid. You’re a businessman. You’re smart with money. You could have played chess with anyone online for free. Goddamnit, I’m such an idiot.” The rage that’s been building up inside me all day bursts free, surging out of me in violent waves. I’m more than angry; I’m furious. I can’t believe I got myself caught up in this shit. I have the biggest

exam of my life to study for. I should be funneling every single last scrap of energy into my research and my notes, and yet I’ve wasted precious time on a man who simply wanted to pay me off in order to bed me. I’ve prided myself on remaining focused throughout law school, and to drop the ball now, so close to the end, is heartbreaking. I turn and walk away. I barely make it three steps before the glass door is buzzing open and Raph is grabbing me by the shoulder. He spins me around, towering over me, his face hovering over mine. “I could have just played with someone online for free, you’re right. But they wouldn’t have had your eyes,” he says, his voice penetratingly deep and filled with some unknown emotion. “They wouldn’t have had your smile. Their hair wouldn’t have been so dark it’s almost black, highlighted with hints of warm brown and red. Their cheeks wouldn’t flush every time they looked up at me from beneath their sooty, charcoal lashes.” He thumps his fist against his bare chest, pounding against his ribcage, over his heart, startling me. “And my heart wouldn’t fucking feel like it was about to explode in my chest every time I heard her damn name, Beth. So, yeah. I chose you over seven billion other people. I saw that photograph of you and I fucking knew it had to be you. I didn’t ask Paxton to try and give you that money. I would never have sanctioned

that. If I thought you’d take my money, I’d fucking shower you in it. Not because I want to buy you or pay for your affections. But because I want to make sure you’re comfortable. I want to make sure you have enough money in your account to pay your bills, and for school, and your rent, so when you come to see me and you walk through those elevator doors over there, you’re carefree and light. Without a worry in the damn world. If you want to be angry with me because of that, then fine. I’m a selfish prick. I’m a fucking greedy jerk. But you know I wasn’t trying to buy your affection.” In all of our meetings up until this point, Raph has barely strung more than three sentences together at any one time. This tirade of words and emotion is so surprising and so real that I find myself gasping for air. I can see the truth in his eyes. He lays it bare there for me to see, painfully obvious, raw and undeniable. He really didn’t want anything from me. Paxton was wrong. Paxton is a lying piece of shit. I open my mouth, but I don’t know what to say. Paxton’s crumpled check falls from my hand to the polished marble beneath my feet, and my body, locked and tense until this very moment, falls slack. Raph steps in so there’s no more space between us. He reaches up and carefully brushes my hair back

out of my face, his eyes traveling slowly over my features. “I know how money works, okay?” he whispers. “I know how to use it to get what I want. I know both the good and the evil it can accomplish. Most importantly, I know what it can buy and what it can’t. If I simply wanted your body, I would have used the way I look. I would have used my charm to entice you into my bed. Even then, I wouldn’t have bribed you with a paycheck. But that’s not what I’m interested in. Not the only thing I’m interested in, anyway. I want your mind as well as your body, Beth. I want your fucking heart. I won’t be happy until I hear you telling me you’re in love with me, and there isn’t enough money in the world to make that happen. Not unless you really, truly feel it.” I want to laugh. No, I want to cry. I’m paralyzed by my own sudden doubt. I was meant to come over here and tear this guy a new one. I wasn’t supposed to end up staring into his eyes, listening to him talk about me falling in love with him, handing over myself to him, body, mind and soul. “I can’t just…” I shake my head, puffing out my cheeks. “I don’t know you. I can’t just decide to fall in love with you, Raph.” “I’m not asking you to just decide to do it,” he says softly. “I’m asking you to be open to it. To give us a

chance, to let this develop naturally. I’m asking you to not push this away just because my bank balance is fucking intimidating. I’ve fucked up in the past, Beth, I really have. I’ve been careless with money, things and people in the very worst ways. I’m not the same man I was five years ago, though. I’m better than that version of me ever could have been. I’ll show you a life, a remarkable life, and it won’t be special because of the money I’ve spent along the way. It’ll be special because of the thought and care I’ve put into it instead.” His hands cup my face, framing me as he stares down at me. His face is divine, so perfectly constructed, his jaw square, his cheekbones pronounced and high, flushed with a little emotion of his own. His lips are pulled into a tight line, his concern clearly visible there. “This is too much,” I whisper. “This is crazy .” “I don’t care if it’s crazy. Roll the dice on me, Beth. See what happens. I’m a real fucking man. I know you’ve been wondering about me. Last night proved that. I can see it in your eyes right now, for fuck’s sake. You’re already looking at my body, wondering what it would feel like to have me on top of you. For me to be inside you. For my tongue to be between your legs, my hands all over your skin, my fingers teasing you everywhere...” He

nudges my nose with the tip of his own—a gesture that would be playful if he weren’t looking at me so seriously. “You’re wondering what my sweat would taste like on the end of your tongue. You’re wondering what it would feel like to have my dick inside you. Let me show you.” My old instincts kick in, and I hear Mom’s words in the back of my head again: Never trust men, Elizabeth. They’ll only hurt you . I try to lean back, but Raphael has hold of me again, his right foot planted behind my own, drawing me closer to him, our bodies meeting at shoulder, stomach, hip, and knee. “Don’t do that,” he hisses. “Don’t disappear on me. I need you here with me right now. I need you to understand this.” His cock is hard already. More than hard. It’s pressing into me, a heavy weight between my legs, pushing upward, already applying startling pressure against me. Mom’s voice vanishes, leaving my mind empty. No lingering fear. No lingering doubt. I had no idea my fear and panic could be so easily banished. I’m sure Raphael North is the only man in the world capable of making that happen. It’s so difficult to hide how much I want him right now. So, so difficult. Almost impossible. He gathers my hair into his right hand, twisting it into a knot around his fist. “I’m going to fuck you,” he mouths

against my lips. “You know it, and I know it. You might as well give in now and admit the truth. I could have done it last night, but I wanted to give you some time. Where’s the sense in denying this, though? You’re depriving us both if you run from this.” “I’m…not . I’m…” Panting. Dizzy. Turned around. Incapable of speech. Raphael runs the pad of his thumb over my bottom lip, a tiny smile lifting his lips at the corners. He teases my lip down, revealing my teeth, and he groans a little. “Say it. Say the words. Tell me you want me. I won’t do anything until you say it.” “I…can’t…” His mouth is almost on mine. So very close. His breath is warm on my face, smelling like fresh mint. He must have been chewing gum while he was working out. “I’ll make you come so hard,” he breathes. “I’ll make you scream my fucking name until your throat’s raw. I promise, Beth…I’ll fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk for a week.” “I don’t…I don’t want that.” My voice is hoarse already, like I’ve already been screaming his damn name. Sex has never been a big deal for me. Don’t get me wrong; it’s been nice to have it every once in a while, but I’ve always struggled so hard to

connect with a guy, always had to work so hard to trust them, that it hasn’t really been worth the effort. It seems that Raphael North has somehow lit a fuse inside me, though, a quick-burning fuse, and with every passing second I am growing more and more turned on by the idea of him touching me. “Bullshit. Your body’s betraying you, Elizabeth,” he whispers. “Your back’s arching into me. Your tits are crushed up against my chest so hard that I can feel your nipples are tight….” He trails off, looking down the length of my body. I don’t want him to continue. I want him to keep his mouth shut so he doesn’t embarrass me any further, but I know by the wicked glint in his eye that he’s not done with me yet. He leans in and whispers in my ear. “I can tell exactly how much you want me and it’s driving me insane.” My cheeks burst into flames. At least it feels like they do. I pull back, trying to get away, to turn from him, but he holds on fast. “You smell so fucking good,” he purrs. “I can’t wait to bury my tongue between your thighs. I can’t wait to tease your clit, to taste you, to make you swear and curse as I fuck you with my fingers.” He presses his thumb against my bottom lip again, forcing my mouth open a little. My breath hitches in the back of my throat. “I can’t wait to feel your lips wrapped around my

cock. Your pretty, pretty mouth is going to be all mine. You’re going to lick and suck, and you’re going to love every inch I give to you. I already know.” I’ve never been this turned on in my entire life. Never. I had no idea I’d be back here so soon, feeling so turned on again after last night. The feel of his thumb dipping slowly into my mouth is enough to make my eyes roll back into my head. As if obeying some unspoken command, I lick the end of his thumb, sucking in a sharp breath through my nose when he makes a low, frustrated, highly sexual sound, somewhere between a groan and a snarl. Raph bows his head, lowering his mouth to mine, and he carefully licks as I suck his thumb all the way into my mouth. “Fuck, Beth,” he hisses. “You’re fucking dynamite. You’re more than I can bear.” His tongue darts out and flicks at my lip, and I instantly lose myself. I can’t handle the intensity between us anymore. I can’t even bear to look at him. I close my eyes and I melt into him. I don’t know when or how, but somewhere in the last ten seconds I’ve resigned myself to the fact that this man is going to get his way. It doesn’t feel like giving in, though. I’m not doing something I don’t want to. He’s right; I’m merely telling the truth—

that I want him. Badly . One second I’m standing stiffly against him, the taste of mint on my lips as he laves at me, and then the next I’m reaching for him, grabbing at him, winding my fingers into his hair, pulling him so that his mouth comes crashing down on mine. Our first kiss, the one we shared in the VR studio, was a dizzying thing. I didn’t allow myself to sink into it, though. I railed against it, fought my desire off, determined to control the situation as best I could. Now, though, everything is different. I slowly descend into madness as I melt into this kiss. Raphael is reserved for all of three seconds. He manages to stay calm as he kisses me once, twice, and then his hands are tearing at my clothes, forcing my mouth open further, his tongue probing and exploring, his chest heaving as he groans into my mouth. He jerks my hair, pulling my head back, leaving my neck exposed, and then his tongue and his teeth are raking across my skin, his incisors digging into my flesh hard enough to leave marks. I cry out, my heart thundering in my chest. I need his body on mine. I need more of him, more than he’s already given me. I whimper, a sound I’ve never in my life made before, and Raph laughs, just once, a rough edged, lust-filled bark of laughter, and then he

returns to my neck. Next to Raphael, I feel small and vulnerable yet safe and protected all once. I never thought a guy could make me feel anything but intimidated and scared. This man is capable of destroying and saving me in the very same breath, though. He’s capable of building me up and at the same time crushing me with his strong hands. I wore a button down shirt and pants to the library for work this morning, so I’m hardly wearing the sexiest clothes in my wardrobe. Far from it. I look very conservative, but when Raphael rips open my shirt, exposing my black lace bra and an expanse of cleavage, I feel like I’m wearing the most provocative outfit imaginable. He snarls as he buries his face in my skin, his hands working my breasts through the lace, finding my nipples immediately, pinching and rolling them until I have to suck in a sharp breath. The pain is exquisite. The pleasure is blinding. “Your body belongs to me,” Raphael groans. “Your beautiful face. Your perfect mouth. Your tits. Your ass. Your cunt. All of it belongs to me now.” My mother would keel over and die if she knew a man was speaking to me like this. She’d scream blue

murder and try to kill him. For some reason, hearing the word cunt on Raph’s lips turns me on so much that I have to dig my fingernails into his back just to stay upright, though. Raph responds by sliding his hand down the front of my pants, already beneath my underwear, and dipping them between my legs. “Fuck,” he hisses. “You’re so fucking wet. God damn it, Beth, you’re soaking. I’m going to have to lick you clean.” The words he uses are so animalistic and suggestive that a shiver runs from the top of my head down to my toes. My skin breaks out in goose bumps. If Raphael notices the extreme effect he has on me, then he doesn’t let me know. He unfastens my pants, ripping them down over my hips. “You’re about to forget which way is up,” he informs me. I’m denied the chance to fire back a retort when he pulls my panties to the side and begins rubbing my clit in small, tight circles with his index finger. He doesn’t waste five minutes trying to find the damn thing. He knows exactly where it is and gets to work. My head rocks back, my entire body shaking with pleasure. Raph uses his other hand to pull down the lace material of my bra, exposing first my left breast and then my right. He takes my nipple into his mouth, biting lightly,

clamping down with his teeth, and I shudder. “You like that? You like walking the line between pleasure and pain?” Raphael asks. “Yes. Yes. Fuck, yes.” He thrusts a finger inside me as he sucks at my breast, and I can’t hold back the cry that rips free from my throat. “I’ll push you over that line,” he whispers. “I’ll carry you over it. I’ll hold you tight and keep you safe as you come over and over again. Do you want that?” I don’t know. I don’t know what I want. Five minutes ago, I wanted to fucking kill him. A lot has changed since I came storming up here in the elevator, though. Raphael laid himself out for me to see. No secrets. No games. No mystery or intrigue. Just plain honesty. He wants me, and he knows I want him. Any other guy wouldn’t have put himself out there like that. They wouldn’t have risked the chance of rejection that comes hand in hand with being honest about what you want. His confession was unashamed and unafraid, and it made my heart swell to three times its normal size. Raphael drops down to his knees and grabs hold of

my left ankle. He rips my pump from my foot and launches it down the length of the anteroom, snarling like a savage. “No ,” he says simply. He rips the pump from my other foot and hurls that one too. “Bad girl. You broke my rules. We’ll talk about that later. Go and place your hands against the glass, Beth,” Raph tells me. The timbre of his voice resonates somewhere deep inside me. Somewhere that answers only to instinct and drive, not to common sense. He kisses me as he walks me backwards, his mouth hot and insistent, his hands furiously exploring my body. I shift back, responding to his movement. The anteroom, marble and glass and not much else, now feels like it’s filled from top to bottom with water and I’m struggling to move back through the suffocating liquid in order to obey this man’s command. Cold. Cold on my flesh. My body must have made contact with the glass because a shock of cold hits my back and my ass. My butt must be pressed up against the floor to ceiling window. The shock of the unexpected sensation has me gasping for breath. Quickly, Raph spins me around, and then his hand is sliding down…

…over my stomach… …between my legs… …inside me… “Fuck! Beth, you feel so good good around my fingers. Your pussy is so damn tight. So wet. Tell me… Tell me right now that you want me inside you.” Raph’s words are almost lost in the haze that’s fogging my brain. I barely know how to make myself heard anymore. I don’t know how to make myself clear. I manage to nod, though. I manage to say the words he’s asking of me. “Yes! God, yes, I want you inside me!” I haven’t even finished speaking before he’s ripping my pants fully from my body. Tearing the open shirt from me. Yanking down my panties and lifting each of my legs in order to hurl them across the anteroom. I slap my palms against the glass as he pushes himself inside me. I’ve never felt this before —so full, so turned on, so swept away and complete. Raphael North, the most beautiful man in New York City, the most elusive man to ever grace the cover of a magazine, is inside me. Not just inside me. He’s claiming me, owning me, demanding everything of me with each and every

single thrust of his cock. I’m lost. I’m lost to myself, and to him. There’s only pleasure… and it feels like it’s pouring into me, taking me over, showing me heights of madness I never knew existed. My breasts crush up against the glass, and the beat and thrum of a helicopter sounds way off in the distance, the throb and thrum of its blades barely audible. I hear nothing but the pull and push of Raphael’s breathing. I feel nothing but his dizzying touch. “Are you ready to come for me now, Beth?” he rasps into my ear. “Are you ready to give me what I’ve been waiting for ever since I saw that photo?” “Shit. Yes, fuck, I’m going to come!” With every deep thrust of his cock inside me, I can feel it mounting: that terrifying fall. Le petit mort. The little death. Except this orgasm won’t be comparable to a little death. It’ll be a monstrous death. It’s going to be skydiving and my chute not opening. It’s going to be deep sea diving and my tank running out of oxygen. It’s going to be… It’s going to be…

It’s going to… It’s… “Oh my god! Raph! Raph! Fuck, I’m coming. I’m coming!” His arm closes around my chest, pulling me back to him, holding me against his body as he holds me while I come. “I know. I know. I feel it,” he whispers. “I can feel your pussy tightening around my dick, baby. Come for me hard now. Fucking come all over me.” So I do.

Nine

Beth T he day my father died , I was in Los Angeles visiting a friend. Specifically, I was in Long Beach at an aquarium. I was hurrying through the exhibits because I’d skipped breakfast and I was starving, trying to reach the cafeteria as quickly as possible, when my cell phone started ringing in my bag. I was going to ignore the call, but Sarah, a friend from high school who’d moved out to California to do the whole wannabe actress thing, told me I should get it. When I saw it was David, I nearly threw the phone back into my bag all over again, but Sarah had insisted. I picked up, and I received the news from my brother that would change my life forever. I remember how blue the water inside the tanks was. How lazily the fish swam from one side of the glass to the other. The quick flashes of silver from the more energetic, tiny fish that swarmed in great balls closer to the surface of the tanks. The aquarium smelled of cleaning products and pretzels. That dry, chemical, paper smell from printed leaflets, and the overpowering saccharine smell of ice cream. I remember staring at Sarah, the

faint lines at the corners of her eyes fading as she slowly stopped smiling, realizing that something was wrong. I recall every last detail with a kind of precision that only comes during a momentous event. I’ve had so few moments like that in my life, but as I head home back to my apartment, the subway rocking me from side to side, I know this will be one of them. The sharp, floral smell of perfume the woman next to me is wearing. The sound of the tinny music escaping a guy’s headphones on the other side of the carriage. The heavy, weightiness that has settled into my bones, deep down, and the ache that seems to be throbbing everywhere along with it. Today, I slept with a man I’ve fantasized about for years, and it was mag-fucking-nificent. He’s so very different to the party boy Lothario I daydreamed about years ago. He’s mysterious, and he’s private. So serious and demanding. I close my eyes, losing myself in the memories of his hands on my body, and I can’t cope anymore. I feel like I’m on fire, so ridiculously turned on that I almost have to get off the line three stops early so I can walk the rest of the way home to clear my head. I shut my eyes, let my head lean back against the wall of the carriage, and I do my best to zone out instead. These memories are better saved for when

I’m alone, when at least ten people aren’t looking at me, wondering why I’m so red in the face and I can’t stop fidgeting. My phone starts blowing up the moment I get service. Text after text from Thalia come flooding in, mixed in with a couple from David, but I don’t read them. I’m too utterly blissed out and in my own little world right now, and David’s weird band messages coupled with Thalia’s one million questions about Raph are too much for me to worry about right now. I just don’t want to ruin my good mood, and it’s guaranteed to happen the moment I start reading. I arrive home, I make myself a coffee, and I sit myself down on the couch with my text books, ready for a night of studying. An hour zips by and then another. Just before eleven, a loud hammering rings out inside my apartment, and my brother’s voice makes its way through the door, scaring the shit out of me. “Beth. Beth, open the damn door. We need to talk.” I almost trip over my own feet in my haste to get to the door. I fling it open, glaring at David, hissing at him. “Shut up! What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you trying to kick my door down in the middle of the night? Damn it, David, just shut up

already. You’re gonna piss off the neighbors.” My brother braces himself against the doorjamb, leaning his body into the apartment. “I don’t give a shit about pissing off your neighbors, Beth. Why haven’t you been answering your phone?” “Have you been drinking?” I fire back. His eyes are bleary and bloodshot, and there are dark circles beneath them. He gives me a tired sideways look, pushing past me into the apartment. “No. I’m hung over. There’s a difference.” “Wow. Mom would be so stoked to see you right now,” I quip, swinging the door closed. “Her only son, reeking of stale whiskey and hollering at people in hallways.” David slaps both hands against his chest in mock horror. He grins, laughing under his breath. “Me? You think she’s ever going to give me shit again after what she’s probably seeing of you on the news right now?” “The news? What are you talking about?” David slumps down into the armchair, picking up what remains of a half eaten sandwich I made earlier, stuffing it into his mouth. “Oh, this is

priceless,” he says around his mouthful. “You’re so fucking oblivious. Turn on the TV.” A jolt of panic fires through me. He sounds so confident. So smug. He knows something. Something about me, and he’s enjoying this way too much. I flick on the TV, bracing myself. “Pick a news channel. Any news channel,” David says breezily. I scroll until I find one. The female anchor on the screen is reporting on a shooting that’s taken place in Brooklyn. David scowls, obviously upset that the woman reading from the teleprompter isn’t talking, for some reason, about me. He doesn’t need to sulk for long, though. The next image that scrolls up on the top right hand side of the screen is of me. Naked. My breasts blurred out. Hands planted against a pane of glass, a look of pure ecstasy on my face as Raphael North kisses and bites at my neck from behind. My body jolts and my mouth opens, my eyes shuttering closed, and it’s obvious from the movement that Raphael has just thrust himself inside me. I remember the moment vividly. It felt like my brain was melting out of my ears. I’ve never seen my face during sex, though. I never knew I’d look like…that . I sink down, aiming for the edge of the couch and

missing altogether, my ass hitting the rug instead. “Oh…no. What the fuck? No . No, no, no.” “Oh, yes ,” David counters. He points at the TV, chewing. “If you keep watching for another minute or so, they actually show that part. You were nodding a lot. I’m no good at lip reading, but they had an expert on one of the other channels who was. They said yes was the only word that came from your mouth for about twelve minutes. They said the stuff that came after that couldn’t be repeated on national television.” “What the…fuck? How ? How did this happen?” The video clip is still playing in the top right corner, even though it’s obvious Raphael and I are having sex. Intermittently, our bodies will be blurred out as we shift around, to avoid showing anything too graphic, but the movement alone, the expressions on our faces, the sweat on our skin…it all tells a very damning tale. The news anchor is talking, one eyebrow arched coquettishly, a smirk at the corners of her mouth, but I don’t hear a word she says. My ears are filled with a high-pitched buzzing sound that seems to go on and on forever, rising in frequency, until it sounds like goddamn screaming. I can’t understand…

We were in his fucking penthouse! That’s, what, the seventy-third floor? The Osiris Building looms over every other structure for a mile in every direction. How could anyone have captured a photo of us, let alone fucking video ? David says something. Laughs. He flicks the channel over to another news show, this time some shitty, cheesy entertainment type show that sensationalizes absolutely everything, and boy are they going to town. Four people sit at desks, two on either side of a large screen. They keep pausing the video at intervals and zooming in on either Raphael or me. Thankfully they seem mostly interested in Raphael, though they point out my birthmark on my collarbone, and they say something unfriendly about my ass when Raphael shoves me up against the glass so my butt cheeks are crushed up against the window. “Ohhhh. Sorry, little sister. That’s gotta sting.” David gets up from the couch, rubbing at his temple. “Hey, do you have any Tylenol? This headache is getting out of control.” I don’t breathe a word. I don’t breathe a goddamn thing. My career is over. It’s over before it’s begun. A sex tape scandal before I’ve even taken the bar, for

crying out loud. A small, hopeful voice whispers in my ear: Maybe they don’t know who you are. Maybe no one will recognize you. I’m not even done forming the thought when my driver’s license flashes up on the screen, my address blurred out. My name and date of birth are there for all to see though, plain as day. My fucking driver’s license? How the hell did they get a picture of my license? Lord, I’ve been meaning to change that picture for years now. The photo looks like a mug shot; my eyes are wide, like I was caught off guard, and my head is cocked at a weird, barely noticeable angle that makes me look like I’m struggling to answer a question. “Not doing you any favors, huh?” David quips. The guy sitting on the right of the television screen is making fun of my tousled hair. He uses a laser pointer to highlight my birthmark again, as another still shot from the damning video takes over the whole screen. “…just weird . Really weird. I’ve never seen a more unattractive birthmark on a human being before. It looks like a huge ink spot.” The woman at the other desk titters. She takes a drink from a coffee mug, crinkling her nose as she cranes her neck to look up at the giant screen behind her. “I always thought the next woman to

capture Raphael North’s attention would be a little…blonder .” The guy with the laser pointer laughs. “That why you’ve been bleaching your hair all these years, Melissa? You’re hoping to make an impression?” Melissa pokes out her tongue at him. “Screw you, Kyle. I met North once at a charity event. He complimented me on my dress.” “He didn’t rip if from your body, spin you around, bend you over and fuck you seven ways from Sunday against a ten foot high pane of glass, though, did he?” one of the other guys says. “He fucked me with his eyes ,” Melissa retorts. “And you’ve been fingering yourself every night to the memory ever since, I’m sure.” David’s face crumples into confusion. “Man, what kind of news show is this?” “All I’m saying,” Melissa adds. “Is that every single woman Raphael North has slept with in the past has been a blonde. He’s obviously trying something new on for size, but let me tell you…” She flips her hair over her shoulder dramatically. “A man’s future actions can only be predicted by

those of his past. And a tall, willowy brunette law student is no supermodel. This Elizabeth girl doesn’t know the first thing about surviving in Raphael North’s world. She’s gonna realize very quickly that she’s out of her depth.” “So, as ever Melissa has made her feelings known straight out of the gate,” Kyle observes. “You’re saying you think Elizabeth Dreymon is now a little fish in a very large pond? That it’s sink or swim for her from here on out?” “Oh, no.” Melissa shakes her head as she takes a swig of coffee. “No, that’s not what I’m saying at all. There is no sink or swim for this poor girl. She. Is. Going. To. Drown . She’s going to publically drown in the most humiliating way possible. There’s no lifeguard on duty to pull her out of this particular shark tank.” *** I turn my cell phone off and I put it in the cutlery drawer in the kitchen. I’m not sure why I choose the cutlery drawer, but it makes me feel a little less anxious when it’s shut away and I can’t see it. The damn thing started blowing up the second I turned off the television and told David he had to leave. He hadn’t wanted to go at all.

“You’re going to need help screening all the offers, little sister.” “What offers?” “For your story. That’s how a kiss-and-tell works, Beth. Damn, don’t you know anything about the media? This is precisely why you need me as your manager.” “I know how a kiss-and-tell works, you moron. If you think I want to sell my story, have my face plastered all over the internet and the television even more than it is now, you might as well get the hell out of my apartment right now. ” He’d sulked off, drinking a soda from my fridge, but not before a parting shot across the bow. “I don’t care what they say, Bee. I don’t think you need an ass lift. Maybe just do some squats or something.” Now it’s four in the morning, and I can’t sleep. I’ve taken a Valium and even resorted to chugging Nyquil straight out of the bottle, but I still can’t pass out. My phone is screaming at me from the cutlery drawer. Screaming . It’s turned off, but I can still somehow hear the notifications and the ring tone blowing up, countless people messaging and leaving voicemails, all of them asking, did I see

the news? Was that really me fucking Raphael North against the window of a Manhattan high rise? What’s he like? How did I meet him? Am I going to see him again? And, of course, the inevitable, incessant calls from the media. David was right; they’re going to be unbearable. If they managed to find a copy of my driver’s license somehow, then obtaining my cell number would be a piece of cake for them. They’re relentless when it comes to anything Raphael North related, and they haven’t had anything good on him in years. They’ve been left picking over the bones of brief shots taken of him on the roof of the Osiris Building or hearsay from office cleaners and old family friends who haven’t really seen him in over a decade. And now this? Him screwing a woman up against a window? They’re going to have a field day and no mistake. At five-thirty, I tear the sheets back from my bed, unable to take it anymore. I’ve never been one to bury my head in the sand. It doesn’t get you anywhere, and oftentimes the longer you leave something to fester, the worse the situation becomes. Nothing I do can possibly make this situation worse, and I need to know. I need to know if Professor Dalziel has seen one of his students on the news and has already emailed her, telling her she must report to his office in the morning to discuss the matter. My hands are shaking violently

as I rip the cutlery drawer straight out of the cabinet and dump it on the counter, fumbling as I pick up my phone and turn it on. At first: nothing. The blue screen lights up, a bright, cheery tone chiming out of the speakers, signaling the device is awake and functioning. I place it down on the counter, my hands braced against the wood, and I stare at it, waiting. Only three seconds pass before the onslaught begins. Thalia. My mother. David. A number I don’t recognize. Another unknown number. Thalia. Thalia. Thalia. Mom. A slew of missed calls from too many different people to even try and catch the numbers. And then: Raphael North. I open up the text app, and I almost burst into tears as I scroll down the long list of new messages. There must be at least ten or fifteen between the newest of them and the message from Raphael. My ears fill with the sound of my blood rushing around my body as I hit the small blue circle next to his name. R aphael : This is bad. Call me. Better yet, let me send Nate to get you. T hat’s not the only message from him. The very

first—he must have sent it before he saw the news —has my head spinning, reaching for a chair at my small table, needing to sit down. R aphael : There’ll come a day when you see me the same way I see you, Beth. You’ll feel like your eyes are opening for the first time in many years. You’ll feel your heart stutter and slowly reawaken inside your chest. You’ll realize you’ve been asleep at the wheel for so long that you no longer know which direction you’re driving in. When you get to that point, you’ll realize that nothing and no one can come between us. No one can stop us from being magnificent if we refuse to let them. Trust me. Believe me. Give me a chance. T hirty minutes later he’s obviously seen the video footage of us online or on the giant flat screen in the penthouse living room and he’s started to freak out. R aphael : Beth, don’t panic but you need to call me ASAP. R aphael : Don’t answer your phone to anyone you don’t know, Beth. We were recorded earlier. Some footage has been leaked to the news. I’m getting it shut down right now, but it’s pretty damaging.

R aphael : Answer your phone, Beth. R aphael : Are you okay? I’m sending Nate over for you. Go outside. He’ll be waiting for you. T he last message was sent at one in the morning, nearly five hours ago. I make my way into the living room, over to the window. Stepping out onto the fire escape, I lean over the railings, and there, ten floors below on the street, Nate’s gleaming black Tesla is parked directly out the front of the building. At least four parking tickets are pinned to the windshield, and a shadowy, dark figure is leaning against the side of the vehicle, smoking a cigarette by the looks of things. A bright red dot of light flares and ebbs in the pre-dawn, pale blue morning, and I suddenly could use a smoke myself. Mechanically, I climb back into my apartment from the fire escape, and I grab a long coat from the back of the front door. I leave the apartment and I head down the stairs, shifting one foot at a time, one in front of the other, concentrating very hard on simply moving forward. In the lobby of the building, the night manager, Gareth, doesn’t meet my eye as I shuffle out of the front door and head out onto the street. Nate flicks his cigarette away and pushes off the Tesla, standing straight the moment that he sees me. He looks fresh and well

rested, his eyes bright. He must have been out here for hours already but he doesn’t look even remotely tired. “Morning, sunshine,” he says cheerily. I grimace in return. “Ahhh. Yeah, I’d say you’re entitled to feel a little less than sparky,” he continues. “I’ve already had to make a few threats in order to keep the paparazzi from your doorstep. I’m sorry, Beth. This fucking sucks.” “Sucks?” I laugh, the sound hard and unhappy. “That’s the understatement of the century.” Nate steps away from the Tesla, unfolding his arms. “He wants to see you. He needs to see you. I’ve never seen him like this before. He’s losing his fucking mind.” “If he’s so distraught, if he needs to see me so badly, why hasn’t he come down here to find me himself?” A strange, tight expression forms on Nate’s face. “He would if he could, believe me. He can’t, though. I’d love to explain, but it’s not my place. It’s…complicated .”

“What a surprise.” Everything seems to be complicated with Raphael North. His life is one big complicated mess, and now I’m tangled up in the epicenter of that mess, on display in the most embarrassing, humiliating way possible. “I’m not going to him, Nate. I can’t. The press is watching the Osiris. They must be if they were able to even record that video in the first place. I’ll only make it worse if I’m seen heading inside the building.” “No one makes it into that underground parking lot without Raphael’s say so. And these windows are tinted. No one will know it’s you inside.” I look at the Tesla, frowning. He’s right, of course. The windows are all blacked out, so dark it’s impossible to see inside. But still… They’ll know. They’ll manage to snap a shot of me somehow. I can’t bear the idea of my face being plastered all over the morning newspapers as it is. Along with the rest of my body. The idea of new photos of me, shamed, trying to make it into the Osiris Building without being caught, only serves to make me feel even sicker. This is a nightmare. A serious fucking nightmare. “I’m sorry, Nate. I hope he won’t be mad at you. I can’t come.” Nate slowly shakes his head, but he doesn’t look

angry. Perhaps a little frustrated. “It’s okay.” He smiles. “I enjoy the fact that you don’t jump at his every command. It’s refreshing to say the least. He’s not going to let this drop, though. You know that, right? He’s a very possessed kinda guy. Once he makes up his mind about something…” I already know this about him. I saw the conviction in his eyes when he told me back in the penthouse that I would fall in love with him. There was no doubt in his mind that he was telling the truth. I read it on every part of him. “Tell him you didn’t see me if you need to,” I say to Nate. He hits the unlock button on the Tesla, plucking the parking tickets from underneath the windshield wiper, slipping them into his back pocket. “I’ll see you soon, Beth. If you need anything, just call me. Anything at all. It can be our little secret.” As Nate drives away, though, the car sliding soundlessly away from the curb, I get the feeling there are no secrets between Raphael and Nate. Not one. Which means Nate knows him a whole lot better than I do, even if the man was inside me less than twelve hours ago. *** M y journey to school is not fun. I’d go so far as to say it’s absolutely miserable. There are news crews

parked out front when I came out at eight A.M. Three of them. A gaggle of female news reporters glare angrily at one another, flipping their hair and applying lip gloss while overweight camera guys stuff their faces with bagels. I felt stupid putting on a ball cap and sunglasses when I left the apartment, but when I duck out of the building and hurry off down the street I’m glad I thought to wear them. I’m almost free and clear, fifty paces down the street, when I look back over my shoulder and one of the camera guys sees me, though. He drops his half eaten breakfast and points at me, slapping the guy standing next to him on the shoulder. “That’s her! That’s Elizabeth!” Like a bunch of startled meerkats, the news teams all turn in unison to look at me, their eyes filled with hunger. Fucking animals. I’m not ashamed to admit it: I run. There’s no way the reporters in their five inch heels and their morbidly obese camera guys can keep up with me, but it still feels very undignified barreling down the street, my book bag hitting me square in the back every time I take a step. I try not to crash into anyone but it’s virtually impossible. On the subway, women glance at me out of the corners of their eyes and I know they recognize me. My cheeks are flushed red the entire ride. No one says

anything to me until I’m waiting by the doors, itching to exit the carriage, and a bottle-blonde in a power suit approaches me with a saccharine sweet smile on her face. “You’re her, aren’t you? The girl. Raphael’s girl.” I don’t know how to respond to that. I shrink away from her, hiking my bag strap higher onto my shoulder. “You’re a disgrace, you know that? It’s seriously pathetic, what you’re doing.” “I’m sorry, I think you have me confused with someone else.” “I’m not stupid,” the blonde continues. “I don’t know how you did it. You must have worked really hard to get a meeting with him in the first place. God knows what you did to get your hooks into him after that, but Raphael North is a smart guy. He’ll see right through your games. He’ll realize you’re just after him for his money now. He’ll kick you to the curb so fast, you’ll be seeing stars.” Fire floods my veins. Why are people so set on accusing me of going after the Raphael’s bank account? Because I’m working class? Because I’m a student? I’ve been cowering since the video of

Raph and me hit the news, but it suddenly hits me that I have no reason to feel that way. I’ve done nothing wrong. I turn on the woman, meeting her disdainful gaze, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, ma’am . Raphael approached me . He orchestrated our meeting. He’s the one who’s done all the pursuing. And it’s none of your damn business, but I haven’t accepted a single dollar from him. I don’t expect anything from him, nor will I accept anything from him. I’ve managed to pay my own damn way for the past twenty-eight years and I intend on doing so for the rest of my life, too. So back the fuck off.” I wait for the woman in the suit to look appropriately chastised, but she simply sneers at me. Taking the newspaper out from underneath her arm, she slaps it against my chest. “Bullshit,” she snaps. “Your family’s in ruins. Don’t try and tell me you’re not chasing after North because he can bail you out of the shit.” Without thinking, I take the newspaper she hit me with. The carriage doors open and the woman struts past me without looking back, her thick hair swaying from side to side as she disappears amongst the crowd of people all streaming out into the subway station.

I unfold the paper, my eyes stinging as I look down at the all-too familiar picture on the very front page of the New York Times: my family home. The twostory building with the peeling paintwork, surrounded by a sea of sunflowers, looks more than a little humble, but it’s where I grew up. The long, winding driveway up to the house is where my father taught me how to ride a bicycle. I cracked my front tooth when I was six, falling off the rope swing hanging from the large live oak towering over the property to the right of the picture. You can’t see my old bedroom window from the front of the house, but I know that around the side of the colonial style home, there’s a tiny ledge that I used to clamber out onto at night after Mom and Dad had gone to sleep, so I could meet my friend Sarah and her boyfriend in the back field barn. The same barn where my mother was violently raped when I was six years old. Above the image of the house, the blocky, aggressive strapline reads: DREYMON SUNFLOWER FARM $250,000 IN DEBT. Then, in smaller letters: WILL RAPHAEL NORTH BE FOOTING THE BILL? I almost sink to my knees where I stand. The newspaper shakes in my hands as I try and read the article below, but my eyes are blurry, filled with

tears. What the hell is this about? There’s no way. No way the farm is in trouble. I make a point of checking in with Mom to see how the business is doing every week, and she’s had nothing but positive reports for me. If there were something wrong, if she were struggling financially, she would have told me. She’s been calling non-stop since last night but I haven’t listened to her messages or called her back yet. I’ve been too afraid of what she might say to me. I haven’t known what to say to her. It’ll crush me to hear disappointment or disapproval in her tone. Worse, if she’s angry that I slept with a man I barely know, in a painfully visible way, she’s going to start lecturing me about being sexually irresponsible and inviting an attack upon myself. I need to speak to her though. I can’t avoid her forever. I take out my phone and dial her number. The carriage doors to the subway begin to close, and I almost let them. I almost hang back, allowing the train to carry me off somewhere else rather than get off and face the world. That would be foolish, though. I can’t be late for class. It’s already bad enough that I’m going to have to face the wrath of Professor Dalziel without being tardy on top of that. I keep my head down as I climb the stairs out of the

station. My mom answers the phone on the seventh ring. “For god’s sake, Beth, I’ve been worried sick about you. Why haven’t you been answering your phone?” Anger tinges her voice, but I can hear the pain there, too. She’s hurt, and I’m the one who’s caused that hurt. My stomach rolls, nausea hitting me hard. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry. I just…I haven’t been able to…I didn’t know what to say.” “How about, ‘I’m okay, Mom. I’m fine. I’m alive. I’m not in any trouble or danger?’” “I am fine. I’m sorry I worried you. I just saw the paper, though. Mom, they’re saying we’re in debt on the farm? Not just in debt. They’re saying we’re bankrupt. What the hell are they talking about?” “Oh, nonsense, Beth. What are you doing paying attention to gossip columns, anyway? You know these people love to create a scandal. I don’t want to talk about the farm. I want to talk about—” I cut her off before she can say his name. Before she can start warning of the dangers of sleeping with a man. Any man. I need to stay focused here. “This isn’t some gossip column, Mom.” I look

down at the newspaper I’ve folded up and am carrying to school with me. “This is the New York Times , for crying out loud. They don’t just make things up. They have fact checkers. And this is on the front page!” She’s quiet for a second. Then a second longer. “Mom! Tell me what’s going on!” “Okay, okay.” She sighs tiredly. “When your father died, the business was in great shape. He spent years working very hard to build it up, to make sure it was stable. I used to do the books for the business as you know, but I had no experience with any other aspect of the company, honey. I didn’t know how the contracts worked, or how to market and get out there and gain more clients. We lost one of our most valuable contracts a couple of years ago when the import prices from the Netherlands dropped, and that was it. I couldn’t find another company to pick up the shortfall, and the business has been suffering ever since. I remortgaged the land eighteen months ago, so I could pay off some of the debt we owed, but then it became harder and harder to make the repayments on the property and the land…and that’s where we are now.” I don’t know what to say. My throat feels dry, like it’s made of sandpaper. “Years, Mom. You’ve been

struggling with this for years and you didn’t say anything. Why?” “What would you have done if I had?” she asks. “I would have come home! I would have helped with the business!” “Exactly. You would have dropped out of school, and how many years of hard work would have been wasted then? I wasn’t going to let you sacrifice all your hard work for this old place, Beth. No way, no how.” “How can you say that? You and Dad built the farm up from nothing. It was his life work.” “I know, sweetie. I know. It really was. But at the end of the day, that’s what you need to remember. It was his life’s work. His passion. Not yours. Your father’s gone now, and he wouldn’t want to see you give up on your hopes and dreams to protect something that doesn’t matter anymore.” “Mom...” Tears slide down my face; I can’t seem to hold them back. “Answer me this. Do you want to run the farm for the rest of your life, Beth?”

I sniff, dashing at my cheeks with the back of my hand. “I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it before.” I have, though. I’ve thought about it at great length. I couldn’t wait to get away from Kansas. Couldn’t wait to qualify, work hard, make partner somewhere and work on thrilling cases that made me feel like my blood was on fire. “You don’t need to feel bad about wanting your own life, honey,” Mom says quietly. “It’s taken me a long time to realize that, too. I always loved doing this because it made your father so happy, but now…it’s almost a relief that I won’t be doing it anymore. I have a life I need to live, too, baby girl. I’m excited to go and see what’s out there for me now.” “So what does that mean? For the business? For the house?” “It’s all got to go. Everything. You don’t need to worry about me, though, sweetheart. I’m not sad about this at all. It’s a fresh start for me. And now that is all out of the way, tell me what the hell is going on with you, Beth. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I turned on the television last night. You’re dating Raphael North?” Perhaps she’s feeling too kind to mention that she saw him fucking the living daylights out of me in real time, along with the rest of the entire nation. I grind my teeth together,

sighing heavily. “I don’t even know where to begin. I haven’t got a clue where to start.” She makes the same soft humming sound she used to make when she would console me as a child. “How about you start at the beginning.” *** S he doesn’t judge me . Doesn’t shout at me. She listens patiently, and every second I find myself talking to her, telling her everything that’s happened, I’m just waiting for her to get angry. To my surprise, she doesn’t. She fucking apologizes . She tells me how sorry she is that what happened to her all those years ago affected me for so long. She cries . She tells me to call Raphael, or at least answer his texts. I haven’t taken a look at my phone’s messaging app since last night—I just can’t face it—so I have no idea if he’s even called or messaged again, but Mom encourages me to reach out to him either way, to tidy up the situation once and for all. I tell her I will, and I hang up just as I hurry through the lecture hall door. It’s funny—I immediately feel better having spoken to my mother. I shouldn’t have put it off for so long. The world still seems to be crashing down around my ears, but just knowing she’s on my side, she isn’t

angry, and she has my back makes everything feel a little less scary. I brace myself as I sit at the back of the hall, waiting for Thalia to fall on me like a force of nature, firing questions at me from all angles. I get my books, my notepad, and my laptop out of my bag, my shoulders tensed, my whole body braced for impact. It never arrives, though. Eventually the lights dim, people stop chattering, and the screen at the front of the hall comes to life. Professor Dalziel begins the lecture, and I hold my breath. Something’s wrong. Thalia must be mad at me. She hasn’t come to find me. I scan the lecture hall, studying the backs of people’s heads, trying to locate her in the auditorium, but…she’s nowhere to be found. She’s late. Of course she’s late. She’s always late. But the lecture continues, minutes ticking by, and Thalia never shows. Around me, people are barely paying attention to the information on the screen. At some point, someone, somewhere, pointed out where I was sitting, and all faces seem to be turned to me, watching me, studying me, people whispering to one another and laughing under their breath about me. They’ve all seen me naked. They all saw my

ass smashed up against the window of Raph’s anteroom. They’ve all seen the same shows making fun of my birthmark, or my hair, or any other part of my body they saw fit. I am now and forever will be a source of entertainment—public property to be picked over and analyzed without mercy or compassion. The lecture ends. The other students slowly file out, blatantly staring at me as they leave, and I do my best to hold my head up high. I don’t move until every last one of them is gone. Once they’re gone, I make my way down the steps toward the podium where Professor Dalziel is packing away his own laptop and papers. When I clear my throat, he looks up and squints at me through his glasses. He’s not a particularly old man but constantly seems to be struggling with those glasses of his. “Elizabeth Dreymon,” he states by way of greeting. God, this is going to be awkward. “Yes. Good morning, Professor Dalziel. I came to talk to you because—” “I know why you came to talk to me. You thought it would be better to get it out of the way now instead of waiting for me to summon you to my office. I admire that.” He nods briefly, assessing me

from head to foot. There’s nothing hungry in his gaze, though. He doesn’t look at me with the same impropriety everyone else has been affecting this morning. He takes a deep breath, and then blows it out down his nose. “You have nothing to worry about from me,” he says matter-of-factly. “I don’t care what you get up to in your free time.” “Oh .” We were given a huge talk when we were admitted onto the law program here at Columbia. We were told not to sully the fine name of the establishment. We were warned that improper behavior would lead to us being summarily dismissed from the program, no do-overs, no second chances. “I thought—” “Don’t misunderstand me,” Dalziel says, closing the clasps on his beaten leather documents bag. “If you were anyone else, you’d already be on a plane back to whatever pointless, one horse town you came from.” “So…I’m not being expelled because I’m a good student?” Professor Dalziel laughs. “This whole program is full of good students. You work hard. You get good grades. So does everyone else. You are getting a free pass right now because of my daughter.” He reaches into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet.

He opens it up and slides a photo from the clear plastic sleeve. Holding it out, he shows it to me. The little girl in the image is maybe seven or eight, dark-haired like her father, a tiny pair of pink glasses perched on the end of her upturned nose. Her front teeth are missing, and she seems mighty proud of the fact. “Her name is Freya. She’s allergic to peanuts, lactose, dogs, cats, certain grasses, and just about everything else it seems. I’ve had to administer epinephrine to her four times in the past five years. My wife’s had to do it six times. She spends more time at home with her. We have epi-pens in every drawer, cupboard, jacket pocket, and bag inside our home. They’re even stuffed down the sides of the sofa cushions. As far as I’m concerned, Raphael North can fuck every single one of you guys and I’d still be his biggest fan. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and pick Freya up for our daddy-daughter day.” He puts his wallet away, and when he removes his hand from his pocket again, he’s holding something else in it. As he passes me by, he places a long, white piece of plastic into my hand: an epi-pen. In large blue letters along the side of the plastic, North Industries is printed in dark blue lettering. “Next time you see him,” Professor Dalziel calls over his shoulder as he climbs the stairs. “Tell him I say thank you.”

Ten

Beth I ’m meant to work at the library again this afternoon, but when I arrive for my shift Henrietta is waiting at the entrance of the building, wearing a stern expression. Unlike Professor Dalziel, she seems less enamored with Raph and more concerned about my new found sex-tape celebrity. “We’ve had camera crews loitering outside all day. This library is a quiet place where people come to read and study. We can’t have that rabble disrupting everyone.” “So…I can’t work today?” She purses her lips into a disapproving line. “We’ll pay you until the end of the month. I’m sorry, Beth. I really am.” So it’s not just today, then. She’s firing me. I’m so frustrated and annoyed by this point that I want to scream at her, to lose my temper, to tell her how ridiculous this whole thing is, but I can see from the look on her face that she’s not going to be moved on the matter. What would be the point in making a

scene? Someone would probably catch the whole thing on their cell phone, and it would be live in a matter of seconds. That’s the last thing I fucking need. I think about going to David’s place, but then I remember how absolutely unbearable he was last night, and how disgusting his apartment probably is, so I nix that idea. I find myself sitting on the subway, making my way across the city without even thinking about it. It’s only once I’m outside the Osiris Building that I realize what I’m about to do. Less than twelve hours ago I told Nate I didn’t want to be seen entering this huge monolith of a building. Then I had tinted windows and an underground entrance to protect my identity, and now I’m heading in here on foot? Through the front fucking door? I have officially lost my goddamn mind. Oliver never seems to go home. His eyes nearly bug out of his head when he sees me hurrying toward him through the lobby. He steps out from behind the reception desk and puts his arm around me, ushering me toward the private elevator without saying a word. “Ms. Dreymon! Ms. Dreymon! Elizabeth!” A hand lands on my shoulder, trying to turn me around. “What’s the nature of your relationship with Mr.

North, Elizabeth? How long have you been engaging in a sexual relationship with him?” “Which escort agency do you work for, Ms. Dreymon? How many clients do you have?” The two men standing behind me yell questions over each other, both of them pulling at my arm. Oliver puts himself between me and the reporters, but they’re frenzied, their eyes wild, voice recorders held tightly in both their hands. They shove the Dictaphones in my face, and I feel like my legs are about to buckle from underneath me. “Ms. Dreymon is a close personal friend of Mr. North’s,” Oliver states. “She is not an escort, and has nothing to say at this time. If you have any questions relating to Mr. North’s business endeavors, please direct them to our public relations department. If your questions are of a personal nature, please feel free to vacate the building at your earliest convenience.” The guys aren’t listening, of course. They’re too busy straining to reach around Oliver, grabbing and clawing at my shirt. “Ms. Dreymon! Ms. Dreymon! Are you Raphael’s mistress? Are you moving into the penthouse with him, Elizabeth? Elizabeth !” My heart is beating out of my chest as Oliver pulls

me through the door and slams it shut behind us. His professional exterior has slipped, anger twisting his features. “Fucking animals,” he hisses. “I’ll call security as soon as you’re upstairs. Don’t worry. They won’t be here when you leave.” “Thank you, Oliver. I’m sorry for the trouble.” I don’t know why I’m apologizing. I haven’t asked for any of this. I didn’t do anything wrong. By coming here, I’m causing trouble. I know that. It was probably a bad idea, but I’ve avoided this for as long as I can now, and I just cashed in the last fuck I could possibly give when Henrietta told me I no longer had a job. I take my shoes off and slide them into my bag without thinking. No defiance this time. I’m nervous. My palms sweat like crazy as I watch the numbers illuminate one by one, marking out the floors as I ascend. What if he doesn’t actually want to see me? What if he sends me away? There’s every chance his business advisors have counseled him against further contact with me. I haven’t exactly checked the share prices on North Industries, but a public scandal like this can only breed distrust. It must be hurting him financially, and he’s a clever, pragmatic kind of guy when it comes to business and money. Surely he wouldn’t allow something like this to affect his bottom line.

The doors slide back and I hurry out, my bare feet slapping against the marble flooring. I stop halfway to the door when I see Thalia sitting in a heap in the middle of the anteroom, her purse up-ended around her, a bottle of water gripped tightly in her hand. Her eyes seem unfocused when she looks up at me. A deep frown forms on her face. “Beth? You came. Finally .” Her relief is exaggerated, like she’s being sarcastic. It’s only when I draw a little closer that I see it’s not. She’s drunk. Hammered, in fact. The bottle of water in her hands is actually vodka, and it’s almost fucking empty. I drop my purse and sink to my knees in front of her, cupping her face in my hands. “What are you doing, Thalia? Why weren’t you in class this morning?” “I had to make sure he was okay,” she says, her words running into one another. “You didn’t answer my texts. You didn’t come over here, so…I had to.” “I was going to. I just…I needed a little time to figure out what I was going to say.” Thalia arches an eyebrow, her eyelids half closing. She unscrews the cap from the vodka bottle, lifts it to her lips and takes three deep gulps of the clear liquid inside. “Did you figure it out?” she asks

flatly. “What you’re gonna say to him? Because this isn’t him, Beth. It isn’t, I swear. He’s had to live his life behind closed doors for a long time now. It’s a miracle they figured out how to invade his privacy here. A fucking miracle . He’s done absolutely everything he can to avoid prying eyes. He feels just as violated as you do right now.” Violated. That’s a good word for it. I really do feel like I’ve been compromised. “I’m not mad at him , Thalia. I’m mad at the situation.” It’d be easy enough to assign blame, to say that Raphael was careless and should have known that fucking me up against that glass would lead to dire consequences, but it’s not the case. Seventy-three floors: the penthouse’s secluded nature should have been enough to keep that frenzied, urgent, lust-filled moment between us sacred. Thalia knocks back another shot of vodka and then holds out the bottle to me. “He won’t answer the door to me. Can you believe that?” she asks. I take the bottle from her and I put it on the ground behind me, out of her reach. “Did he message you?” She nods morosely. “He told me not to come.” “Then why did you?”

“Because. I made a promise a long time ago. I told her I’d watch out for him. I swore I’d make sure he was okay.” “You promised? You promised who ?” “Chhhhlllllooooeeeee .” Thalia says the name as though the answer should be obvious, that I’m stupid for not knowing. She’s never mentioned anyone by the name Chloe before, though. Never once since we met has that name ever crossed her lips. “Who’s Chloe?” A flicker of doubt passes over Thalia’s face. She hiccups, then bites her bottom lip, as if she realizes she’s said something wrong. “It doesn’t matter anymore. That was a long time ago. You’re here now. You’re here to make things better. You’re here to fix him. If you don’t, all of this has been for nothing.” Another loud hiccup echoes around the anteroom. She flops back onto the marble, her head rocking to one side as she looks out of the window to the city beyond. “We dreamed of this place, y’know?” She sighs, a sound of pure exhaustion. Her eyes glaze over; she stacks her hands on her sternum, crossing her feet at the ankle. “We used to sit on the rooftop at Paxton’s place and dream of being higher than the rest of the city even then. We

wanted to be able to see the whole world from our vantage point. Money and power bought us the best view in New York, but still we weren’t happy with what we had. Raphael said he’d build this place. He already knew back then how special the Osiris would be. That it would be a haven for us.” She closes her eyelids, a tear rolling from the corner of the eye, streaking across the bridge of her nose. “Instead, it became his prison.” “Thalia, stop.” I look up, and Raphael is standing at the entrance to the penthouse, wearing sweat pants and a Star Wars t-shirt, ripped at the collar. Dark, bruised circles ring his eyes, exhaustion hanging over him like a black cloud. He is the very picture of a haunted man. Thalia nearly hurts herself in her hurry to get up. She scrambles, her feet sliding out from underneath her, and she has to slap a palm to the floor in order to stop herself from falling. Raphael flinches back and I can see it written plainly on his face: he wants to vanish back inside the penthouse and lock the door behind him. He does not want to see Thalia at all. He keeps his hands in the pockets of his sweat pants as she rushes across the anteroom and throws her arms around his neck. He tolerates her embrace, standing stiff as a board while she hugs him, his eyes locked

on me over her shoulder. He doesn’t breathe a word. Thalia leans back, her hands traveling over Raph’s face, brushing his hair back, her movements frantic, as if she’s checking him for injuries or something. A choked sob rips through the silence. “Raphael. Raphael, god, are you okay? I can’t believe you’re here right now. God, I can’t believe it. I can’t fucking believe it.” She sobs again, her voice filled with pain and sorrow. “She didn’t want this for you,” she whispers. “She didn’t want to see you like this.” Slowly, with cold detachment, Raphael turns his head so that he’s looking directly into Thalia’s eyes. “You need to leave,” he says. “You can’t be here. You know that.” She shakes her head, hugging him fiercely again. “You don’t need to do this anymore. It’s all over. It’s been over for a very long time.” Raphael remains unmoved by her emotion. He might as well be made out of the same marble that stands beneath our feet. Eventually, with the most careful, measured movements imaginable, he reaches up behind his head and takes Thalia by the wrists, detaching her from him, placing her arms back down by her sides. “It doesn’t matter,” he says. His words aren’t unkind or callous. They’re

simply resigned. “Go back down now. I need to talk to Beth.” “I’ll come back. Tomorrow.” She sniffs, a pleading look in her eyes. I’ve never seen her like this before —so dejected and upset. I have no idea what’s happened between these guys, but whatever it is has broken them all so thoroughly that there’s never going to be a way back from it. Raphael knows it. It appears that Thalia just can’t accept it, though. Can’t or won’t. “That wouldn’t be a good idea,” Raphael tells her. “I’m having new security measures installed tomorrow. You won’t be allowed into the elevator. Go home and rest. You can email me if you need to.” “I’ve known you since I was three years old!” Thalia snaps. “I shouldn’t have to email you, Raphael. I should be able to come here whenever I want to. Whenever you need me.” “I know,” Raphael agrees. “But that’s just not how things are. I’m sorry, Thalia, I really am.” I can hear how sad he is, how much he means it. He closes his eyes and kisses her temple, then he looks back toward the elevator, nodding. I’ve been so distracted by what’s happening that I haven’t noticed the two men in deep maroon blazers

stepping out into the anteroom. Security guards. Both of them have shaved heads and earpieces, and look like they’re probably ex military. “Is that…really necessary?” I ask quietly. Raphael’s eyes are on fire when he looks at me. He doesn’t say anything, though. Thalia steps back, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “It’s okay. It’s really okay. I’ll go. I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry, Raph.” A flash of pain contorts his features, but then the blank, empty look returns to his face almost immediately. He strokes his hand down the side of Thalia’s face, and then turns and walks back inside the penthouse without looking back. I help Thalia gather up the contents of her purse, which are still spread all over the anteroom floor. Her hands are shaking, her cheeks red, as she stuffs makeup and notebooks back into the bag. I think she’s angry at me for a second, angry that I can stay and speak with him, to see how he is, that I’m able to spend time with a man she so obviously cares about. Then she grabs me by the hand and squeezes. “He’s not okay, Beth. Don’t believe him if he says he is. He’s hurting. He’s afraid he’s lost you. Don’t give up on him. Please .” Desperation colors her voice. Her nails bite into my skin as she clenches

hold of me, and once again I find myself tumbling down the rabbit hole, so confused and turned around by her attitude. She’s so sure I’ll be the Band-Aid to fix whatever hurt Raphael is suffering from. The thing about Band-Aids is that they’re temporary. They only mask the problem. The body heals beneath, or it doesn’t. A Band-Aid only hides the progress. “Tell me what’s going on,” I whisper. “Please, Thalia. I can’t stand this anymore. And now, with the entire world watching…” She blinks, her mascara streaking down her face in twin, thick black lines, and for a second I think she might tell me. The entire thing is sitting there on the tip of her tongue. A heartbeat later and it’s gone, though. With one last squeeze of my arm, she says, “Just don’t give up on him, Beth.” *** R aphael isn’t in the vast lounge area when I walk into the penthouse. Nor is he in either of the VR studios. I haven’t been through any of the other doors that line the hallways, haven’t seen inside any of the rooms beyond, so it feels rude to start opening them up one by one on my mission to find him. I call his name until the sound of my voice rings out like a struck bell through the painfully

silent space; there’s no way he doesn’t hear me, wherever he is. He doesn’t answer, though. I find myself back in the formal dining room where Denny brought us steak the other night. Raphael is nowhere to be seen. I give up trying to be polite. I open up two offices, five guest bedrooms, a small library along with an actual movie theater, but I can’t seem to locate him. I’m about to call him on his phone when I notice a door at the far end of the hallway I find myself in standing ajar, and a tall column of sunlight cutting through the shadows. When I peer through the open doorway, a flight of stairs leads up into what looks like open air. The sky is so very blue overhead. I creep up the stairs, uncertainty filling me from head to toe. Raph didn’t tell me to leave. He told Thalia he needed to talk to me and he left the door from the anteroom into the penthouse open. The security guards didn’t wait to escort me out of the building the way they did with Thalia. So why is it, then, that I feel like I’m intruding? Breaking the rules somehow? At the top of the stairway, I find myself in the middle of the most beautiful rooftop garden imaginable. Plants, flowers…even trees. Everywhere I look, something green is growing. Terracotta pots form pathways leading from one section of the garden into the next, and on the far

side of the roof, a step drops down onto a lawned area where Raphael is standing with his back to me. With a shotgun in his hand. I stop dead in my tracks. “It was a drone,” he calls out. “I heard it when we were together, but I didn’t think anything of it. There are always so many helicopters buzzing around the skies here that it didn’t even register at the time. I’ve shot down two of the fuckers since this morning. None of them have had markings on them, but I’m pretty sure they belong to the news crews.” My heart is a fist in the hollow of my throat. At his feet, I see it—the debris. Broken pieces of plastic and glass. Twisted pieces of metal. I heard the whir of blades the other day, too. I assumed the same as Raphael—that it was just another helicopter. I’ve always been kind of entertained by the idea of drones. The prospect of having goods delivered by them, anywhere, anytime, always seemed like such an amazing idea. Now, I hate them beyond measure. They should be outlawed, banned countrywide. Fucking perverts, using them like that to spy on unwilling, unwitting people. I suppose technology has already been used to spy on unwitting people for years now, but drones make it too fucking easy.

My skin prickles, ice running through my veins. Raphael turns around, and the look on his face says it all. He’s ready to commit murder. He’s ready to tear someone limb from limb. He’s ready to go to motherfucking war. He lunges for me, taking three long strides, and then his arms are around me, holding onto me tight. I haven’t really given myself permission to think about how I might feel when I saw him again. I’ve purposefully stopped myself from even considering it, because when I left the Osiris yesterday evening, I felt light. Safe. Smitten, and so vulnerable. I kept thinking about the amazing, intense, private moment we shared, where he touched and caressed me, made me come alive under his hands. I couldn’t stop thinking about the way our bodies joined together and how perfect everything felt. As soon as I saw that footage on the news, though, all of that changed. Listening to those bastards on the screen tearing apart every touch, every look, every moment our bodies met, made me feel like I’d imagined it all. They made me feel like the emotion and the pleasure I experienced when I was with him wasn’t as perfect as I’d originally thought. That maybe Raph was as unimpressed by me as the gossip columns and the reporters were. Now that I’m standing here in his arms, feeling his

heart beating out of his chest the same way mine is, I’m filled with anger for doubting myself. This is real. It was real yesterday, and it’s real now. I can feel the connection between us pulling taut, something physical, a tether that links us together. That can’t be seen on a television screen. And just because an entire city of people analyzed our interaction, doesn’t mean it’s no longer invaluable. It did mean something. It still does. One second, I’m trying to catch my breath, my face pressed into Raph’s torn Star Wars shirt, the next I’m clinging to him, my fingernails digging into his shoulder blades, and I’m sobbing. I can’t decide if I’m sad or relieved. All I know is that I am so glad to be in his arms right now, no matter the circumstances. Raphael runs his hand over my hair, whispering soothing things into my ear. “It’s okay. It’s okay, Beth. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I won’t let it happen again, I swear it. I will never let them attack you like this again. Shhh. Shhh. It’s okay.” “What am I supposed to do?” I ask, leaning away from his chest. “Am I supposed to talk to them? Am I supposed take out a restraining order against the entire press? I can’t even go to the bathroom without someone being in there, glaring at me, ready to grill me about you. About…us . And there

isn’t even really an us . I—” Raphael gently places his index finger over my lips, cutting me off. “There absolutely is an us. If you still want there to be. I understand if this is all too much and you don’t want to see me again. I do understand. I won’t like it, but I’ll accept your decision if you decide you don’t want to meet with me again. But let me follow that up with this: no one will ever love you like I can. No one will ever care for your heart the same way I will. And no one will ever light you on fire the way I swear I will for the rest of my fucking life, either, Beth. I’m a focused man. I’ve set my sights on making you the happiest woman on the face of the fucking planet. I know we’re not off to a very good start, but I swear to god and all things holy I will protect you, Beth. When I find out who sold that footage, I am going to rain down hell fire on them, the likes of which they have never known. They’re going to wish they’d never been born. And I will find out who was responsible. I have people working on it already. There won’t be a stone left unturned in this godforsaken city until I locate and punish the motherfucker who caused you pain, believe me.” I do believe him. There’s a dangerous, mad glint in his eye that tells me he wants to deal with this issue personally. He wants to use his fists to teach the

person who invaded our privacy a lesson. A severe beating isn’t going to be enough. He wants them fucking dead . I do, too, but Raphael looks furious enough that he’d be willing to commit the act himself. “I don’t care who did it,” I whisper. “I just want to be able to walk down the street without being judged. I didn’t know about the farm. I didn’t have a clue Mom was on the brink of foreclosure. Now that the public knows every single little dirty secret about my family’s financial issues, they’re all coming to the same conclusion. I’m fucking you for your money. I can’t bear it.” My tears chase down my cheeks even faster. This is the first time I’ve allowed myself to fall apart. I’ve been so intent and determined to hold everything together since David showed up at my place last night that it’s been hard to release the steel grip I have on my own pain. Now that I’m giving in to it, it feels like it’s taking me out at the knees. “Don’t worry. I’m going to take care of it,” Raphael tells me. He uses his thumb to wipe away my tears. Leaning down, he stoops so that our eyes are level. “I’m going to take care of everything. You don’t need to worry about a thing from now on, okay? I swear it.”

I shouldn’t take him at his word. Not because I don’t believe he means it, but because it’s going to be virtually impossible for him to achieve what he’s talking about. Freedom of the press is taken care of under the First Amendment. The law does not bend or break to Raphael North’s will, no matter how many decimal places his bank balance goes to. He can’t force them to leave me alone simply because he wants them to. That’s not the way the world works. “It’s not just that,” I say, doing my best to fight back my tears. “I lost my job at the library today. They fired me.” Raphael growls in the back of his throat. “On what grounds?” “On the grounds that the library is a place of study and relaxation, and should be quiet at all times, not filled with camera crews, looking to question me or harass my colleagues about me.” “They can’t do that.” “Well, they did.” “I’ll cover whatever salary you’ve lost then. It’s the least I can do.”

“No!” I shove away from him, reeling back, out of his arms. “You can’t give me a cent. Not ever. I’ve told you, Raph. I don’t want your money.” His body tenses, a hard edge to his voice when he speaks. “You lost your job because of me. It’s my fault.” “No, Raphael. I mean it.” He clenches his jaw. “I have plenty of money. Might as well put it to good use.” “I can’t believe you’d even think that right now. Not after all the hateful things they’re saying about me in the papers. I refuse to continue with this conversation.” He folds his arms across his chest, visibly riled and unhappy. “What do you want to talk about then?” I stare at him for a moment. He’s not going to let the money thing drop, I can tell. I get why he feels like he needs to give me cash to cover my lost salary, but I’m not going to back down on this one either. I’ll feel like a fraud if I do. I need to change the subject. I need to change it, and fast. “Who is Chloe?” I fire the question at him like a bullet from a gun. For all intents and purposes it

might as well have been a bullet, too, because Raphael jumps, his entire body jolting. A look of horror settles on his face. “Where did you hear that name?” “Thalia mentioned her before. She said Chloe made her promise to watch out for you.” “She was drunk,” Raphael fires back. “She doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about.” “She seemed pretty clear about it to me. And I don’t think she’d just randomly make a name up on the spot like that. So who is Chloe, Raphael? And why don’t you want to talk about her?” I watch as the wall comes crashing down: a double reinforced, steel riveted door, eight inches thick. God knows how long Raphael has been throwing up this wall whenever he’s faced with a hard question, but right now it stands between us, impregnable and impossible to climb. I don’t even try. I know it would be futile. “Forget it. It doesn’t even matter. I’m going home.” The mask Raph’s wearing slips a little. “Don’t. You just got here. We haven’t spoken properly yet.”

I shrug, turning around, walking back to the stairway. “How can we when there are so many things you won’t even talk about, Raphael? Maybe one of these days you’ll be ready for a conversation. When you are ready, why don’t you come to me for once? Oh. And if you need my address, you can always ask Nate .” *** T hree days pass . I hear nothing from Raphael. I’d hoped things would become more manageable with the press, that their interest would fade after a few days with no comment from either myself or from North Industries, but if anything, things get worse. Gareth, my doorman, finds people going through the trash in the alley behind the building. Mom has to email me in order to get a message to me since my mailbox is absolutely full of messages from talk show hosts and lifestyle magazines, all offering me vast amounts of money to sell them my story, each one promising to outbid the other. On my way to class, I get stared at, whispered about, sneered over, and, once, actually spat on. I start to rethink taking the subway to school. I’ve never felt unsafe in New York City, but now I feel like something bad might happen. Like someone might attack me, or I’ll get cornered by a bunch of frenzied paparazzi and I’ll end up injured when they take things too

far. A part of me refuses to let this affect me, though. I wouldn’t let Raphael talk me out of taking the subway when he wanted Nate to drive me to and from the Osiris Building. It felt like an infringement on my free will then, and it definitely feels that way now, too. So I keep on taking the train. I keep on walking the streets, and I keep my damn head held high. I constantly think about Raphael. I can’t stop. He’s there, at the forefront of my mind every morning when I open my eyes, and he’s there the second I close them to sleep, too. At night, those vivid, cool green eyes of his stalk me through my dreams. We writhe, naked and covered in sweat, our mouths locked together, our bodies joined, him thrusting into me over and over again until eventually I wake, tangled in the bed sheets, drenched, my hair plastered to my forehead, my heart racing away from me. I have other dreams of Raphael, too. Dreams where he’s in pain, suffering, lost somewhere and I can’t find him. Can’t reach him to help him. I run through an old stone maze, turning one way and then another, constantly searching, and yet I never make it to him. Thalia doesn’t show up to class. She hasn’t messaged me. Hasn’t come by the apartment to see if I’m okay. Honestly, I don’t think she’s okay. I’m

pulled in opposing directions, angry that she seems to have abandoned me during the most difficult moment of my life—a moment she technically caused to happen in the first place—and sad she doesn’t appear to be coping with the pain she’s suffering through, either. I wake up on Friday and I consider going over to her place and checking in with her. However, by the time I’m ready and out of the door, I’m running late and I don’t have time. On the train, the guy across from me is reading The New York Times , shooting furtive, disapproving looks at me every few seconds over the top of the broadsheet. I’m so used to people gawking at me now that I almost don’t even bother to look at the front page of the paper. Not until the guy clears his throat, shaking it out, and the bold text catches my eye: Elizabeth Dreymon Sold Virginity To North And then, underneath, in smaller letters: Raphael North’s sordid love affair with broke student causes major family rift. I sold my what ? I sold my virginity to Raphael? Where the hell did they get that idea from? And a family rift? I thought Raphael was the only North left. His parents are long dead and he was an only

child, so who the fuck are they claiming he’s fallen out with? I get to my feet and I snatch the paper out of the man’s hands. “Hey! That’s my paper!” he snaps. “You can’t just take—” “Taking from me is all anyone’s done for the past four days,” I volley back. “I have a right to know what’s being said about me. Don’t worry. I’ll give it back in a second.” He must have been expecting me to cow down and hand the paper back right away. His eyes grow round with surprise when I stomp back to my seat and I sit myself down, my eyes scanning over the black text as quickly as I can. ‘…b rother of Beth , David Dreymon, says things have been tense between Beth and their mother for years. When Margo Dreymon, of Hopestanton, KS, saw evidence of her daughter’s antics all over the news, she reportedly collapsed from shock. Elizabeth and Margo fought on the telephone for well over an hour on the night the news of Elizabeth’s sexual relationship with Raphael North went public. The two women have not spoken again since, with Margo Dreymon blocking her daughter’s calls and messages. When asked about the divide that now separates the Dreymon

household, David said that his mother was experiencing anxiety and a ‘great deal of stress’ because of the matter, and that he didn’t know if Elizabeth and Margo would ever be able to repair their once close relationship.’ I read on , not really seeing the words that are clearly staring back at me in print. The article goes on forever. It paints a picture of a very rocky past between me and Mom, and in a number of places David is quoted as saying that I had an, ‘intense, kind of odd relationship’ with Dad. What is that supposed to mean? I feel like I’m about to throw up every time the train rocks from side to side. I can’t believe what they’re insinuating. What David is insinuating. He wants people to think I was abused by Dad or something? He wants the public to believe there was something untoward going on behind our family’s closed doors? It makes no sense whatsoever. I…I just can’t believe he would talk to anyone about this. There’s no way he would have. No way in a million years. They have to be lying. My mind is racing, speeding through everything I know about the liable and slander cases that have taken place in the past fifty years. I throw the paper into the guy’s lap, and I bolt from the train the moment the doors open. Up on street level, I call David, horror slamming

through me with every breath I take. He picks up almost immediately, like he was staring at his phone, waiting for someone to call. “Before you get mad, I want you to know, they twisted what I said.” I stumble over my own feet, nearly falling flat on my face. He…he did speak to the media? David’s a jerk. He’s thoughtless and a total asshole most of the time, but he’s my brother. He’s not evil. I didn’t for a second really think he’d actually gone ahead and sold his story. My story. Whatever. I didn’t think he’d really done it. His defensive words coupled with his equally defensive tone tell me otherwise, however. I screw my eyes shut, trying not to explode in public. It’s a good thing I’m not alone right now. If I was, I’d probably be screaming and using every single curse word under the sun. Even the bad ones. Especially the bad ones. “I can’t fucking believe you,” I hiss into the phone. “You knew I didn’t want this dragged through the press any further than it already has been. You knew I didn’t want to comment or feed the story in any way, and yet you went ahead and threw in your own two cents, regardless. What’s wrong with you?” He scoffs, the same annoying way he used to when we were kids and he was caught doing something that made him look stupid in front of his friends. “I

was being realistic, Beth. You think one of your old school friends wasn’t going to start blabbing about you the moment they were offered a paycheck? Hmm? You think one of your friends from Columbia wasn’t going to give them every single detail they know about you in return for a fucking whale of a paycheck? It was better that we benefitted from the information making its way into the papers. Our family’s the one suffering right now, after all. No one should profit from that suffering but us.” “Suffering? How the hell are you suffering, David? You’ve probably been prancing around Brooklyn, telling anyone who’ll listen that you’re the brother of the famous slut who slept with Raphael North. You’re a disgusting pig!” David grunts. He does that whenever he knows he’s done something wrong, and yet he doesn’t want to back down. “You’re the one who got herself filmed by a drone fucking a dude up against a window, Beth. The whole nation’s seen your pussy but none of them know a single thing about you. Sue me if I told them you were a brainiac in high school, for fuck’s sake. Sue me if I told them your favorite fucking flavor of ice cream and your favorite candy bar, okay?” “You told them Dad abused me, David!”

“I never said that. Not in so many words.” “Not in so many words? God…” I shake my head, covering my eyes with my free hand. I’ve stepped off the sidewalk and into the gutter, right alongside my reputation, in order to avoid the people on their way home from or on their way to work. The world feels like it’s seesawing, tilting to the right and then to the left. “Mom’s never going to speak to you again, you realize that, right?” The line is quiet for a moment, and then, “She’ll get over it. Especially when I use some of the money to pay off the debt we owe on the farm.” Some of the money. Some of it. So he got paid more than two hundred and fifty grand for his hateful words. Unbelievable. “You haven’t even spoken to Mom, have you?” I whisper. “She doesn’t care about the farm. She doesn’t want to keep it. She wants a fresh start. She’s not going to let you use that money to save the business.” “Well, it’s too late,” David crows triumphantly. “She doesn’t have a choice in the matter. The wheels are already in motion. I called the bank earlier this morning and paid the debt in full. Now she can always live in the old house.”

“She doesn’t want to fucking stay in the house, David! She wants to fucking go!” “Bullshit. That’s where we grew up. That’s where she had built a life with Dad.” “Just because you’re sentimental about it, doesn’t mean she has to be as well. And you’re forgetting one thing, too. Dad died in that house.” I don’t mention Mom’s attack. Maybe David would understand a little better why Mom wouldn’t care about the place very much if he knew what happened, but I can’t voice the words. Mom made me promise all those years ago never to tell Dad or David. She made me swear I wouldn’t breathe a word. Even now, I can’t break that promise to her. “Our father dropped down onto his knees in that house,” I continue. “She watched his eyes roll back into his head, and that was that. He never opened them again. What do you think she sees when she closes her eyes, asshole? She sees the man she loved most in the world, dying in front of her. The man that you just implied sexually abused me. The man that raised both of us, gave everything for us, always. He was such a—“ “He was just a man, Beth!” my brother roars. “People are always going on about him like they know him better than anyone else. They talk about him like he was some kind of fucking saint. Like he

rescued starving orphans from the roadside on a daily basis. He was just a fucking guy, though. He cursed, and he dropped shit, and he would stare out of a window with a stupid smile on his face for three hours at a time and never get anything done. And he did slap Mom once. I saw it.” “Bullshit.” “He slapped her right across the face, Beth. You wouldn’t even fucking know! You were just a baby.” I can’t take this anymore, this weird grasping at straws. He’s just trying to justify what he’s done, to make it okay that he’s betrayed not just me, but Mom and Dad, too. “How much did they give you, David?” I ask tiredly. The line is static and nothing more. “David. Tell me how much they gave you!” “It doesn’t matter how much exactly. I got enough to save the farm. That’s all that matters.” His voice is flat. Almost lifeless. He’s not going to tell me what my dignity was worth to him. “Don’t call me again, David,” I say. “Lose my number. Don’t come knocking on my door

anymore, okay? You’ve just gone and lost yourself a sister.” He laughs gently, chewing something on the other end of the phone. “Whatever you say, Spooch.”

Eleven

Beth I miss an hour of my first class because of David. If it weren’t so close to the bar exam, I would probably have bailed altogether today, but there are only a few short months standing between me and the biggest exam of my life; I can’t afford to drop the ball now, even though the entire world is expecting me to. Praying for me to drop the ball, no doubt. If there’s anything the general masses love to stand around and gawk at, it’s someone crashing and burning in epic style. The worst part is that I used to be guilty of it, too. I used to greedily tear through the society pages of newspapers and websites, reading about the nipple slips and unfortunate pantie shots of Raphael North’s previous supermodel girlfriends, back when he used to have them. It was fascinating to me. Weird. Intriguing. I always wanted to know more, especially when the seemingly perfect woman he was dating did something stupid or was publically embarrassed in some way. That would make me feel justified in my dislike or distrust of them. And now, here I am, with the shoe well and truly glued

onto the other foot, and it feels absolutely terrible. I guess this is karmic retribution on the grandest scale imaginable. Instead of interrupting the lecture that’s already started, I make my way to the campus library and I find a secluded, quiet spot to sit and study until my next class. I gather a stockpile of books, and I build a wall out of them in front of me, essentially blocking out the rest of the library, creating a barricade between myself and the rest of the world. I’ve been studying in in my own peaceful little bubble for about an hour when there’s the soft sound of someone clearing their throat behind me. I’m surprised to find Nate standing there when I twist my body to look back over my shoulder. “This is becoming a bad habit,” I observe a little frostily. “Ouch. Harsh.” Nate points to the seat opposite mine. “Mind if I sit down?” I want to tell him to go away, that my patience is barely a millimeter thick today and he’ll probably end up losing his head if he joins me at the table right now. I don’t, though. I’m too tired to argue with anyone anymore. It feels like all I’ve done for days. I gesture to the seat opposite me, and Nate sinks into it, huffing heavily.

“Should I even ask how you found me?” I ask. He scratches the back of his hand, taking a look around the library. “Probably not.” “Raphael’s had you following me, hasn’t he?” Nate shakes his head slowly. “He hasn’t.” “Then…?” “Raph likes to do things by the book. I don’t mind bending a few rules here and there. Bribing the necessary people. Hacking into a surveillance camera or two when the need arises.” He says it so flippantly that it takes me a moment to realize that he’s being serious. I close my eyes for a second, taking a deep breath. “You’re here to try and make me go and see him, aren’t you?” “No. I’m not here to try and make you do anything. I’m here to tell you something. And then, if you’ll let me, I’ll show you something, too.” I pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers, trying to find an ounce of calm somewhere deep within me. My reserves are tapped out, though. “Okay. Let’s do this. I have studies I need to catch

up on.” Nate doesn’t say anything. When his silence continues, I look up at him. He’s obviously waiting for my full attention, his hands folded one on top of the other on his chest. As soon as I meet his gaze, he begins to speak. “Five years ago, Raphael and his friends were out one night. They were celebrating some bullshit award Raphael had won. Best-dressed bachelor of the year or something. They went out and had dinner. The week before I’d broken my wrist heli-skiing in Aspen, so I couldn’t drive. I told Paxton to shoot me a text when they were ready to leave the restaurant and I’d order a town car for them. He said sure. Fine. Whatever. A couple of hours go by. Three. Then four. Then five. I call Raph at one in the morning to see if they’re okay and they need picking up, but he sounds fine. He says they’re having a good time, that I need to stop worrying, I should go to bed. They’re grownups, they’ll be able to find a cab themselves when they’re ready to come home. So that’s what I do. I go to bed. “At six in the morning, I wake up to complete and utter fucking chaos. Every single phone in my apartment is ringing off the hook. I have fifteen messages from the CEO of North Industries. I turn on the TV, and Raphael’s face is everywhere. You

think this whole drone thing is bad?” he says, giving a hard laugh. “This was fifteen times worse. The internet almost fucking broke.” Nate holds up his hands, framing them in between us. “Raphael North crashes Maserati into side of Waldorf Hotel. Raphael North shaken but uninjured in horrific car crash .” I remember all of these headlines. I remember you couldn’t turn around without seeing Raph’s face absolutely everywhere. It was the biggest scandal of the year. Nate continues. “Three people walk away from North’s totaled sports car. All passengers reported to be fine. Only, the information the news crews were pumping back out into the world wasn’t strictly true. Three people did walk away from the crash, but they weren’t fine. Raph had serious neck problems. Some broken ribs. Paxton had a concussion and a really bad laceration to his forehead. Thalia looked okay in the beginning, but once she was in hospital they discovered she had some pretty serious internal bleeding. She could have bled out if they hadn’t been diligent and caught it in time. And…” “And?” “And not everyone walked away from it, Beth. There weren’t just three of them in the car. There were four .”

A weight, impossibly heavy, sinks through me like a stone. Four. Everything’s finally beginning to snap into place. “Chloe ,” I say. “The press never really paid attention to her,” Nate says. “Her family had money, but nothing like the others. She was well off by most people’s standards, but in these rich New York socialite scenes, if you’re not a multimillionaire, you’re a nobody. Raphael and Chloe had dated back in high school. They were so close, all four of those guys. Raph broke up with Chloe when they graduated, and they drifted for a couple of years. After a while, though, Raph’s lifestyle choices began to take a toll on him. He missed Chloe. He loved her. Three months before the accident, Raph went and apologized to Chloe for leaving her, and they got back together. The four friends were reunited again, and everything was great. That night, Chloe was in the passenger seat of the Maserati when Raphael crashed it. She wasn’t wearing a seatbelt.” His expression is grave as he runs through the rest of the story. Raphael’s lawyers intervened the moment the CEO of North Industries discovered what had happened. They buried Chloe’s death so effectively and efficiently that all record of Raphael ever even spending time with the woman was wiped from the internet. People were bribed. The New York City

chief of police received a brand new vacation home in the Hamptons. Nate’s voice dips lower and lower as he unveils the measures that were taken to make sure Raphael didn’t get sent to prison for manslaughter. “I can’t believe it,” I whisper. “I can’t believe he would ever allow so many laws to be broken to save his own ass. I can’t believe he would crash a car into a building, drunk, killing his own girlfriend, and he would want to avoid the consequences.” Nate leans across the table, staring me dead in the eye. “That’s the thing. Raph was sober as a judge. The police did eight different tests on him, tried to pin a DUI on him, but they couldn’t. He hadn’t drunk a thing . And believe me...” Nate’s eyes are shining brightly now, filled with pain. “Raph did everything he could to make sure he did go to jail. He admitted fault. He demanded he pay a penance for the accident. A judge settled the matter out of court and sentenced him to twenty-four months house arrest. Raph walked into that penthouse of his, and he did not step foot outside once for two years. Not even onto the goddamn roof.” This is completely unbelievable. Completely. I just stare back at Nate, trying to figure out what I’m feeling. What I’m even thinking. None of it computes. Should I hate him for killing Chloe?

Should I feel sorry for him? The worst part is that I keep experiencing a sharp stab of jealousy at the knowledge that Raph was in love with another girl from a lifetime ago. God, I’m reeling. “So…what happened?” I whisper. “If he wasn’t drunk, if he hadn’t been drinking at all, why did he crash the car?” Nate clenches his jaw, sinking back into his seat once more. “The accident investigators claimed he fell asleep at the wheel. They pinned him with driving without due care and attention in the end, but I knew at the time it was a fucking lie. I’ve worked for Raph for ten years. I’ve sat in cars with him all over the world, too. He’s a good driver. He would never have even gotten into the car if he thought he was compromised in any way. He told me not to, he told me to leave it, but as soon as that car was released back to us, I had a full work up done on it.” “And?” Nate studies me intently, like he’s trying to figure out if he should even continue speaking. He cracks his thumb, and then taps it against the side of his leg nervously. “Goddamn it, Nate. Come on! You can’t just show up here and tell me all of this, then not give me the

entire picture. What am I supposed to do with that?” He nods, just once, then looks down at his sneakers. “The brake lines were cut. The vehicle report said it happened during the crash, but it didn’t.” “How do you know?” “Because. When something is torn apart, ripped due to a violent collision, the line break is jagged. Uneven. The lines on the Maserati were clean. Like they’d been cut with a knife.” I allow this to sink in for a minute. A loud buzzing has started up in my ears, drowning out the muted sounds of the library around us. I hear Nate perfectly well when he speaks next, though. “I think he was run off the road. I think someone forced him into the side of that building, and when he tried to stop, he couldn’t.” “If that were true, wouldn’t Raph have explained that to the police?” “Come on, Beth. You know the guy by now,” Nate says. “It doesn’t matter if it was an accident or if the car was tampered with to him. All he cares about is that he was behind the wheel…and

someone he cared about died.”

Twelve

Beth O n the subway , half asleep and drowsy from the heat of so many packed bodies all crushed into such a tight space, I look up at the ads on the other side of the train carriage and I see it. The first of Raphael North’s marketing campaign to win my heart. I know the black and white image is a message from him. It has to be. The image is a chess piece, a pawn, toppled on one side, and above it the words, ‘Checkmate. You’ve got me.’ It can only be a message from Raphael. What could it possibly mean to anyone else? There isn’t just one of the ads behind the sheet plastic on the wall of the train, either. No, that would have been too easy for me to miss. I stand up, peering through the window at the end of the carriage, into the one ahead of mine, and then in the opposite direction, to the one behind, and every single ad spot in all of the carriages has been taken up the image of the toppled chess piece. I sit back down, feeling numb. How much did it

cost him to do this? How many trains did he buy up all the advertising space on? Was it just this one, on this line, because he knows I use it? Something tells me he bought up the advertising space on every single damn train in New York. Something tells me he did so to ensure I’d see this message and have to respond to it. He couldn’t just message me like a normal human being. A text message would have been too easy. I could have easily ignored a text message. How the hell can I possibly ignore this, though? I sit back down, and the elderly woman in the seat next to me shakes her head, tutting under her breath. “Probably for some new weirdo play,” she says. “None of them make sense no more. Give me Phantom Of The Opera any day.” I laugh nervously, twisting the fringe on my purse over and over again. There is no other text on the black and white image of the pawn. Just the strapline along the top. What does he expect now? What did Raphael want me to do when I saw this? Call him? Get off the train and head straight back to the Osiris Building? Fall at his feet and thank him for being so romantic and making such a grand, expensive gesture? I take out my cell phone, bringing up his contact information. Slowly, I type out a response to his message, holding my breath as I do so.

M e : I never said I wanted to win you. I said I wanted honesty. I hit send , then immediately regret it. Thankfully there’s no reception underground, so the message won’t— Shit . Of all the days to get one bar of reception on the damn subway, it would be today. The message makes a shoop ing noise, and a small word pops up underneath the text: delivered. Shit. Shit, fuck, shit. I’m about to toss my phone back into my bag, when I see the speech bubble pop up below; he’s replying. Call me a glutton for punishment, but I can’t seem to look away. R aph : Come and see me. I’ll explain everything. M e : It’s a little late for that. I already got the run down from Nate. I don’t want to get Nate into trouble, but I can’t stand this anymore. I need clarity. I need more than half-truths and uncomfortable silences. I need him to be real with me. R aph : He told me. I was going to explain, Beth. I

just needed more time. I needed to figure out how. M e : It would have been easy. All you needed to do was speak to me. R aph : Harder than it sounds M e : No, it’s not. It’s the easiest thing in the world. R aph : You think it would be easy to tell someone you care about that you killed someone? F air enough . He has me there. It’s not as simple as that, though. M e : It wasn’t your fault, Raph. And we’ve wasted all of this time because you feel guilty for something that had nothing to do with you. H e doesn’t reply for a long time. I get off the train and start walking, taking the long way in order to avoid any persistent news reporters that might be hovering down the side streets on my normal route from school to home. I let myself into my apartment, and I toss my keys into the bowl beside the door. My phone chimes as I’m taking off my jacket. R aph : I was driving. I fell asleep. Chloe died. If

it’s not my fault, who’s fault is it? I reply immediately . M e : Nate said the brake lines on your car were cut. R aph : He wants to believe that. Please come here. Let me talk to you face-to-face. M e : Why don’t you come here, Raph? If you want to talk to me that badly, you can make the trip across town. Or are you worried about slumming it over here in Brooklyn? R aph : I can’t. I can’t leave the penthouse. M e : Bullshit. Nate said you got 2 years house arrest. That means you were allowed to leave 3 years ago. R aph : The house arrest ended, yes. But I haven’t left. E verything around me seems to just…stop . The gentle hum coming from the fridge. The ticking of the small clock on the wall in the hallway. My own heartbeat. I stare at the words, trying to figure out what the hell he means by that.

M e : When was the last time you left your apartment, Raphael? A gain , it takes him a long time to reply. And then: R aph : I haven’t left at all. I haven’t left the penthouse in five years. *** W hen Raphael opens the glass door to the apartment, the dark shadows beneath his eyes have worsened significantly. He gives me a brief, pained smile, then moves to one side so I can move past him. I’ve had plenty of time to compile a list of questions as long as my arm on the drive over here. I allowed him to send Nate for me this time. I needed to speak to him immediately, and the subway would have taken too long. “You haven’t left this penthouse in five years. You’re trying to tell me that’s why the media doesn’t get shots of you anymore? Why no one’s seen you at meetings? Because you’ve been holed up here for five years?” Raphael walks past me, down the hall. He heads for the huge lounge. I follow after him. “I go out onto

the roof now,” he says quietly. “I didn’t do that before.” Oh my god. This can’t be…he can’t be for real . “And the anteroom? That’s why you always meet people at that damned door? You rarely ever step foot into the anteroom. Only when Thalia was here, and when we…” I trail off uncomfortably. Raphael opens up the fridge in the kitchen, taking out a bottle of water. “The ankle bracelet I wore would vibrate if I stepped out into the anteroom. I fucking hated it. It was a constant reminder that I couldn’t leave, so I just…stopped going out there.” He cracks the bottle and drinks; he still hasn’t looked me in the eye yet. He seems physically incapable of doing so. “Raphael?” I’m standing directly in front of him now, but his gaze is still trained on the bottle of water in his hands. “Raph. You aren’t to blame for what happened to Chloe. If Nate says the brake lines were tampered with, then I believe him over your ridiculous self doubt.” “It doesn’t matter anymore,” he says steadily. “I was convicted. I served the time I was sentenced.” “Just because you completed two years’ worth of house arrest doesn’t mean that it’s over for you,” I

say softly. “You obviously still carry the guilt of what you think you did around with you. Why else wouldn’t you have left your apartment in five years? Why else would you not be able to look me in the eye right now?” He looks up at me slowly. His eyes are stark and sharp, quick and assessing, despite the tired, drawn expression he’s wearing. “Staying here is safe, Beth. Staying here means no one can fuck with me, and I can’t fuck with them. And, yes. Looking at you is hard for me right now. I should have told you from the beginning about what happened that night. It kills me to think that I’ll see judgment in your eyes when I look at you. Or hatred. Or even pity. It’s just fucking unbearable.” “I don’t feel any of those things, Raphael. If you see any emotion when you look at me, it’s because I’m hurting for you. You’ve punished yourself needlessly for so long. It’s all been for nothing.” I haven’t always been the best at recognizing emotion when it comes to this man, but I can plainly see the doubt and pain he’s experiencing right now. It’s pouring off him in tangible waves that turn my stomach. He goes to take another sip from his drink, but I snatch the bottle out of his

hands, sending a jet of water up into the air, spilling all over the counter and the floor tiles. “Don’t fucking hide behind a prop, Raph. You invited me here. You wanted to talk to me about this. Where’s the man who owned me when he fucked me? Where’s the fearless, dominant guy who told me he wasn’t afraid of anything?” “He doesn’t exist, Beth! He’s not fucking real!” Raphael’s words explode out of his mouth, violent and angry. He was so calm a second ago, but now I can see how hard he must have been working to keep his feelings at bay. “It’s this place. I can be whoever I want to be inside the four walls of this apartment. I could be whoever I wanted to be for you! But this is the truth. This ugly, awful, nightmarish truth. I killed someone. She was my girlfriend. She trusted me to take care of her, to get her home safely, and instead she ended up dead. So yeah. This is who I am. I wanted to keep things light with you. I wanted you to come here and play fucking chess with me, and that was going to be it. But I fucked that up, too. I developed feelings for you. I was fucking selfish. I should have told you not to come here anymore, and instead I made things so much worse. I kissed you. I pushed you. I fucked you up against those windows, and the whole world saw. And now you’re life has been turned upside down. You’ve lost your job. You

can’t step foot outside your own fucking front door. I should be a better man right now. I should tell you not to come here again. I should tell you to leave and never come back, but I can’t. Now you know the truth, maybe you’ll be stronger than I am. Maybe you’ll walk out, and you won’t come back. I won’t blame you, Beth. I won’t stop you.” His pain is a tangible thing. I’ve not had much time to think over the information I’ve just been given; I’m suffering because of it, too. It kills me to think of Raph in that situation, knowing the woman he was in love with was dead. Believing it was his fault. Yes, the fact that Chloe died is terrible. Yes, what happened on that was awful. I realized on my way over here, as Nate was babbling incessantly about Raphael’s innocence and generally saintly behavior ever since that day, that I’m not mad at Raphael, though. I do believe Nate. I don’t think Raph was responsible for what happened, and I want to do everything and anything I can to exonerate him. He’s been trapped up here in this penthouse for way too long. I understand how his mind works. He sees his exile at the top of the Osiris Building as justice, and so long as he feels guilt for what happened to Chloe, he’ll never leave. He’ll never be able to forgive himself. I’ve already forgiven him, though. Raphael has

such a firm grip on himself, so much self-control. He’s just not the kind of man who would get behind the wheel of a powerful sports car if he were overly tired or drunk. I have no evidence, no real proof that he is innocent of this crime, but every cell in my body is attesting to the truth of it, declaring it, screaming it out loud. “You think after all of this, I’m just going to leave and give up?” I ask quietly. It takes him a long, awful moment to answer. “If that’s what you want.” “No! Of course it isn’t what I want!” “Then what do you want?” The question catches me off guard. I don’t know how to answer at first. Frustration takes a hold of me in the end, forcing a response from my lips. “I just want you! You spent so long convincing me that we’re meant to try and make this thing between us work, that I really started to believe you. I really started to listen. So…I just want you. I want your hands on my body. I want your mouth on my mouth. I want to feel everything you’ve promised me and more, Raphael. Fuck, at this point it’s more than just a desire for me. More than just a want. It’s a fucking need, and I demand for it to be

filled.” Shock. That’s what I see on Raph’s face before he masters his features. He lets out a long, shaky, nervous breath, then nods, smiling ruefully. “You’ve no idea how relieved I am to hear that,” he whispers. He really did think I was going to leave him. He really did think I was going to disappear from his life and never speak to him again. His whole body seems to loosen; it’s as if he was braced for impact a moment ago, and now that the hammer hasn’t fallen, he has no need for the anxiety and adrenaline that was surging through his veins. Slowly, he slides his hand into his pocket and takes something out of it. Something small and shiny. Gold. Metal. Holding the object up to the light, Raphael shows me what he’s holding between his fingers. It’s a key, attached to a length of silken ribbon, green and vibrant, like his eyes. “There’s a room in my home you haven’t been inside, Beth. A secret place I haven’t shared with you yet. If you’re sure for some reason that being with me, despite all of this, is something you want, then I’d like to show you now.” I eye the key dubiously. “What’s inside the room?”

Raphael shrugs. “Nothing out of the ordinary. A bed. A chest of drawers. A lamp. A desk. A mirror. It’s where I sleep.” Raphael wants to show me his bedroom. He wants to share it with me. Raphael is such a painfully private person; it must cost him a great deal to extend this offer to me. “Yes,” I whisper. “I want to see it.” He nods. His eyes shine brightly, filled with emotion. “The door is locked. It’s always locked, whether I’m inside the room or not. I want it to be forever open to you, though. Take this. Use it whenever you like.” He holds out his hand, the length of green ribbon looped around the end of his index finger, the brassy, old fashioned key spinning on the end of it. I take it from him. “I’d like to see it now,” I tell him. Raphael doesn’t argue. He turns and walks silently down the hallway, up the stairs at the end, and then continues along the upper corridor. He halts outside the very last door on the right hand side. Stepping out of the way, he gestures for me to open it with the key he’s just given to me. We enter inside together. The space is dark and filled with a textured kind of silence that feels like a living, breathing thing. It occupies the room from corner to

corner, floor to ceiling, and I feel like I’m wading through it as I walk into the room. A light switch. I need a light switch. It takes me a second to find it, mainly because Raphael doesn’t appear inclined to point it out. When I locate the switch, a warm, subtle glow blossoms from a hidden light fitting that runs around the perimeter of the room, set back under a lip in the ceiling. Just as Raphael said, the space is nothing out of the ordinary. A huge bed monopolises the room. A dark, almost black wooden headboard juts up toward the ceiling, and a slate grey, heavy, expensive looking bedspread accents the much lighter ash grey of the walls. The desk to the right of the room, underneath the window, is free of clutter. The only thing that rests on it is a globe—black, with the countries, longitude and latitude lines marked out in burnished gold. The floor is marble again, black this time, shot through with white and hints of silver, and a cream, thick-piled, luxurious rug lays beneath the bed. The kind of rug you immediately want to walk on barefoot, to dig your toes into. There are no books on either of the simple nightstands. There is no artwork on the walls. Blinds are drawn at the windows, effectively keeping the room in utter darkness. It was pitch black in here before I turned the lights on; I get the feeling Raphael likes it this

way most of the time. This room serves one purpose and one purpose only: it’s a place for Raphael to sleep. There are no distractions, nothing to catch at his attention and prevent rest. No television, no radio, no literature or bright colors. It’s a cool and very calming environment. One I can imagine falling in love with, given the chance. Walking over to the chest of drawers on the opposite side of the room, I run my hands over the beautiful, sleek mango wood. My fingertips rest on the handle of the top drawer. “Go on. Open it.” “I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to pry. I was just admiring the—” “Open the drawer, Beth. I want you to see what’s inside.” I stand, tense, not knowing how to proceed. Raphael tuts softly from the doorway. “Do it, Beth. It’s important.” Slowly, I close my grip around the black wrought iron handle, and I open the drawer. I stop breathing.

Handcuffs. A braided black whip with leather fringe, knotted at each of its ends. A ball gag. A black velvet mask. Silver knuckle-dusters. A solid black gun. A length of gold chain. A flat-ended black leather paddle. An array of vibrators and dildos. An elaborate cock ring, attached to a length of beads. I take a step away from the drawer, my pulse thrumming all over my body. “This is all for me,” I state. “It is.” Raphael’s moved, standing close behind me now. “I have a…strange appetite. “There are things I can control in my world, Beth. And there are things that I can’t.” He sighs under his breath. “Being in control while I’m fucking is very

important to me. I like to use toys. I like to use restraints. I like to push beyond the boundaries or normality and comfort.” Slowly, he runs his finger down the back of my neck. There’s something possessive in the way he traces his fingertips up and down my skin, something exploratory and dark. It frightens and excites me in equal parts. I close my eyes, stilling myself, trying to calm my uneven breathing. “I want to experience all of that with you, Beth.” Raphael’s hand cups the back of my neck, then, holding it, as if he might tighten his hold at any moment, forcing me to bend to his will. “I have a question for you,” he murmurs. “If your answer is yes, then we can try this. We can see how we both fair, and proceed with caution from there. Are you prepared to answer honestly?” “Yes. I am. I will.” “Good.” He steps closer to me. The warmth of his body heats my back, and my skin prickles. It’s as if a static charge runs between us, and I can feel how close he is, despite the fact that, save for his hand on my neck, we’re not touching each other at all. “I need complete control. I need you compliant and submissive. Do you know what that means? Have you had experience with that before?”

“I—I haven’t had experience, no. I know what it means, though. You’re dominant. You’re in charge during sex.” “Yes. There’s more to it than that, though.” His breath skates across my skin, and my knees weaken, threatening to fold out from underneath me. He is strong. He is powerful. He is alpha. Raphael North is sex personified. “You have to surrender all free will. All desire to defy me. All desire to protest or push back. You have to release yourself to me on every level, not just physically. I need to own your mind, too. I need to know, when I put my hands on you and my cock inside you, that you’re not going to rebel against me in any way.” “I—I can…” I trail off as Raphael’s lips press against the back of my neck. My eyes are still closed, but now they’re rolling back into my head as he peppers feather-light kisses all over my skin. “If this is what you want, you’re going to have to do a better job of convincing me, I’m afraid,” Raph replies. I can’t believe this is happening. The dark, painful thing I’ve just learned about Raphael’s past should have killed any desire I had to have sex with him. So should the intense, intrusive attention we’ve been receiving from the New York press. But still…

when he touches me, when I feel his hands on my skin, when I feel his breath skating across my body, all I can do is want him. I’ve been completely and utterly mentally consumed by him, I haven’t been able to think about my schoolwork. I haven’t been able to study. I’ve barely even remembered to eat most days. Raphael’s been prowling through my thoughts and my dreams, a constant, demanding presence, those green eyes of his watching over me at all times. I know I should leave this place immediately and head straight back to my apartment. I shouldn’t even give myself the chance to think about this. If I do, I’ll find some way to justify it. To convince myself that handing over my free will to this man is a clever, intelligent thing to do. I open my mouth to tell him that I need to excuse myself, that I need to leave, but the words that come out of my mouth are precisely the opposite. “What do you want me to do?” He purrs, his voice gravel and sand on stone, deep and thrilling. “The perfect question to ask. Maybe this won’t be so hard for you, after all.” Raphael just told me I was fierce before. Little does he know, my determination surpasses mere ferocity. I’m thunder and lightning. I am volcanic. I can be a force of nature when I feel like I’m being oppressed

or held back in some way. Being submissive to Raphael’s dominance goes against the grain with me for sure, but I can do it. I can obey him in every way if it means I will feel his mouth on my skin, and his hands on my body. “I might surprise you,” I say quietly. “You already have. Take off your dress, Beth. Slowly.” I don’t hesitate. I reach behind my head and unfasten the clasp there. I shrug out of the material, allowing it to slip down, over my body, and then I’m standing in front of him in my underwear with the dress gathered in a pool of cloth at my feet. Raphael walks slowly around me, assessing my near nakedness, his eyes quick and unreadable as he takes me in. He starts at my feet and works his way up; I blush as his eyes linger on my breasts. He allows his expression to slip just a little. Enough to let me know he’s affected by me, despite the air of indifference he’s channelling. A thrill of pride rushes through me, amplified by the low growl that comes out of Raph. “Do you know how fucking magnificent your body is, Beth?” His eyes are full of fire as he feasts upon me, head to toe. “Every time I see you, the curve of your tits makes my dick get hard. The swell of your ass beneath your jeans makes me want to rip

them from your body, so I can bend you over and slam myself into you. If you can do all of that to me when you’re fully dressed, imagine what the fuck you’re doing to me right now. My god, you’re so fucking beautiful.” My cheeks flush, blood surging into my cheeks, no doubt staining them red. I’ve never needed a man’s approval before, never really cared what any of them thought, but I find that it matters with Raphael. I care what he thinks, and to know that he’s this turned on by me… it makes me feel incredible. I look away, trying to hide my face, but Raph steps in and places his hand under my chin, forcing me to make eye contact with him. “Get on the bed, Beth. Open your legs for me, as wide as they’ll go.” Heat swirls in my chest, cycling down, between my legs. I’m already turned on. Already wet. If I spread my legs for him, he’s going to be able to see just how wet I am. Embarrassment flares inside me, but I ignore it. This is a test, after all. If I balk or shrink away from any of the things Raphael asks of me, I’ll only be demonstrating that I’m not cut out for a physical relationship with him. The promise of his hands on my skin, his hot mouth working over my flesh, is enough to make me tamp down the urge to run from the room. Silently, almost

defiantly, I walk over to the bed. I climb up onto the duvet, then turn and lie on my back, hitching my legs up so that they’re bent. I allow my knees to fall out to either side, exposing my pussy to him. Raph doesn’t pass comment until he’s standing at the end of the bed. He allows his gaze to settle between my legs, and I feel it: his hunger. His need for me. I haven’t allowed myself to believe the sidelong glances and the prolonged eye contact has been anything other than coincidence with Raph, but now I know the truth. He wants me. He wants to fuck me. He wants to ruin me for all other men, and I get the feeling he’s about to do just that. “Hold your hands over your head,” he commands. I do it quickly. I don’t want him to think I’m hesitating. Raph picks something out of the drawer filled with toys and comes over to the bed. He holds up the item for me to see: a pair of shining, silver handcuffs. “You want out at any point, Beth, say the word and I’ll release you.” “What word?” A slow, sinful smile spreads across his face. “Peter Piper. You’re never going to say that accidentally, now, are you?” “No, I won’t.”

“Good.” He fastens the cuffs around my wrists, then hooks a jump ring in the center of the chain between the cuffs over small hook attached to the headboard. I can’t squeeze my hands out of the cuffs. I can’t unhook myself. Can’t escape. Weeks ago, trapped in this position, I would have freaked the fuck out. My mind would have transported me back to the barn, to my mother being pinned down and assaulted. I’m hardly free from that memory now, but it doesn’t fill me with fear. It doesn’t make me want to tear myself free and run, because this is different. So incomprehensibly different, that I’m filled with nothing but an intense spark of desire. “Now we have that out of the way, I’d appreciate it if you could address me as Sir,” Raphael informs me. It’s not necessary for him to demand this, but I understand the appeal. He’s the head of a multibillion-dollar company. People obey him at every turn, every day. He’s used to being referred to with reverence and respect, so why wouldn’t he expect me to do the same in this situation? I nod my head slowly. “Yes, Sir.” “Good girl, Beth. Good girl. You’ve made me so unbelievably hard already. Would you like to see?” My body reacts, sending another wave of

expectation skittering and bouncing around inside me. “Yes. I’d…like to.” It feels slightly shameful to admit to something like this, but I don’t care anymore. It doesn’t matter if he knows how I feel about him. It’s fucking obvious. Raph removes his clothes. He slowly unbuttons his shirt, sliding the material from his arms and folding it over the back of the chair by the desk. His pants are next. I find myself staring at the hard, cut muscle that forms his stomach and his chest. He must spend hours working out. Hours . The results are quite remarkable. Raphael hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his Calvin Klein boxers and inches them down over his hips. “A quick fuck up against a window is one thing, Beth, but I’m not for the faint of heart. Are you sure you want this? Are you sure you want me ?” This is a loaded question. He’s giving me yet another out. Giving me the opportunity to back out of this now, before I get emotionally or physically hurt and further. “I’m sure. I want you,” I whisper. “I want all of you. Every part.” Raph pauses a second, a hint of surprise on his face. I don’t think he was expecting me to sound so sure. My voice doesn’t waiver, though. There’s nothing but confidence and excitement in my tone. “All right, then,” he answers. He pushes his boxers

down his muscular thighs, and they fall to the floor. My eyes travel to his cock without being bidden. There’s no avoiding the fact that he intrigues me. I’m beyond intrigued, though. There isn’t a word in the English language to describe how badly this man turns me on. He’s perfect. Nine inches. Clean and cut. Thick and erect. He has the kind of cock I want to tease with my tongue. The kind of cock I want to slather with lube and just stroke up and down in both my hands. Damn, that would feel so good. “I can see how pleased you are right now,” Raph breathes. “You’re going to be even more pleased when I start fucking you with this thing. I know how to fuck with it. I know how to make a woman come with it. I know how to use it to make you feel good. I know how to be a dirty boy with it. When you leave this apartment, you’re not going to be able to walk properly.” He takes hold of his erect dick and slowly runs his hand up and down it, his teeth slightly bared. He’s a force of nature like this, so raw and savage. He’s like no man I’ve ever seen before. My pussy tightens at the thought of him slowly inching himself inside me. This is so different from our crazed encounter in the anteroom. This is planned and intentional. This is going to be so much

more . I’m losing all self control as he stalks toward the bed, a look of dark intent in his eyes. “I haven’t bound your feet, but I want you to stay very still, Beth. Can you do that for me?” “Yes.” “If you let me, I’m going to teach you. To train you. I’m going to give you the skills you’ll need to navigate a sex life with me, and it will make you strong. You’ll be unstoppable. You’ll be able to make me come in a heartbeat, but more importantly…you’ll be able to drag it out. You’ll be perfectly capable of teasing me in the same way I’m about to tease you. The longer I hold back, the harder my dick gets, Beth. You’re gonna like it hard, I can tell.” A statement like that, coming from someone else, would probably make me feel dirty. I only feel empowered, though. I am so turned on, it’s a miracle I’m not shamelessly begging and pleading with him to fuck me. There’s still time yet. He’s not going to end this quickly. He’s going to stretch it out until I’m climbing the walls. When Raphael touches my body for the first time, it’s between my legs. He climbs up so that he’s kneeling on the edge of the bed, between my legs, and he stares down at my pussy with a kind of

ravenous appetite that sends nervous chills dancing over my skin. He moves with the utmost care as he places his hand over me, cupping my pussy, applying a dizzying, satisfying pressure than makes me angle my hips upward, grinding myself into his hand. “So greedy already,” he muses. “Your pussy’s so warm. Wet. I already know it’s going to taste amazing on my tongue.” Slowly, he draws his hand back, using his fingertips to tease small circles against my clit. Somehow he knows how to touch me. How my body will respond to him if he touches me in a certain way. It’s not long before he has me panting, rocking against his hand. This is not me. This is not how I normally behave. There’s something about Raphael North that makes me step outside of my own body, though. It doesn’t matter who I become when I’m with him. All I know is that I like the transformation. Raphael growls at the back of his throat as he works me into a fever. The look on his face, so animalistic and determined, makes me want to scream. I manage to keep my cries contained for the most part, but every so often I can’t help it; I whimper and moan, my head tipped back, my spine arching away from the bed below me. Raphael doesn’t look away for a second. He tells me when I

can breathe. He tells me when I can writhe. He tells me when to be still, and he tells me when I can come. When he prowls up the length of my body and takes my nipple into his mouth, it feels like fireworks are going off inside my head. And when he roughly slams himself into me, thrusting, rocking his hips against me without mercy, the cries I’ve been fighting to bite back are ripped from my throat. I scream his name. I pant, and I struggle for every lungful of oxygen I pull into my body. Raphael fucks me until I’m straining at my handcuffs, battling against them, trying to free myself. Not because I’m terrified and I feel threatened by his dominance, but because I want to touch him. I want to feel the flat, hard, packed planes of his muscle underneath my palms as I guide him into me over and over again. I am locked into position, and I’m unable to move, though. Raphael closes his hands around my throat as he slams himself into me. His grip is loose, but a jolt of panic surges through me all the same. How much pressure would he need to apply to snap my neck right now? Cut off my air supply altogether? The prospect of being choked has never excited me before, but the way Raphael’s fingers caress the sides of my neck as he tightens and releases his hold has me flooded with need. The way he’s

pinning me down with those pale green eyes of his, spearing me to the bed, has me wanting him to squeeze a little tighter. He must know how frantic I’m becoming; Raph chuckles breathlessly as he fucks me even harder. “You can come now, Beth. You have my permission. Soak my cock with your cum. Make me drip with it. I’ll come for you, too. I promise.” It’s like a switch being flicked somewhere inside my head. I’ve been holding back my orgasm ever since he pushed himself inside me, but the moment he says those words to me, it’s game over. I can’t hold it back any longer. I have to do it. I have to come. Pleasure rips through me like a tsunami, dragging me under, stealing my words, my breath, my ability to even think straight. “Oh, shit! Raph… Oh god !” The moment I tumble over the cliff, head first into my climax, must be all too visible to Raph. He takes hold of me by the hips, and he fucks me like a damn freight train. Seconds after I come, he pulls out of me, palming his cock, taking hold of it and working his hand furiously up and down the length of it. He explodes, his cum spurting up my body, landing on my stomach and my chest, and I lay as still as possible, reeling from the act. So hot. So, so

fucking hot. Raphael’s chest is heaving. He reaches down, rubbing his fingers into the mess he’s made on my skin. “Open your mouth,” he commands. I do it, and he slides the very tips of his fingers past my lips, touching them to my tongue. “Lick them clean,” he tells me. “Suck them. Lick my cum from them.” “Yes, sir.” I enjoy the task way too much. When his fingers are clean, Raphael runs them back through his cum, but he doesn’t put them back in my mouth. He takes the slick fluid he’s collected on his hand, and he rubs it firmly between my legs. He pushes it inside me, into my pussy. He rubs it over my ass. He spends the next few minutes meticulously gathering up his cum from my belly and my breasts, then rubbing my clit with it and inserting it into my pussy. When he’s finished, he holds himself over my body, his face only a few inches away from mine. God, he is so beautiful. He’s like no other man I’ve ever laid eyes on before. “You’re mine now,” he tells me, biting down on his lower lip. “I’m claiming you. No one else may touch you, look at you…even flirt with you without my prior consent. Do you understand?” “Yes, Sir.”

“Excellent.” Raphael appears to be vibrating with satisfaction as he un-cuffs me. “You realize I went easy on you, don’t you?” he says softly. “You realize, the next time I am inside you, things will be very different.” “Yes, Sir.” He strokes my hair, tucking a strand back, away from my face. “You can take it, Beth. I know you can. I hope you’ll be ready. I’m going to make you fucking weep with ecstasy. I’m going to show you how I can make your body sing.” Downstairs, when I’m fully dressed, I feel like I’m still vibrating with the power of the orgasm he just gave me. My head is clouded with it. Not clouded enough to keep me from speaking my mind as he kisses me goodbye, though. “You’re not a bad person, Raphael. You really didn’t do anything wrong. Chloe—” He cuts me off, placing a finger over my mouth. “No more. Please. I’m not the victim here, Beth. I’ve only lost the past five years. Chloe lost her life. That’s all there is to it.” “Raphael. I just don’t think Chloe would—”

“Enough! I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear her name on your lips. If we’re going to be together, we’re never going to talk about this again, okay? I can’t do it. I fucking won’t do it.” Wh…what the hell ? A horrible sinking feeling pulls at my stomach. I don’t want to fight with him. I don’t want there to be any more friction between us than there needs to be. But…god damn it, I just can’t hold my tongue. “You still love her, don’t you? You’re always going to love her. I’m going to be competing with a ghost every second of every day I spend with you.” “Don’t be ridiculous, Beth.” “How is that ridiculous? You’d rather accept you’re guilty of a crime you didn’t commit than face the past head on and let this go. That speaks volumes to me.” “Well, it shouldn’t. It shouldn’t say a damn thing to you, Beth.” It’s common knowledge that the color red means danger. Right now, though, the color green is fucking terrifying. Raphael’s eyes flash and glimmer with anger; I’ve never seen him look so angry. The muscles in his jaw pop and strain and he grinds his teeth together. “Why not?” I whisper. I should keep my damn

mouth shut, but I won’t be his doormat. I won’t be told what observations I can and can’t make, especially when they affect me. Raphael closes his eyes for a second, breathing hard down his nose. The veins in his arms stand proud beneath his skin, his hands clenched into tight fists. I can see the resolution on his face when he opens his eyes. “Because, Beth. It’s none of your business. None of this is any of your fucking business.” I turn and I flee the penthouse, and Raphael doesn’t call out after me. He doesn’t try and stop me from leaving. I don’t take a breath until the elevator doors have rolled closed. Once I’m alone, encapsulated inside the little silver box, hurtling down toward the ground, I let out a loud sob, pressing the back of my hand to my mouth. I allow myself to cry until the elevator slows and the doors roll open again. After everything we just went through… After the amazing sex we just had… After convincing me that our lives are already so intertwined… How could he say something like that to me?

It’s amazing how quickly a moment can change for the worse.

Thirteen

Beth S crew him . Screw him and his stupid square jaw, and his beautiful cheekbones, and his dumb, perfect hair. Raphael North can go guilt himself directly to hell. But then…that’s the whole point. He will guilt himself directly to hell. He’ll allow himself to carry the guilt of Chloe’s death for the rest of his life, and no matter what he thinks, that is my fucking business. It’s already going to be hard enough as it is, trying to build a life with him. We’ll never work out if the Waldorf Hotel accident lingers over us for the rest of time. There will always be a sour note twisting the happy moments of our lives, and I refuse to accept that. I will not tolerate it. I’ve stopped crying by the time I leave the Osiris Building’s parking structure. I don’t like what I’m about to do. I don’t like it one bit, but I need to clear Raph. I need to have him cleared, so he can start living his life again. He’s been trapped up there in his penthouse overlooking the city for so long now that I really believe he has no idea what the real world is like any more. For so long he’s

been a prisoner, first held by the state, and then by his own conscience. Like most people who get locked away, I think he’s come to accept the confines of his imprisoned life. He’s so used to staying there now and having people come to him when he needs to have meetings, having people drop off groceries, to clean and bring him his laundry, so used to experiencing the city from such a distant, great height, that anything else seems terrifying to him, that anything else must seem frightening. I get it. I don’t fucking like it, but I get it. He’s going to need time. A lot of time. Once I’ve managed to have Chloe’s death ruled an accident, maybe it will be easier for him to face the world, though. I allow Nate to drive me across town, mostly because I don’t know where I’m going. He doesn’t mention my black mood, or the fact that I’m stabbing my fingernail into the stitching of the leather armrest like I’m trying to rip it open. He doesn’t say a thing until a taxi swerves in front of our car, nearly hitting us, and I buzz down the window and lean out, screaming like a banshee at the other driver. “I take it you and Raphael had a falling out, then?” Nate asks airily. “Something like that.” The words barely have room

to slip out between my clenched teeth. “Do I need to ask why…?” “Because he’s a pigheaded, rude bastard.” “Oh. Yeah. That .” Nate is obviously trying not to smile. “Should I even bother asking why we’re burning across town to try and exonerate him if he’s such a pigheaded, rude bastard?” I let my head rock back, and I close my eyes, sighing—the very sound of surrender. “Because… I’ve fallen in love with him,” I say quietly. “Not the smartest move, I know, but…it’s too late. It’s true. I’m in love with him.” Nate doesn’t say a word after that. We travel the rest of the way across town in silence, my confession hovering in the air between us like a toxic cloud. The Haliday, Falcon & Ross Investments and Wealth Management firm is right where you’d expect it to be: on Wall Street. I haven’t been there before, though, and I have no idea how the hell I’m gonna get into the building, so Nate’s company is a blessing. He parks a block away in a public parking lot, and then the two of us walk over to the building together. “Are you sure this is the easiest way for us to get hold of a copy of the accident report? We’re legally allowed to petition for a copy from

the police department, you know?” I say. “I’ve tried. Raph put a block on all requests pertaining to his case. I’m sure there was an element of bribery involved, but the case files have ‘gone missing,’” he says, throwing up air quotes around the last two words. “I know Paxton has a copy because he took it from me a couple of days after the accident happened. I asked him for it back shortly after, but he kept forgetting to bring it with him when he came to visit Raph at the penthouse.” Nate holds the heavy glass entry door open for me, ushering me inside the luxurious lobby of the Haliday, Falcon & Ross offices. The building isn’t a skyscraper. From the outside, it looks quite simple and reserved, only six or seven floors—very small by Wall Street standards. It’s only when you walk inside that Haliday, Falcon & Ross’s true status hits you; they own the whole building. They don’t share with any other firms or businesses. The entire seven floors is theirs. There might be a couple of other firms based out of New York that could afford to purchase such prime real estate and hoard it for themselves, but none of them bother. It’s a ridiculous, not to mention unnecessary, expense. The company must pull in a staggering amount of money every year to justify such a grand display of wealth. And if Paxton Ross is a partner, he must be banking an obscene paycheck every month. We’re

talking six figures and above, easily. Nate places his hand in the crook of my elbow and walks through the lobby, his eyes on the floor. “Look casual,” he tells me. “Or…just stop looking so fucking guilty.” “I can’t help it,” I hiss back. “I feel like we’re breaking and entering or something.” “The receptionists are assholes. They won’t let us up without an appointment. We both know Paxton, though. If he doesn’t want to see us or he’s in meetings, we can always come back. Shit. Don’t look to your left.” It’s almost impossible not to look to your left when someone tells you not to. Miraculously I manage to pull it off. “What’s happening?” “Security guard,” Nate shoots back under his breath. “It’s okay. He’s headed the other way now. Hold the door!” Nate hurries forward, jamming his hand between the doors of the elevator, preventing them from rolling shut. He drags me onto the car, scowling at the three men inside who take their sweet time moving back to make room for us. Their suits are Armani, their swift assessment of my friend and me more than a little disapproving. No one says a word as the elevator rises. Not. One.

Word. It’s the slowest elevator ride of my life. Paxton’s office is on the top floor, of course. The men in the elevator with us must be really good at their jobs, too, because none of them get off at any of the lower floors. We all exit together, and the three of them stand in the hallway, watching us fiercely as Nate pulls me off to the right, hissing at me to hurry. He guides us down a labyrinth of hallways, passing people without so much as flinching. When we reach the expansive corner office that belongs to Paxton Ross, the man is nowhere to be seen. The walls that form Paxton’s office are made of glass. All of them. The huge room is like a goldfish bowl. Inside the office, the chair is neatly tucked under the desk, as if no one has sat in it all day. It definitely doesn’t look like Paxton has just stepped out and will be back any moment. There’s a small desk to the entrance of the office—presumably Paxton’s assistant’s desk—which is also empty. “It’s only two,” Nate muses. “He could be coming in for an afternoon start and working late. These guys do that sometimes.” “You have his cell phone number?” Nate shakes his head. “Never asked for it. I don’t

particularly like the guy. If you haven’t noticed, he’s an arrogant, pompous asshole.” “Oh, I’ve noticed.” “Thalia probably has his contact info. Maybe you could ask her for it. While you’re doing that, I’m gonna crack this lock.” “Nate! We can’t just crack the—” It’s too late. Nate’s produced a long, silver tool of some description and he’s wedged into the Yale lock. Surprising that it’s not a key card system. Security probably never anticipated people sneaking past them and making it unhindered up to the top floor of the building. “You’d better get on the phone to Thalia,” Nate says, as he works furiously on the lock. “I’m gonna be through this in a second, and it’d be nice to know where to look for the file.” “How do you even know it’s here?” “I don’t. Doesn’t seem like the kind of thing Paxton would keep at home though. Too easily lost. Or stolen .” He winks at me, and I can’t help but laugh nervously under my breath. I told him downstairs that it felt like we were breaking and entering. And now we are breaking and entering.

And stealing police reports. This situation could go horribly, horribly wrong here. If Paxton chooses to be angry over us busting his office door open and taking the report, he could easily have us both arrested. Press charges. My hopes of ever becoming a lawyer would go up in smoke, just like that. Poof! I take out my phone and find Thalia’s number, then I hit call. The phone buzzes for an extraordinarily long time before she eventually picks up. “Hi, Beth.” “Hey, are you okay? You sound sick.” There’s a pause, and then Thalia says, “It’s nothing. Just a head cold. I’ll be clear of it in a couple of days. Listen, I want to apologize. My behaviour was so shitty the other day at Raph’s place. I drank way too much, and I kept on—” “I’m sorry, Thalia. Can we talk about this another time? I need Paxton’s number from you ASAP. It’s important.” “Important? What’s going on? Is everything okay?” “Yes, everything’s fine. Nate just explained to me about the brake lines being cut on Raph’s Maserati

the night of the accident. He thinks it was intentional. That the person who cut the lines is still out there. Apparently Paxton is the only person who still has a copy of the accident report.” “Oh my god. Are you...are you serious ?” For a second she sounds angry, and then she’s crying, sobbing tears of relief. “I can’t believe it. I seriously can’t believe it.” “I know. We need to find this file, though. The truth is somewhere inside that paperwork. We need to study it and figure this out, and to do that we need to speak to Paxton.” “Of course. I’ll send you his number now. Beth?” “Yeah?” “Paxton has a false back on the top drawer of his filing cabinet. Check there. You might find what you’re looking for.” A secret compartment? What kind of person would have a secret compartment in their filing cabinet? My insides are in knots all of a sudden, twisted up and tangled, making me feel nauseous. The kind of person who has things to hide, that’s who. Nate said Paxton wouldn’t give back the file when he asked for it after the accident; he said he repeatedly

forgot it. Why would he have done that if he knew Nate was trying to clear Raph? Surely he would have pored over the information inside the file with Nate, trying to help find the key to proving him innocent. As I hang up the phone, a weighty sense of dread is settling into my bones. Nate must have heard everything Thalia said, because he heads directly for the filing cabinet and pulls the top drawer open, reaching into it. His expression is deadly serious as he roots around inside, hunting for the false back to the drawer. A moment later, the concentration on his face dissolves and his hand withdraws from the filing cabinet, holding onto a file of paperwork at least an inch thick. “Well, that was easy,” he says. My cell chimes in my hand. I check it and see that Thalia has done what she said she would. Paxton’s contact details stare back at me from the lit screen. “I don’t think,” I say slowly, “that we should contact Paxton after all.” The right hand side of Nate’s mouth lifts up in a tense smile. “Yeah. I kinda think you might be right.”

Fourteen

Beth W e pull into a parking lot outside a Dunkin Donuts in Red Hook and we rifle through the file, hunting for a clue. Some piece of information that was overlooked when Raph was first arrested. Nate lays the battered green suspension file on the console between us, and one by one we begin to go through each of the papers. There’s a lot of repetition— witness reports from the same people, printed out in duplicate. Mary Rose Hardy came across the accident just after the police showed up. She heard the commotion and followed the sirens, showing up on the scene just as Raph was being taken away in the back of a police cruiser. Osman Musharef was just finishing up his shift at The Waldorf Hotel, when there was an almighty crash from outside and the entire building shook. He immediately went about ensuring the safety and wellbeing of two guests who happened to be having an argument at the rear of the lobby, close to the elevators. By the time he actually made it outside the hotel, Raph was long gone, already taken to the station. He said it was an absolute miracle anyone survived the

wreck at all, given how badly damaged the car was. There are more reports from people about the accident, each vague and unhelpful. “There wasn’t a single person who actually saw what happened, Nate. Not one of these people witnessed the accident. Something…something’s not right here.” Nate holds his takeout coffee to his chest and stares blankly at the paper in front of him. “It’s not just that. There are other inconsistencies, too. It says here Paxton was in the back seat on the driver’s side of the car, and Thalia was in the rear on the passenger side. But then in this report…” He holds up another stapled document, the paper yellowed along one edge in a weird triangular stain. “This report says that Paxton was in the rear on the passenger side, and Thalia was on the driver’s side.” “I suppose a detail like that might be easily confused if things were chaotic.” Nate doesn’t look remotely convinced. “This accident report’s completely upside down. It doesn’t once talk about the severed brake lines. There are barely any forensic observations about the way the car impacted the hotel. It seems more concerned with the fact that blame for the incident must lie with the driver. I’ve counted the word

‘incompetence’ at least four times time. It’s not the accident investigator’s responsibility to place blame, only to record the bare facts of an accident.” “And Chloe’s medical reports?” “Vague, too.” Nate grabs the file and opens it, pointing down at the black ink. “Chloe Evans, aged twenty-seven. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Cause of death: massive head trauma. I’m not an expert on the subject, but I read enough autopsy reports when I was in the military to know they include a little more detail than that. They usually describe any defining birthmarks or scars. And they always record all injuries incurred in accidents. They haven’t said a word about any other injuries to Chloe’s body. If the crash was that bad, how could she have only sustained injuries to her head and nowhere else on her body?” “You’re right.” I take a sip of my own coffee, frowning deeply. “What about the other medical reports? Are theirs just as vague, too?” “I’m not sure,” Nate admits. “Hang on, I’ll find them.” He sets down his coffee and flips through individual sheets of paper and heavily stapled documents, some of them fastened together with bulldog clips. It takes a moment for him to find

them. “Here. This is Paxton’s. And…this one’s Thalia’s.” He hands them both over to me. I take a look, and the difference is immediately noticeable. It’s like night and day. Where Chloe’s report is no more than three lines long, Paxton’s is extensive— two full pages of information. Every single cut, scrape and scratch was recorded, it seems. Laceration to upper arm. Laceration to both left and right hands. Laceration to neck. Hairline fracture to left radius. Three broken ribs. T halia’s report is the same. B roken index finger on right hand. Laceration to jaw. Laceration to shoulder. Dislocation of right arm. Fractured collarbone. Broken ribs.

R aph’s medical report , however, is notably short. A brasions to forehead . Mild concussion. Bruised ribs. I ’m about to comment on this when my phone starts ringing. I look down at the screen and my stomach rolls. The number isn’t one I have stored in my contacts, but I recognize it. Thalia texted it over to me earlier. It’s Paxton. I send a tense sideways glance in Nate’s direction. “You’d better answer it,” he says, his voice calm. My hands shake a little as I hold my cell to me ear. “Hello?” “Ms. Dreymon,” the cool, collected voice on the other end of the line purrs. Paxton Ross clears his throat—a polite, gentlemanly cough. “I think it’s time and you I had a little chat. Meet me at Thalia’s apartment. I’ll be waiting there for you.” “Okay. I’m bringing Nate with me, though.” I’d love to tell Paxton that I’m bringing Raph with me, but the way things were when we left, the look of pure fury in his eyes…god, if he knew what I was

doing right now, he’d fucking kill me. He couldn’t have made it any clearer that he didn’t want me to digging into the accident. And even if I did tell him what was going on and where I’m about to go, it wouldn’t matter anyway; he hasn’t left his apartment in over five years, after all. I doubt he’d make an exception to come out now and help me do something he expressly forbade me from doing in the first place. “I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible,” Paxton informs me smoothly. “Why not?” “Because the authorities wish to speak to Nathaniel about the recent theft he committed at my workplace.” No. Fucking. Way. I knew Paxton was a dick, but seriously? He called the cops? Such a shitty move. Just as I’m about to tell him to go to hell, to call him every name under the sun, there’s a rap on the car window. I look up, and all hope of having backup at Thalia’s disintegrates. There, on the other side of the glass, a police officer is standing beside the car…and his hand is resting menacingly on top of his gun. Fuck .

Fifteen

Beth T he cops arrest Nate . Since he was the one who broke Paxton’s office, he’s the only one Paxton demanded should be detained. Apparently, because I didn’t aid and abet Nate in picking Paxton’s office door and going through his filing cabinet, I can’t be held accountable for the crime, though the police officer did ream me out for being aware of what was happening and not putting a stop to it. Basically, I’m getting off light. I have two options right now: I can call Raphael and tell him what’s happened, or I can go and meet with Paxton at Thalia’s apartment. Technically, the smart thing to do is call Raphael. His immense power and pull in this city could probably have prevented Nate from being arrested in the first place. I can’t get his words out of my mind, though. “Because, Beth. It’s none of your business. None of this is any of your fucking business .” He was so furious. And after that, so was I . I still am. Calling Raphael is a last resort.

Nate begged me to wait for him to be bailed out before I go over to see Paxton. He pleaded with me, even as he was being stowed in the back of the police cruiser, and I did nothing. There was nothing I could do. “I’m sorry, Nate. I’ll be fine. I’ll get answers,” I told him. As the cop car drove off and disappeared, leaving me alone in the Dunkin Donut’s parking lot, Nate’s face was a rictus of panic, staring at me out of the back window. Now, walking through the courtyard toward Thalia’s apartment building, I pull my jacket around me; the night air is cooler than it has been in weeks, but my nerves are the primary cause of my shivering. I’m glad Paxton insisted I meet him there. Having Thalia around as a buffer, a voice of reason, will be a gift from the heavens. I haven’t seen her since her meltdown at Raph’s, either. I haven’t been a very good friend to her over the past few days. I should have checked in on her. I should have made sure she was okay. She hasn’t messaged me, though. She hasn’t tried reaching out. A part of me thought maybe she needed the time to recover from her upset and her subsequent hangover.

As I knock on Thalia’s door, I find myself questioning why I’m doing this. Raph wants to let sleeping dogs lie. I’m interfering in something that doesn’t technically concern me. On the other hand, in a lot of selfish ways, it does. I want to be able to walk down a street holding my boyfriend’s hand. I want to be able to go to a movie with him. I want to be able to travel and see the world, go to baseball games and drive across country on road trips. I realize that life is one I probably would never be able to enjoy with Raph. He is Raphael North, after all. His face is recognizable amongst thousands. Still, there really is absolutely no way any of that might be possible if Raph insists on punishing himself for an accident he believes to be his fault. I’ve been hoping I’d arrive at the apartment before Paxton. I’m out of luck when the door door swings open; Paxton stands there, a stormy expression on his otherwise perfect face. His dirty blond hair is swept back, not a strand out of place, his suit jacket buttoned, not a crease in sight, a fuchsia pocket square folded with crisp corners jutting out of the dove grey material. He looks like a Tom Ford model, albeit a Tom Ford model who’s been having a very bad day. He doesn’t speak as he steps aside for me to enter, but his expression says enough. He’s angry. Really, really angry. I enter Thalia’s place with my heart in my throat. Thalia’s sitting on

the couch. I know something’s wrong the moment I see her. Her knees are drawn up underneath her chin, her arms folded tightly around her body. She glances at me out of the corner of her eye, then swiftly screws her eyelids shut. She’s shaking like a leaf. There’s something all over the tiled floor, glittering and catching at the light. It takes me a moment to realize that it’s broken glass. “What’s going on?” I ask, looking around the apartment. Her usually tidy home is in disarray, papers scattered all over the table, overflowing coffee cups and dirty dishes mounded with food, discarded on the countertops. The place smells of rot and decay. Thalia shakes her head, biting down on her bottom lip, still not looking at me. “This,” Paxton says behind me, “is the result of your selfishness. This is what happens when you refuse to leave well alone.” I spin around, pinning him in my gaze. “What are you talking about?” Paxton looms over me as he takes a step forward, closing the gap between us. He’s unnervingly close. Too close for comfort. The bitter, sour tang of old sweat cuts through the clean, musk scent of his aftershave. He reaches up and brushes a strand of hair back behind my ear. His touch is too familiar

and far too intimate. Somehow, it feels like the gentle gesture is a threat. “I tried to give you money,” he says softly. “I encouraged you to leave Raphael alone, but you refused. You caused a stir in the media. You made him start to think he could have a normal life again. You planted this…nasty little seed of hope inside him. And then you showed up at my office today and stole something from me that didn’t belong to you. You have no idea the damage you’ve managed to cause in such a short time. No idea at all. We’ve all been coping with the events of the accident in our own ways for the past five years, and you’ve torn everything down in the blink of an eye.” The words he parts with are spat out like poison. There is so much hatred in his eyes. He despises me, that much is clear. He has no right to feel that way, though. Who the hell does he think he is, blaming me for upsetting their dishonest little equilibrium? If I weren’t quite so afraid of him right now, I’d probably slap him for being such a prick. “That file wasn’t yours to keep,” I say quietly. “And I didn’t bully my way into Raphael’s life. Thalia persuaded me to see him first. She encouraged me, did everything she could to make me spend time with him, and he’s an amazing person. Of course I was going to fall in love with

him. Thalia, please…” I sidestep around Paxton, reaching out to my friend. She won’t raise her head, though. Won’t look at me. “Thalia, did you know the crash wasn’t an accident?” I want to say more. I want to ask her if she knows Paxton might have had something to do with it. I can’t voice my suspicions, though. Not with him standing at my back, his eyes flashing murder. If he did damage Raph’s Maserati on purpose, who knows what else he’s capable of? Wrapping his hands around my throat? Forcing a knife into my back? Gagging me and shoving me in the trunk of his car, driving me out into the boonies and disposing of my body? Rationally I don’t believe he’d do anything like that. Cutting the brakes on a car is a cowardly way of trying to kill someone at the end of the day. Besides some brake fluid and some oil, he didn’t have to get his hands dirty. He didn’t have to look Raph in the eye as his life force flowed and ebbed from his body. He didn’t have to struggle with him. He sat in the backseat of the Maserati and he braced himself for the impact. He rolled the dice and hoped for the best, perhaps. That he wasn’t going to end up seriously hurt or dead himself. It was the perfect decoy. It was the best way to convince the police and accident investigators of

his innocence. It was the perfect— Suddenly, a buzzing sound fills my ears. My brain… my brain stops functioning altogether. Wait… In the medical report, Paxton had cuts and scrapes all over his body. He had a few broken ribs, probably from where the seatbelt prevented him from flying forward when the car impacted with the wall. They were almost identical injuries to those Raphael suffered. My brain kicks back into gear, suddenly working over time now. How could that be? Surely Raphael’s injuries should have been so much worse if he was sitting in the front seat? He would have faced the full force of the impact; the force of the flying glass would have been so much more violent in the front of the car. Raphael had no head injury. Raph didn’t suffer anything even remotely similar to those injuries. Neither did Paxton. But Thalia did. I look to my friend, my mouth hanging open. “Oh my god. Thalia …” Paxton’s hand closes around the top of my arm. “I didn’t want to have to do this. I didn’t want it to come to this. You’ve really left us no choice, though.” His fingers dig painfully into my skin. He

begins reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket. Thalia finally looks up at me, and her eyes are filled with tears. I freeze, overwhelmed, disbelieving, and terrified. I can see the truth on Thalia’s face. It’s all there, plain as day now. Raph wasn’t even driving the car when it crashed into the hotel. And now Paxton is reaching for a weapon—a gun, a knife, a length of cord. He’s going to kill me. He’s going to silence me, prevent me from further disrupting their lie or speaking of it to anyone. I’ll never be able to exonerate Raph and have a life with him. I’ll never be able to have a family with him. I’ll never be able to lie in his arms and lose myself again, and the thought fills me with immeasurable sorrow. It guts me, turning me inside out. I brace for what comes next, but when Paxton’s hand slides out of his jacket, he’s not holding onto a weapon. There’s no shiny metal gripped in his hand. Instead, he’s holding a piece of paper. “This restraining order is air tight, Ms. Dreymon. If you go within five hundred feet of the Osiris Building, you will be arrested. If you call, text, or email Raphael, you will be arrested. If you so much as think his goddamn name, the police will be hammering down the door to your shitty, ratinfested apartment, and you will go to jail for a very long time. Do you understand me?” He slaps the folded sheet of paper against my chest. I take it

without thinking, blindly staring down at it sitting there in my hand. “A restraining order ?” “Yes, Ms. Dreymon. That delinquent brother of yours has been served one, too. If either of you speaks to the media again, you’ll be arrested and I will personally haul you across the coals for defamation and slander. I hope the consequences of your actions are very clear here, Elizabeth. I will bury you if you fuck with Raphael. You’re going to disappear from his life. You’re going to be a ghost. In a week, he won’t even remember you existed.” I gape up at him. I can’t even comprehend what’s going on right now. Two seconds ago, I thought he was going to murder me, and now…he’s threatening me with…with legal action ? “Ha!” The bark of laughter bursts out of me before I can rein it in. It bubbles out of me, overflowing and escaping me. “Only Raphael can serve me with a restraining order,” I say. “You can’t just serve me on his behalf.” “I can actually,” Paxton says dryly. “When his parents died, Raph named me his power of attorney should he be injured, fall sick, or deemed incompetent for any reason. This afternoon, after you broke into my office, I had his doctor officially

sign off on some paperwork. I had him deemed mentally compromised for his own safety. I’m now in charge of his affairs until further notice.” “What? You can’t do that! No one’s going to believe he’s mentally compromised.” “They will ,” he counters. “He’s a recluse, Elizabeth. He has a severe anxiety disorder. He hasn’t stepped foot out of his own home in years. He’s emotionally distraught, and you’ve shown up and recognized an opportunity. You want to use him, to manipulate him and steal from him, and we won’t allow that to happen. Right, Thalia?” He spins to look at the woman on the couch, but she doesn’t return his gaze. She’s still staring numbly straight ahead, her eyes glazed over, a million miles away. “Thalia,” I whisper. “You can’t let him do that to Raph. You know it’s not true.” She swallows heavily, her throat muscles working. “I don’t know what to do anymore,” she whispers. “I keep…I keep making the wrong call.” “We talked about this,” Paxton hisses angrily. “You know it’s the best thing for him. And for us , too!” This seems to grab Thalia’s attention. She winces, her head whipping around. Slowly, she gets up from

the couch. “When will it be enough?” she asks. “When will all this end? I can’t bear it any more, Paxton. I can’t fucking do this anymore.” “Shut your mouth,” he snaps, his voice filled with fury. “Stay the course. Don’t interfere. I have everything under control. No one’s ever going to know—” He stops short, his sentence coming to a screeching halt. I already know what he was going to say, though. It’s all so obvious now. “No one’s ever going to know Thalia was the one behind the wheel that night and not Raphael,” I finish for him. Both Paxton and Thalia look at me, their expressions stony, as if I’ve just spoken a secret combination of words that spell inevitable disaster for them both. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Paxton says, scoffing. “I don’t know how the hell you’ve come to that conclusion, but no one’s ever going to believe you. Raphael—” I narrow my eyes at Thalia. “Raphael took the blame for you. He switched out places with you before the police or any one on the street could see anything. Didn’t he?” It all makes so much sense now. This is why he didn’t want to fight a

conviction. This is why he allowed the court and police officials to be bribed on his behalf. This is why he told Nate not to look into the cut brake lines. Because if they had investigated the accident any further, it would all have come to light. They would have figured out that Thalia was the one driving, and she would have gone to prison. “You were drunk, weren’t you? You’d all been drinking at that award ceremony. Everyone except Raph. He was tired, so he didn’t drive. You told him you were fine to drive, but you weren’t. That’s what happened, isn’t it?” Guilt flashes across Thalia’s face. The emotion is as damning as any confession she could ever make. “You have no idea what would have happened to me if they’d arrested me,” Thalia whispers. “I was already on probation. I had three convictions for possession of an illegal substance. If I were charged with a DUI, they would have slapped all three commuted sentences from those charges onto my DUI sentence, too. I would have gone to jail for over twenty years. Raphael—” “I said shut up, Thalia!” Paxton slams his fist down onto the kitchen counter, sending a coffee cup crashing into the sink. A lake of black liquid spreads across the counter, slowly dripping onto the floor. “She’s grasping at straws. If you keep talking,

you’re damning yourself and the rest of us right along with you!” Thalia bites down on her bottom lip, considering Paxton’s furious face for a moment. When she looks back at me, I think all hope of her ever telling the truth has vanished in a puff of smoke. Then she begins to sob. “Raphael told me he could take a couple of years,” she says. “He said…he said it wouldn’t matter. It would go quickly…and…and he would be able to go back to running North Industries as soon as he was free. When they only gave him two years under house arrest, I thought…God,” she says, choking. “I was relieved . The time went by so fast. But then…when it was over, he wouldn’t come out again. He refused to leave the penthouse, and…it was my fault, Beth. I killed Chloe. Raphael’s whole life just stopped , and it was all my fault.” I flounder, opening my mouth and then closing it again. Paxton covers his face with one hand, sighing heavily. Thalia scrubs away her tears with the back of her hands, but fresh drops immediately fall, wetting her face. “I thought you’d be good for him,” she says. “I managed to convince him to talk to you. Play chess. Nothing more. But I hoped … I wanted him to be happy again.”

“You wanted to replace Chloe ,” Paxton spits. “You thought you could bring in any old gold digger, and she’d be able to take the place of our friend. Let’s not sugarcoat this. You’re a fucking idiot, Thalia.” The venom in his voice is breathtaking. So much anger and fury. So much…pain . “You were jealous,” I whisper. Paxton’s face drains of all color. The bright red flush that was burning in his cheeks a moment ago rushes away, leaving behind a sickly ashen hue. “Don’t try and sleuth this out, Elizabeth. The situation is far beyond your understanding. It’s complicated. It’s all far more complicated than you could ever imagine.” Thalia turns away from us and walks slowly, wearily toward the French doors that lead to the balcony. She picks up a pack of cigarettes and places one in her mouth, lighting it, then stepping out onto the balcony to smoke it. “He was,” she says over her shoulder. “We never talked about it or acknowledged it, but we all knew, Pax.” Silence reigns over the apartment. The sound of sirens wailing off in the distance floats up, barely audible on the seventeenth floor of Thalia’s building. She draws on her cigarette and exhales, thick plumes of smoke billowing from her mouth.

Paxton doesn’t do or say anything. He just stands there, fiddling with his right cufflink, not breathing, not blinking. “You cut the brake lines, didn’t you?” I say. “You did do it, because you were jealous.” His nostrils flare. “I’m not going to engage in this madness anymore. I didn’t love Chloe. I didn’t tamper with the car. I had no reason to—” “I don’t think you loved Chloe,” I say. “I think…I think you were in love with Raph . I think you’re still in love with him now.” It hit me like a bowling ball to the gut a minute ago. It made so much more sense. It seemed like the only explanation to what happened all those years ago. Raph had slept with plenty of women, sure. Chloe was a threat, though. She was something real and tangible that Raphael had valued for a long time. He’d never introduced anyone as his girlfriend before getting back together with Chloe. He’d never confessed that he might be able to fall in love with someone. That he might be able to build a life with someone and have a lasting, special relationship with them. The moment Raphael stopped sleeping around with inconsequential women and dove into something serious, I’m betting it felt like the world was crashing down around Paxton’s ears.

“I’m not fucking gay ,” he sneers, his lip curling up, exposing his teeth. “I’m not into men. Thalia, tell her. We used to have a perfectly healthy sex life. For years. We fucked all over New York City.” Thalia hasn’t taken another drag from her cigarette. She’s holding it loosely in her fingers, her gaze locked onto the end of the burning cherry. She looks like she’s in shock. I start to walk toward her but Paxton grabs hold of me again, yanking me backward. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he snaps. “Don’t console my friend? Don’t blame you for what happened? Don’t speak the truth? What shouldn’t I dare do, Paxton?” “Just leave. Take your fucking restraining order and get the hell out of our lives.” “I can’t do that. Raphael needs to know—” “OF COURSE RAPHAEL FUCKING KNOWS!” The veins in Paxton’s neck bulge as he screams. I stagger back, reaching for something to defend myself with, but there’s nothing. “Raphael knew what he was getting into when he sat in the front seat of that car. He knew exactly what he was doing when he paid off the judge to convict him without trial. And he fucking knew how I felt about him. We were in college when I told him how I felt

about him. He laughed it off, told me to stop fucking kidding around, but he knew I wasn’t joking. And he knew how I was going to feel when he started dating Chloe. They were so fucking happy. So disgustingly cute with each other, just like they were back in high school. Couldn’t keep their hands off one another, always laughing and teasing. They came over to my place for dinner and they had sex in my goddamn bathroom. They were in there for an hour, and when they came out they were giggling and flushed like teenagers. He knew how something like that would make me feel. He had to. So yeah. I lost my mind a little. I knew we were going out to the award ceremony the next night, so I cut the damn lines.” “I was driving, Paxton. I was the one who got behind the wheel. How could…you do that?” Thalia is as white a sheet now, just like Paxton. “I didn’t care who was driving,” Paxton says tiredly. “I didn’t care that I was in the car. What the fuck did it matter? I wanted to die. I wanted Raphael to die for being so fucking heartless. I wanted Chloe to die for taking something that belonged to me. And I wanted you to die for being so…so fucking blind for so many years, Thalia. It was fucking pathetic. You were pathetic, just like you’re being pathetic now.”

So that’s it, then. He wasn’t simply willing to risk being hurt by being in the car. He wanted to be hurt. More than that: he wanted to die, and he wanted to take his friends with him. “I realized how crazy I’d been afterwards, when Chloe was gone and Raph was locked up, but in a weird way it seemed like justice. She didn’t deserve to have him, Thalia. She wasn’t one of us. Not really. She wasn’t from the same stock. Her family was broke . And two years trapped inside his apartment, to think about what he’d done? Raphael earned that penance. When I visited him, it made me feel better. I saw him change. I thought eventually he’d realize we were meant to be together in the end. He shut you out. He wouldn’t even let you come to the penthouse. He never believed you were responsible for Chloe’s death, he always said it was an accident, but looking at you reminded him every day of what happened. I became the one he leaned on. I became the one he turned to when he was upset or hurting. I knew if only he stayed inside his penthouse and didn’t fucking come out, one day he would open his eyes and see what was right there in front of him. And then you showed up and ruined everything,” he says, stabbing a finger into my chest. “I thought you’d take the money. You didn’t. I filmed you and released the footage to the press. I thought you’d

run for the hills. You didn’t. You’re a bad penny, Elizabeth Dreymon. You just keep showing up. I won’t have it anymore. I won’t—” A scream, then. A scream that cuts him off, high pitched and blood curdling. It renders Paxton instantly speechless. On the balcony, outside, a discarded cigarette burns down to the filter on the ledge.

Sixteen

Raph I ’m covered in a cold sweat. My skin is cloying against my clothes, a river of perspiration running down between my shoulder blades. My heart is slamming in my chest. I feel like my lungs are filling up with liquid and I’m drowning in the bonedry anteroom outside the door to the penthouse. Over head, the glowing yellow light above the elevator doors is shifting through numbers, rising up to meet me one floor at a time. I feel like I’m about to pass out by the time the light hits the floors around the fifties. Fifty-seven Fifty-eight Fifty-nine Sixty… I need to go back. I need to get back inside. I need to be on the other side of that motherfucking glass door. I’m going to have a heart attack. I’m going to

drop down fucking dead and no one will find my body for days. My vision is blurry as fuck as I bounce on the balls of my feet, waiting for the elevator doors to roll back. I don’t think I can do this. I don’t think I can do this. I don’t think I can do this. I’m gonna throw up. I’m legitimately going to throw up in my own damn elevator. I was so shitty to her. God, I was so fucking shitty to her. I should never have allowed her to leave. I should have grabbed a hold of her. I should have crushed her to my chest. I should have kissed her, and stroked her hair, and told her everything was going to be okay. I should have told her I don’t love Chloe anymore, that none of this is as simple as it seems, but…I’m a shit. I’m so used to shutting down in difficult situations. It’s so easy for me to end a conversation if it’s not to my liking. For the last five years, the only people with access to me have been North Industries yes-men and representatives from other companies, wanting to win contracts. No one’s told me the truth in years. No one’s asked me to be real with them. Beth asked that of me, and I didn’t know how to give her what she wanted. I watched her crying in the elevator after she left, and all I wanted to do was call her back. To sit her down and go through the entire accident with a fine tooth comb, but my pride wouldn’t let me.

“Raph. Raph! Hold the fucking phone to your ear, asshole!” I barely hear the tinny voice coming from my cell phone speakers over the loud thrumming of my own heart. I hold the device up to my ear, trying to calm my breathing. “Why the hell were you arrested again?” I ask. Nate’s reply is laced with worry. “Ask your friend, Paxton Ross. That piece of shit called the cops on me. Totally overreacted.” “Because you stole something from him. And now you think Beth is somehow in danger?” “She went to meet with him on her own. I warned her not to, but you can bet your ass she did. I’m telling you, you need to find her. And quickly, man. I mean it.” “I don’t understand how this even fucking happened,” I growl. “I warned Paxton not to talk to her again after he tried to pay her off. He swore he’d leave her alone.” I can’t help the small flash of anger that hits me. It was wrong of me, but I did tell Beth to leave this well alone, too. It looks like the very first thing she did was discard my command and start digging. A part of me dislikes that intensely, but then again it’s also very refreshing.

“Well…” Nate’s tense. Like he’s trying to hide something. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but…” I do not like the sound of that. “But what?” “We stole the accident report. The one Paxton took from me after the crash. And he was obviously unhappy about us removing it from his office. We…we started to think he might have had something to do with the accident.” “God.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. Paxton did have something to do with the accident. He helped cover up the fact that Thalia was driving. He helped me deceive the police. He’ll be in a shit load of trouble if that information comes to light. He’s an erratic, proud, fiercely mercenary guy; what would he do if he thought he was going to be exposed? I have no idea. Would he hurt someone, though? No. No, there’s just no way. The elevator dings, the doors rolling back, and my feet are suddenly rooted to the floor. I can’t fucking move. It’s just one step forward. One step, and then I will be headed out into the world. Ever since the house arrest ended, the knowledge that I’m free to leave the Osiris Building has been comfort enough for me. The fact that I could step into this elevator

if I wanted to, hit a button and walk out onto the street, has made the act of doing so unnecessary. For weeks after my sentence ended, I would lie in bed at night, sweating, freaking the fuck out, thinking about how the world might have changed since I last found myself out amongst it. And I would think about Chloe. I would imagine walking down a busy street in the city and seeing her face everywhere I looked, and the guilt was too much to bear. I know I wasn’t the one behind the wheel that night. I know it with every fiber of my being, and yet if I hadn’t reconnected with her, if I hadn’t asked her to come with us that night, she wouldn’t have even been in the goddamn car… It was all too much to handle, so I decided I just wouldn’t go outside. Simple. And that’s how life has been ever since. Very, very simple. Until now. I swallow, shoving down the urgent need to head back through the glass door to the apartment, locking it firmly behind me. I take a deep breath. Every part of me is screaming to move back, but instead…I take a step forward. There’s only one thing in the world that could force me to do this; Beth is out there right now, and she needs me. Nate thinks she’s in danger. No matter how unlikely it is that Paxton would cause her harm, I have to make sure. She’s too important. She’s my entire fucking

world. She’s everything . As the doors close, shutting me inside the elevator, my ears are ringing—a high-pitched buzz that drowns out all other sound. It feels like my heart is flat-lining. I don’t breathe. For seventy-one floors, as the small silver box I’m standing in plummets to the ground, I don’t take a single breath. Every second that passes is torture. If I hit the emergency stop button, I can override the system and redirect the elevator back up to the penthouse. It would be easy. It’d be so damn fast, the alarm wouldn’t even have chance to register with the North Industry security teams. I close my hand inside my pocket, clenching it hard into a fist. It feels like a forest fire is blazing out of control in the pit of my stomach. I’m trapped inside the inferno, voluntarily holding my hands over the flames, and I can’t do anything about it. In fact, I must venture further into the fire. I must deal with the fear of being burned if I’m to make sure Beth is okay. Her dark hair. Her dark eyes. Her flushed, delicately pink cheeks. The way she laughs. The way she smiles. I’ve fallen for the woman. I love her more than I thought my heart capable, and now I will literally do anything to save her. No price is too high. No cost is too great.

The elevator barely makes a sound as it reaches the ground floor. There’s a soft hiss as the doors roll back, and then I’m faced with another wall to overcome. The small waiting room I find myself in leads to the parking structure below the Osiris Building, where Nate keeps at least three or four of my cars on hand. The parking structure is reserved for the more high power heavy hitters who lease office space in lower floors of the tower. It’s late in the afternoon already, so there’s every chance most people will have gone home now. There’s always a couple of people who linger, though, working late and burning the midnight oil. I don’t want to run into anyone, but what choice do I have? I pull up the hood on my sweatshirt, tugging the material low over my head, hunching over, trying to make myself invisible. God, Raphael. Get your shit together. Get your fucking shit together, man. Walking out of the waiting room feels like I’m stepping out of the airlock of a spaceship without a suit. The air is muggy and stifling as I beeline for the bay of cars at the very back of the parking lot, already scanning the area for potential hazards. I press my thumb up against the fingerprint lock I had installed on the red Tesla in the middle of the bay. I had the scanners fitted to all of my vehicles,

so they’ve all been primed to recognize me. I never really envisioned using any of them, honestly. The prospect of climbing into another car after what happened to Chloe has always been enough to make me break out into hives. It’s amazing how much the body remembers, though. How weirdly normal it feels to slide into the driver’s seat, put the vehicle in drive and pull out of the space. How long has it been since I went to Thalia’s apartment? Way more than five years. Our little group had kind of drifted a little in the years leading up to the night I was arrested. College and our studies pulled us all in different directions. When we did meet up, it was generally at a restaurant, or, selfishly, I made them all come to me at my parents’ old residence. I was so different back then. I was another person entirely, full of my own selfimportance and utterly oblivious to other people’s needs or desires. I was a lightning rod that attracted so much energy. People gravitated towards me, and I let them. I did nothing to meet anyone halfway. Didn’t see the need to. Why would I, when I was the great Raphael North, the man who turned North Industries around? The man who saved three hundred jobs in a day. The man who earned more money while he slept than most guys earned their entire lives. I thought I was fucking invincible.

Despite the years and the events that have so violently altered our lives, I still remember the way to Thalia’s building. Being inside the car feels safe somehow. I can pretend the lights, the other cars, the thousands and thousands of people swarming on the streets, aren’t really there. They’re not real. They could easily be a part of a simulation, nothing more than expertly rendered pixels all programmed to react and interact with their environment. I manage to convince myself of this as I turn through side streets, burning through red lights, my foot leaning on the gas pedal, the tires screeching as I grow closer and closer to my destination. I enter some sort of numb state, where nothing happening on the other side of the Tesla’s windshield can effect me. I’m protected here. I’m strong. I am capable. I’m going to find Beth and make sure she’s okay. I’m going to hold her in my arms. I’m going to tell her how much I love her, and everything is going to be okay. This bullshit with Paxton is going to be resolved, and we’re all going to sit down and figure this shit out once and for all. Beth will know everything there is to know about the accident, and she’ll leave well enough alone. Paxton will see Beth cares for me just as deeply as I care for her, and that she’s not after my money. As for me… I’m going to put the past behind me. Somehow, I’m going to learn how to forgive myself. No more running and hiding myself away up in my high

tower. No more shying away from reality. Life is short. I’ve allowed too much time to pass me by. Now, I need to look forward. I need to work on building something truly special with Beth. I pull up outside Thalia’s apartment, and a wave of panic lights up my nerve endings. I feel it all over my body, from the roots of my hair down to the tips of my toes. What are my friends going to do when they see me outside of the penthouse? I don’t know what the fuck I’ll do if I find them arguing like children with one another. I don’t give a shit about leaving the car on the side of the street. I keep my head down as I hurry across the sidewalk. I don’t make eye contact with anyone. I don’t even raise my head. My hand’s on the polished brass handle of the entrance when suddenly the sound of breaking glass and crunching metal fills the air. “Oh my god!” “Holy fuck!” People on the street start screaming. I spin around, and… What the fuck ?

I can’t… My eyes aren’t processing what they’re seeing. Can’t. Can’t breathe. My body is made of lead. My skin is prickling, a thousand fire ants biting at me. The Tesla… The Tesla I just got out of… The roof is caved in, the metal crumpled, the windows shattered… And there’s a body lying on top of the roof. A woman. The body is a woman. A line of blood trickles from the corner of her mouth, crimson and thick. Her eyes are open, staring at right at me. Blue. Familiar. So familiar. Thalia. Thalia.

My friend… …dead.

Seventeen

Beth “Y ou did this . This is your fucking fault, you stupid cunt!” Paxton’s face is a rictus of rage. He stalks back and forth in front of the balcony, tearing at his hair with both hands. His cheeks are almost purple. I don’t care, though. I don’t really notice. I don’t register anything bar the fact that Thalia, who was standing on the balcony two seconds ago, is now gone. She was there. She was standing there, staring at her cigarette, hurt all over her face, and the next…the balcony was empty. I didn’t see her decide. I didn’t witness the moment when she made up her mind that dying would be better than living. I would have stopped her. I could have tried. Despite the cruel, terrible thing she did to Raphael, I would have— Something tightens around my neck, jolting me out of my thoughts. My eyes flash—a bolt of pure, brilliant white light—and I try to suck in a breath of oxygen, to let out a scream, but I can’t. My airway is completely closed off. I reach up, scrambling, my fingers trying to loosen whatever’s around my

neck, but it’s impossible. The length of wire around my throat is already biting deeply into my flesh. There’s no way for me to free myself. My fingernails scratch and graze my skin, stinging brightly, but my brain barely registers the pain. “Stupid, stupid, stupid …” Paxton’s voice is in my ear, hard and filled with hate. His lips press up against my ear as he hisses and spits, and I want to shrink away from the vitriol, but he has hold of me, one arm wrapping around my chest, pulling me back, pinning me in place. I’ve done multiple selfdefense classes. This is what they train you for: being attacked from behind. They teach you how to stomp on your attacker’s foot. How to twist and pivot, to strike to the groin, to rip yourself free and to run like fuck. None of that matters in this moment, though. It’s easy to go through the motions, to practice the repeated movements over and over again, but the reality of being assaulted like this is nothing like those scenarios. There’s no crash mat to break your fall. There are no pads to punch. No gloves protecting your hands. There’s no instructor, watching on from a couple of feet away, giving you pointers and clapping you on the back when you get it right. This is terrifying . This is your heart surging and faltering at the same time. This is your vision failing you, your mind seizing, all coherent thought and problem solving

capabilities flying out of the window. This is the difference between living and dying. This is the moment that defines all others, and you feel powerless to do anything about it. I was wrong about Paxton. I thought he wasn’t the kind of guy to kill with his bare hands. It seems he’ll happily kill me at close range. Something shatters behind me, the sound of breaking glass filling the room, and for a brief second, a mere heartbeat, the tension on the wire around my neck loosens. I react without even thinking; it appears I still have some common sense. Enough to turn around, anyway. Paxton’s back is up against the wall, the back of his head butting up against a photo frame still hanging crookedly on the wall. The glass is smashed, and small shards are falling down onto his shoulders, dusting them like tiny diamonds. Paxton snarls, baring his teeth, one hand grappling, trying to regain his hold on the noose he has around my neck. It’s not wire; it’s a cord, a power cable, thick and strong. Our faces are close. He grimaces as he spins the cord, taking hold of it from behind my head and pulling. The action has little power now, though. He only manages in sending me stumbling backward, out of his grasp, and I go crashing to the floor. “You had no right to mess with us,” Paxton grinds

out. “You had no goddamn right to push and pull and poke.” With every word, he lashes out with his two thousand dollar Italian leather shoes, kicking at me. He hits me in the ribs, the stomach, his last kick landing hard, impacting with the side of my head. The blow makes me see double for a second, but it’s not hard enough to knock me out. It’s a wakeup call, in fact. If I stay here, he’s going to kill me. If I continue to lie here sprawled out on the floor, I’ll never be able to defend myself. He has the position of power. From his vantage point, he can pretty much do anything he pleases with me. He can hit and kick and punch to his heart’s content. I have to act. I have to rally and fucking defend myself. Paxton raises his foot, about to bring it crashing down on my head again, but I manage to scoot back. Pain sings through my body as my head hits the coffee table behind me. A wet, warm sensation begins to travel down my neck, down my back. I should be worried about that, I know I should, but there’s no time. No time at all. Paxton growls under his breath as he advances toward me again. “You think he loves you? You think he really fucking cares about you? He barely knows you.” Paxton scrubs his hair back out of his face; his usually perfect, slicked-back hairstyle is in

complete disarray. The action does nothing to help. His hand leaves a streak of blood behind on his face, fresh and bright and startling. He looks like a madman. “You don’t know anything about him , either. You weren’t there on his first day of high school. You didn’t visit him in hospital when his appendix nearly exploded. You didn’t travel all over Asia with him when you were twenty-one. You didn’t console him for weeks after both his parents died. You weren’t there for any of that. I was. Thalia was. You were rolling around in the dirt in some nasty little farm in the boonies, probably fucking your cousin. You’re just like her. You’re just like Chloe. You have no damn right trying to live like us. With us. We are your betters! ” There’s a crazed look in his eye as Paxton reaches out, his hand searching for something on the counter top. I get up. My whole body is thrumming in agony, but I separate myself from the pain. I have to. There’s no ignoring it altogether, but I somehow manage to box it up. To construct a wall in my mind between myself and my nerve endings. This is what my mother should have done when she was being attacked. She didn’t have the strength, though. She froze like a rabbit in headlights. She allowed what happened to her to take place. I will not do that.

Paxton’s standing between me and the exit. There’s no way for me to sneak past him or get around him. I look around for something to defend myself with, but it’s hard to think straight. There’s nothing suitable. I need a gun. A knife. Something sharp, something heavy, something lethal. Thalia wasn’t exactly the type of person to keep lethal weaponry scattered around her living room, though. I snatch up the first thing I find: a heavy silver candleholder. Paxton’s holding up his weapon of choice now, and his selection is much better than mine. His fingers are blanched white, closed into a fist around the handle of an ornate letter opener. It doesn’t look particularly sharp, but that doesn’t matter. Its point is sharp enough for the task Paxton has in mind. I’ve toyed aimlessly with that very letter opener a hundred times before when I’ve been hanging out in Thalia’s open plan kitchen, leaning against the counter, talking to her while she cooks or cleans. I know that piece of silverware well. It’s heavy and weighted, perfect for plunging into a person’s heart. I never once imagined that it would one day be used to end my life. Suddenly, I’m filled with anger. It’s a weird reaction to have to the situation, but I can’t help it. It’s a living, breathing thing inside me, roiling and churning, filling every part of me.

“What do you think’s going to happen if you murder me, Paxton?” I snap. “You think you’re just going to be able to walk away? You think someone’s not already on their way up here right now? Thalia’s body’s down there on the sidewalk. The doorman will have identified her. The cops are going to come up here and they’re going to find… what? Me, dead on the floor? You standing calmly over me, my blood all over you and that letter opener in your hand?” “It doesn’t matter what they find,” Paxton says. His tone is no longer venomous but rather flat, dashed with a little boredom. He seems eerily calm. “You forget…I’m a well respected business man. I come from old money. My family members have been entrepreneurs and philanthropists in this city for generations. We’ve donated millions of dollars to charity over the years. We’re the social elite. You are a working class nobody with aspirations of grandeur. A money-grabbing whore with stars in her eyes. When they sit me down and interview me, I’ll tell them in great detail what happened here tonight. I had an urgent call from a dear friend. She said she was being held hostage by a crazy woman in her apartment and was trapped on her balcony. I rushed to her aid to find you pushing her over the edge. When I confronted you, a fight ensued, and in the struggle you were unfortunately injured. I

only say unfortunately, because you won’t be alive to answer for the trouble and hurt you’ve caused. You’ll be dead. I’ll get a slap on the wrist perhaps. I’m one of the most well respected investment bankers in this entire city. I have endless resources and enough money to buy the best defense attorney there is. I won’t spend a single night in a jail cell. At the end of this whole debacle, I’ll probably be lauded as a hero for catching you, Elizabeth. I’ll be a goddamn hero, and you…you and your whole family will be shamed.” “I’m the one who’s ashamed .” Paxton’s eyes grow wide. He hasn’t heard the door to Thalia’s apartment open. He hasn’t heard someone enter in behind him. Neither have I. We both spin around, and there he is, standing there in behind the kitchen counter. Only it can’t be true. It simply can’t be. Raphael … There’s no way he can be here now, his eyes filled with agony and anger. His body is vibrating, his shoulders shaking, those pale, flashing jade eyes of his filled with so much rage and disappointment. Paxton stumbles, reaching out and catching himself, holding himself up as he clings to the back of the armchair next to him. “Raphael? What…how ? How are you here?” he whispers.

“I walked out of the front door,” Raph says stonily. “I drove across the city. I got out of my car, and then…and then my friend landed on the roof of my car and died .” He sounds numb. He sounds like he can’t even comprehend what he’s just seen. There’s no way Thalia could have survived that fall, I know that—her apartment is on the seventeenth floor— but I haven’t looked over the edge and seen for myself. It absolutely kills me that Raphael saw it happen with his own two eyes. It guts me, hollows me out, and leaves me gasping for breath. Raphael sends an assessing glance my way, his eyes quickly skating over my body. He looks concerned. Frowns. When he looks back to Paxton, his expression is murderous. “Nate told me he was worried about Beth. He told me I needed to get over here immediately…that he thought you were going to hurt the woman I loved. I didn’t believe him. I didn’t for a second think…” “You don’t know what’s good for you right now,” Paxton says firmly. “You’ve been locked away from the world for so long that you can’t read people anymore. She’s not good for you. She’s worthless , Raphael. She—” The world seems to stop. The room smells like white musk and vanilla from

Thalia’s candles, coupled with the rotten food on her counters. The air is filled with dust motes that catch and spiral, traveling lazily though the dim light cast off by a lamp in the corner. Raphael’s shirt is creased into horizontal lines, probably from where he was sitting in his car. Paxton’s mouth is moving, but strangely the space seems devoid of all sound. I can hear nothing but the staccato, frantic beating of my own heart, throbbing in my ears. Then suddenly Paxton’s no longer talking. He’s turning, and he’s spinning. His face is a bitter, cruel mask. And he’s lunging. Lunging toward me with Thalia’s letter opener still clenched tightly in his hand. He raises it, holding the blade high over his head. I know I should move, I should stagger back out of his reach, but I’ve lost command of my body. I am still as stone as he comes for me. I can’t even scream. A loud, enraged yell splits apart the air, and Raphael is a blur of black and grey and white. He vaults over the back of the arm chair that stands between us, and then he falls on Paxton, grappling him, tackling him, sending him crashing to the ground. The scene before me turns to chaos. I’ve never seen such violence. I’ve never been so afraid. “RAPH !” My own scream sounds flat and muted.

The two men struggle, wrestling on the ground. Raph is on top of Paxton, and then Paxton somehow manages to slide free, rolling, pinning Raph to the floor. “I’m the only one!” he hollers. “I’m the only one who really cares about you. I’m the only one who loves you!” Shock registers on Raph’s face. This is clearly the last thing he ever expected to come from his friend’s mouth. He had no idea. Paxton believes differently, but Raph…there’s no way he ever guessed at what was going on in his head. He falls slack for a second, his expression all horror and surprise. “You’re…what are you saying?” he whispers. “Don’t fucking pretend,” Paxton sobs. “All of these years, you’ve let me fawn over you. You’ve allowed me to make such a fucking fool of myself, and you’ve done nothing to stop me. You’ve enjoyed it. You’ve reveled in the attention. These women…these fucking sluts…they were nothing but a distraction and you know it. You’re just afraid. You’re afraid to admit the truth to yourself. You know it, Raphael. You know you love me, the same way I love you.” Raph wraps his hands around Paxton’s wrists,

restraining him, violently shaking his head. “You’re wrong. You’re so wrong,” he says. “You were my friend. Nothing more.” Their position may be one of violence, a war for dominance, but Raphael’s words are calm. Paxton must register the certainty in his voice, because a flicker of doubt flashes across his face. He falters, leaning back. “It’s…not true. You don’t need to lie to yourself anymore. This is the truth. We don’t need to hide it anymore. We just need to be honest with one another. We can have a life together, Raph. An amazing life. We can go anywhere, do anything, be whoever we want to be.” “You’re not listening. You’re fucking delusional . I don’t have feelings for you. I’m in love with Beth. I knew it from the moment I laid eyes on her. I told you I was in love with her weeks ago.” Paxton’s body sags. He goes utterly limp. “Stop. Stop saying that.” “You killed Chloe. You allowed Thalia to think she was responsible, when you did this. You broke her fucking heart, and she’s dead. In some weird, warped world, in a thousand years, I might have been able to forgive you for that. But this? Trying to kill Beth? I’ll fucking despise you for the rest of time. I’ll never be able to forgive that. You’re a

dead man, Paxton. A fucking dead man.” Raph grabs for the letter opener in Paxton’s hand. He almost manages to snatch it free from him. There’s no doubt in my mind what will happen if he succeeds in taking it; he’ll plunge it into Paxton’s chest. He’ll fucking kill him, and there’ll be no way of stopping him. Another wave of panic seizes me. I’ve just found this amazing man. He’s just become a part of my life. I can’t lose him. Not now. Not when I’ve finally allowed someone in, to break down all of my walls, to love me and care for me… to show me what it truly means to be happy. I react without thinking. I can’t allow this to happen. I just can’t. I’m too slow, though. It’s as if Paxton knows what’s coming, and he can’t bear it. His hand moves quickly, before either of us can get to him. The blade of the letter opener rises again. It jerks swiftly backwards, and then it’s inching little by little…into his own neck. I freeze. I can’t fucking move. A stream of blood jets from Paxton’s throat, vivid, bright, and crimson. The spray rains down on Raphael, arcing, hitting the side of the sofa with

extreme force. Paxton’s eyes go wide. His lips tremble as the shock of what he’s done sets in. “I won’t…be with…out…you…” His speech is gargled, choked, each one coming out slower, rasping, wet with the blood accumulating in the back of his throat. “I…won’t…” Raphael blinks rapidly as he’s soaked with blood. The front of his shirt is the color of rubies, his face spattered and running rivers of red. “Go then,” he whispers. “Go. Because I want no part of you. I won’t mourn you. I’m going to forget your face.” He leans up, shifting his hips, and Paxton topples sideways onto the floor. He gags and chokes, his eyes filled with fear and pain. Raphael doesn’t care, though. He’s all consumed by hatred. It’s written all over him, and it’s the very last thing Paxton sees. “I’m going to forget you,” Raph snarls. “I’m going to forget you ever fucking existed.”

Eighteen

Beth T here are birds in central park. Children everywhere, whooping and screaming. Across the city, Thalia is being buried. Her parents have returned from Corsica to see their only child interred into the earth. Paxton was buried days ago, a sea of people turned out to mourn his loss, not really believing the stories being whispered about him behind hands and into ears in polite social circles. There was a very prestigious obituary posted in T he New York Times about him, a full quarter of a page; it spoke of his highly respected career, his charitable works in the community, his academic accolades and his humanitarian works overseas. It was Raphael and Thalia that worked together in Africa, of course. Paxton did nothing but pay them a visit. He stayed in a three star hotel and drank gin and tonics at the bar while they got their hands dirty, digging wells and building schools. The people who attended Trinity Church and then followed on to Paxton’s parents’ luxury penthouse apartment on the Upper East Side know nothing of that, though. The man was very good at presenting

a saintly front. His family lawyers have already managed to spin Thalia’s death as a suicide. Technically it was. She did jump from the balcony of her apartment, after all, but I will always hold him responsible. There is a burden of responsibility with things like this. If she hadn’t carried the guilt of Chloe’s death around with her for so long, she might not have been so traumatized when she learned of Paxton’s actual involvement in the accident. If he hadn’t had admitted his feelings for Raphael in such a dramatic, angry way, after years letting her believe there was still hope for them, she might not have felt that death was her only way out. As it stands, the media have been playing the whole incident out as a double suicide, a lovers’ argument gone wrong. Thalia and Paxton argued, and after he watched the woman he loved swan dive from the seventeenth floor of her building, he couldn’t bear the pain and slit his own throat. It feels wrong to let the lie stand. So hideously wrong that I wake up in the middle of the night, covered in a cold sweat, my own cries dying on my lips, and I want to pick up the phone. I want to call someone—one of the thousands of news reporters who hounded me for so long, wanting to pay me for my sordid tales of Raphael North—and I want to

tell them the truth of it. The black and the white, from start to finish. What would it accomplish, though? Thalia is dead. Paxton is dead. There will come a time when I’ll clear away the cobwebs and the full story will come out. But now? Life is still too crazy to even contemplate such a thing. It wouldn’t be easy. It would be messy and painful, and Thalia’s parents are already suffering enough. They’re private people, and they’re already dealing with the shame of a daughter who ended her life in such a public way. They were true New York socialites. Thalia was raised from birth with a nanny and a tutor. She spent very little time with her eccentric parents. They seemed far more occupied with their business meetings and their world travels to concern themselves with their daughter’s education or her upbringing, but for all that, they now seem genuinely harrowed and hollowed out in their loss. Raphael, Paxton and Thalia were the true darlings of New York. Now, with two of them gone, only Raphael remains. Raphael North, a man who once featured heavily in my dreams. An unobtainable fiction of a man, richer than a person’s wildest dreams, more handsome than any Calvin Klein model, a ghost who somehow owned the streets of this bustling city without trying. Now, my Raphael

North, the man I wake up to every day. The man who cooks for me, who reads to me. Who kisses the back of my neck as I study. A completely different entity altogether. The man I love. I find myself wondering how many people turned up to Thalia’s funeral as I sit on the bench in the park, watching joggers and families pass by. Maybe I should have gone to the funeral. I definitely should have gone to the funeral, but a part of me just couldn’t face it. She lied to me for so long. She hid so much. I could never have imagined hiding so much from her, she was my closest friend, and now…it feels as if I never really knew her at all. The chasms of hurt that exist within me are going to take a long time to heal. There will come a day when I won’t think of all the lies when I remember her. At some point, I’ll be able to remember her fondly. Gradually, piece-by-piece, a small rope bridge will appear over those chasms, and I’ll gingerly be able to navigate the gap without feeling like I’ll fall, myself. I’m looking forward to that day. Until then, all I can do is try not to be angry with her. “Excuse me? Is this seat taken?” I look up, and there’s a man standing before me. A

beautiful man with piercing green eyes. He’s wearing a formal black suit with a black shirt and black tie. His dark hair is slicked back, a fashionable hipster cut, buzzed at the sides. He is a midnight man, a creature of shade and shadow. He smiles at me, his mouth quirking up a little at the corners, and my heart nearly skips out of my chest. I return his smile, looking at the empty spot on the bench beside me. “Well…I am waiting for my boyfriend, but he appears to be late. I suppose I wouldn’t mind if you sat here for a while.” The man with the green eyes frowns ever so slightly. “He must be a crazy fool to keep a beautiful woman like you waiting. His loss is my gain, though. I’ll gladly keep his seat warm.” He sits next to me, crossing his legs at the ankle, stacking his hands on top of one another over his stomach—a relaxed, laid back pose. Weird. New. “I’ve just been at a funeral,” he says absently, looking out over the park. “Oh? I’m sorry to hear that.” “Mmm.” He shrugs, lifting just one shoulder. “It was sad. Really sad. In a lot of ways, it was kind of happy, though. It was full of music and laughter. People shared a lot of happy stories.”

I have no idea how he can talk like this. He took the fall for her for so long. He was trapped inside his own apartment for two years because of her. He did it willingly, though, to save her from suffering a far worse fate. He loved her with all his heart, as much as any friend can love another. I just…I don’t know if I could have done it. I sit for a long time, wondering how he’s managed to come to this point in the healing process so quickly. In the end, I can’t take it any longer. I have to say something. “You’re the best man I know, Raphael. I just…I couldn’t… I don’t know how you can…” The words don’t come easily. The words don’t really come at all. Raphael knows what I’m trying to say, though. He sighs heavily, his head rolling on his shoulders as he slowly stretches. “The accident was bad, Beth. I was so angry at Thalia for putting me in that position. I didn’t want to cut her away from my life altogether, though. Seeing her…seeing her brought it all flooding back. Each and every time. But I was hopeful that one day I’d be able to forgive her enough to invite her back in.” “You should never have convinced yourself that you were to blame for Chloe, though. You knew you weren’t. Carrying that burden around on your shoulders must have been crippling.”

He smiles sadly. “She came out with me that night. She was in that car because of me. If she hadn’t agreed to go out with me, she would have been on a date with someone else that night. She would have gone to dinner and had a great time. She would have gone home and had great sex with some easy, happy, safe guy. She might have fallen in love with him. Gotten married. Had children with him. Instead, she was with me . Instead, she ended up dead. That’s all there is to it.” He sounds so matter of fact about it that I don’t want to argue with him. It’s not that simple. It’s still not his fault. Now isn’t the time to hash that out, though. There’s still so much we need to talk about, but I’m confident we will get there one day. For now, it’s enough that he’s outside, sitting next to me on a park bench, enjoying the feel of the sun on his skin. Not too long ago, this would have been impossible. Raphael closes his eyes, humming, a small smile still playing over his face. “I’m angry at Thalia for taking her own life. If she’d talked to me, things would have been so different,” he muses. “Aside from that, any anger I harbored toward her died a while back. And at the end there, I was eternally grateful to her.” “Grateful ? Why?” My mind can’t even begin to bend around the concept.

Raphael turns his head, so that he’s facing me. He opens his eyes, and his smile, slightly sad though it is, broadens. “If I’d severed all ties with her, I never would have met you, would I? Our paths would never have crossed. And you are the most important thing in my world, Elizabeth Dreymon. You are the sun and the moon in my sky. When I look out over this city, I don’t see a thousand streets all intersecting anymore, millions and millions of people all going about their daily lives. I see a maze, and in it somewhere…you. You’re on my mind twenty-four hours a day. I’m constantly wondering where you are. Who you’re with. What you’re doing. If you’re happy. Sad. Safe. I’m constantly waiting until we can be together. I never thought I’d get to be this happy again. I never thought for one goddamn second I’d find a woman as remarkable and special as you. I love you.” “I’m sorry to interrupt, but…you’re Raphael North, aren’t you?” a female voice asks. Both Raphael and I have been so caught up in each other that we haven’t noticed the woman approaching us. She’s tall and waspy, with a pinched look to her face. In other words, she looks mean. I recognize the fierce hunger in her eyes, and I already know she’s a member of the press. If nothing else, her ugly pant

suit gives her away. Raphael must see who and what she is immediately too, but he doesn’t snap at her. He smiles benevolently. “I am,” he says. “Right now, I’m very proud to be him, too.” The woman smiles, but the gesture doesn’t reach her eyes. She takes a step forward, reaching into her pocket, pulling out a notepad and pen. “I’m Tracey Wick, from the Enquirer. I was wondering if you might have anything to say about the recent sex tape scandal that took place with…” Her eyes skitter toward me. “With Ms. Dreymon here?” “Actually I don’t have anything to say about that,” Raphael says mildly. “But if you’d like to give me your card, perhaps I might provide you with a statement at a later date. Right now, I’m enjoying spending some time with my fiancée.” Tracey from the Enquirer’s eyes almost bug out of her head. The promise of an exclusive statement is obviously way more than she was expecting. My eyes are bugging out of my head for entirely different reasons. The reporter quickly rifles through her purse, then whips out a business card, almost flinging it at Raphael. “Thank you so much,” she says,

excitement tingeing her voice. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you soon, Mr. North.” He says nothing. Just smiles as she walks away. He reclines back against the bench and twists his head again, returning to his pervious pose. “What?” he says, laughing softly under his breath. “Your fiancée ?” There’s no way I can keep my tone even. “That’s news to me.” Raph grins broadly. His laughter is no longer under his breath, but loud and infectious. “Oh. Yes. Well,” he says softly, “I have been meaning to talk to you about that.”

Epilogue M y hands are bound behind my back. A clock is marking the passing seconds somewhere—a soft, subtle barely-there tick, tick, tick that catches and snags at my attention. Strange that there would be an analogue clock in this apartment, so full of expensive, cutting edge technology. It seems out of place. It occurs to me that Raphael probably put it here, in this room, on purpose. Everything he says and does has a specific purpose, after all. Why should it be surprising that the objects he’s chosen to decorate this very private, very personal room be any different? He wants me to know how long he’s kept me here, waiting for him. He wants my heart to stumble every time I hear the second hand move forward around that clock’s face. He wants my anticipation levels to build and build, until I can barely contain myself anymore. He’s too damn smart for his own good. I can’t feel my fingers anymore. I flex my hands against my restraints, trying to encourage blood flow, but it doesn’t help. Pins and needles spiral up my arms, making them throb painfully. A cool breeze rushes through the room, skating across my bare skin—my neck, my shoulders, across my bare

breasts. My nipples peak, tightening, and my breath catches in my throat. The door has just opened and closed. Someone has entered the room. It can only be him, of course—the man who blindfolded me and stripped me of my clothes earlier. Raphael North hovers inside the small, darkened room somewhere, silent and assessing. I was feeling relatively confident up until the moment I felt the air pressure in the room shift. Now I don’t know what I’m feeling. Anxious? Intimidated? Excited? Turned on? There are too many thoughts colliding in my mind to be able to pick one emotion and stick with it. I am vulnerable, naked, and on display for him to enjoy, and there’s nothing I can do about it. A few weeks ago, if I’d been told I would be strapped into a chair, naked, bound and blindfolded, my legs spread wide open, cuffed to stirrups at my ankles, I would have freaked out. The events of the past would have crippled me with fear. I came here today of my own free will, though. I voluntarily climbed into this chair and allowed my legs to be pushed apart as wide as they would go. I allowed it, and…I enjoyed it. A bone-deep shiver races through me, penetrating me down to my core. My throat is dry, my tongue like sandpaper against the roof of my mouth. Since I can’t see anything, my nerves have heightened every other sense I possess, making the slight smell

of citrus and the ocean overwhelming. My body is on fire, my nerve endings hyper-stimulated and sending waves of heat dancing across my bare skin. Every part of me feels so good. Impossibly good. I’ve never felt like this in my entire freaking life. I am not in control of this situation. Not even close to in control. I’ve handed over the reins to Raphael, and he took them gladly, smiling in the most savage way imaginable as he lowered the length of silken black material down over my eyes. Now, I’m trying to guess where he is in the room, so I can prepare myself for what’s to come. There is nothing I can do to prepare, though. I already know that. I could have spent years and years mentally steeling myself for this moment, and still I wouldn’t be ready. This man is heaven and hell wrapped in a Versace suit. He’s fire and ice. He’s pure alpha, and I am his plaything. There’s no denying it. There’s no running from it. I jump when something makes contact with my shoulder—a feather light touch that makes me instantly break out in goose bumps. I suck in a deep breath, biting down on my tongue. He didn’t tell me not to talk, but speaking at this moment somehow feels like I’m breaking some sort of covenant between us. Raphael moves silently, stealthy as a cat. I’ve thought it every time I’ve laid eyes on

him; he moves with the predatory grace of a panther, quick and deadly. With my vision now denied to me, I’m left imagining the subtle slope of his shoulders as he stalks around me. The way his shirt pulls taut as the muscles in his back shift and flex. My mind easily conjures up the expression on his face, though. I know the amused, sharp edged lust he wears in those brilliant green eyes of his. I memorized the gentle uplift at the right hand corner of his mouth that signals he is pleased a long time ago. The lone dimple in his right cheek, deep and pronounced, would make another man look cute, and yet it makes Raphael North seem seductive. It only appears when he’s smirking extraordinarily hard, after all, and that usually only happens when he’s thinking about all the bad things he wants to do to me. “Elizabeth .” My name is a whisper. A rustling of raw silk. I shiver at the sound of it on Raphael’s lips. My back arches a little, my body already primed for his touch. Desperate for it. My head swims as he makes contact between my shoulder blades, trailing something soft and delicate up the back of my neck. “You’re a little red in the face, Ms. Dreymon. You appear to be having a little trouble breathing.” I part my lips, trying to find my voice, but suddenly

there’s a hand around my throat, tilting my head back. The movement surprises me, has me gasping out loud. Raphael’s rough stubble grazes my jaw, and I can’t stop the moan that slips past my lips. He knows. He knows all too well how much I enjoy the feel of his six o’clock shadow on my skin. He knows it turns me on so much that it makes me dizzy. So much that it makes me forget my own name. His breath is hot against my skin as he whispers into my ear, his fingertips gently pressing into my windpipe. “You’re magnificent,” he tells me. “Your body is a fucking work of art. I can see all of you like this. The curve of your breasts. The swell of your ass. The perfect porcelain of your skin. The sweet, wet, slick pink between your legs. Do you like being on display for me, my little butterfly?” I can’t speak. I can only nod, my breath coming out in short, sharp pants. His scent fills my head—the most masculine, sexual smell imaginable. Even when we’re not fucking, all I need is to smell him and I’m ready to rip my own damn clothes off. My body recognizes his as its perfect match. His pheromones are a biological key that instantly have me opening to him in every way possible. “I’m going to use you, Beth,” he whispers. “I’m going to have my fill of you. I’m going to take you

every way I see fit. You’re mine when you’re in this chair. Nod if you understand.” I nod again, a small movement that has Raphael purring into my ear. “Your breasts are fucking incredible. Your nipples are so tight, butterfly. Are they sensitive right now? Do you want them in my mouth? Do you want me licking at them with my tongue?” “Yes. God, yes.” His hand tightens a little further around my throat. “You’re going to have to be patient, little one. You’re going to have to wait until I decide you deserve it.” This is torture. Pure torture. The sweetest, headiest, most sensual torture I’ve ever endured. I’m not even sure I can endure it. A wave of expectancy relays around my body as I imagine what it will feel like to have him licking and sucking at my breasts. How long am I going to have to wait? What kind of monster will he have turned me into by the time he actually gives me what I need? I’m the worst kind of addict when it comes to this man. I don’t want his mouth on me. His hands on my skin. His hard cock inside me. I fucking need it more than words can say. Raphael releases his hold

on my neck, and I know that he’s stepped away from the chair. I can feel the lack of his presence like an ice-cold brand, burning inside me. There’s a sound: material rasping against material. My heart begins to hammer in my chest. What does he have? What the hell is he going to do? “Since you’re in no position to disobey me,” he says. “How about we play a little game instead? Would you like that?” “What kind of game?” I sound like I’ve just been running, my breath catching with every word. There’s a long pause. Raphael moves around me. I can feel him so close, and then moving away, over and over again. It’s all I can do not to pull against my restraints. Eventually, Raphael says, “The kind of game that will have you screaming my name. The kind where I touch you with my hands, or my tongue, or my cock, and I almost make you come. And then…I stop. Do you think you can handle that?” “How long do you stop for?” “Until I see fit. Maybe I’ll make you wait hours. Maybe I won’t allow you to come at all.” His voice is laced with amusement. He’s loving this already, I can tell. This chair that he had made especially for

me was also for him, too. I am prone, at his mercy, every private, secret part of me exposed, on show for his pleasure. His eyes are probing me, studying me, on my breasts, my pussy, my ass… I can practically feel the pressure of his gaze as he circles me like a shark circling its prey. “If I do decide to let you come, I’m going to have the pleasure of watching it happen, up close and personal,” he says, as if reading my mind. “Where do you want to come, little one? All over my fingers, my tongue, or all over my dick?” This is a trick question. Whichever answer I give, Raphael will undoubtedly make sure it doesn’t happen, just to tease me further. Lucky for me, I don’t care where I come, so long as my body is in contact with his. He needs an answer, though. If I don’t give him one, there will be consequences. “Your fingers,” I gasp, reflexively rocking my hips. “I want to come all over your fingers.” “Hmm. And where…” Raphael trails something across the top of my right thigh, making me squirm. “…do I get to come?” he finishes. “Would you like it in your mouth? All over your tits?” I shiver at the image that develops in my head: Raphael, holding his dick, his hand rhythmically pumping up and down his solid flesh, the end of his cock slick and wet, the tendons in his arms and his neck straining,

corded beneath his flesh. “Or perhaps in your pussy? Or…your ass?” My hips jerk forward again, and Raphael laughs softly under his breath. “You need me pretty bad, don’t you, little one?” “Yes, I need you. Please, Raphael. Please .” “Since you asked so nicely…” Raphael’s fingers trail lazily across my back, over my shoulder, around and over my collarbone. He pauses there for a second, and my entire body begins to vibrate with desire. He’s teasing me. Testing me. This is a test I am determined to pass. I don’t react, don’t beg, even though in my mind I’m screaming for him to take me. Raphael grunts—a pleased sound—and his fingers trail down, over the rise and fall of my breasts, skirting carefully around my nipple, then down, down, over the flat of my stomach, until his fingers are resting just above my pussy. “Do you think I should reward you for being so good?” he says softly. He leans down, so that his mouth is almost touching my skin, hovering over the shell of my ear; his close proximity is enough to make my pulse race away from me, out of control. “Yes. God, please, yes.”

“Mmm…” I can feel his eyes on me again, searing into my skin, devouring me, and the muscles in my legs tense—an automatic, in-built reaction. The old me wants to hide herself. To protect her vulnerability. To close her legs against the intense scrutiny of this remarkable man. Raphael tuts. He runs his hand up the inside of my thigh, his fingers so close to touching my pussy, and then he stops. “If only you could see what I see right now,” he muses. “You’d realize how beautiful you are. You wouldn’t be trying to hide yourself from me. You’d be opening up wider, proud of your own beauty. You are so wet right now, Beth. Your body is like ripe fruit, juicy, and sweet, ready to be eaten. And, oh, how I’d like to fucking eat it right now.” Raphael turns me on like no one else. I’ve never felt so filled with need before. And even though my legs are spread wide, I know he’s telling the truth. I’m so excited by him that my body has kicked into overdrive, working at two hundred percent, ready and willing to accept any attention he might lavish upon me. I inhale deeply, and the sweet smell of sex and desire fills my nose. It’s shocking to realize that I can smell my own body’s reaction to Raphael. He’s spoken of it many times before. With anyone else, this would feel shameful. Embarrassing. Humiliating. I know how much he likes it, though, so it brings me nothing but pleasure

now. Raphael finally gives me what I need. He dips his fingers lower, lightly teasing them over my clit, and my whole body bucks in answer to his soft touch. “Good girl,” he says quietly. “Good girl. You’re such a good girl. You’re making me very happy right now.” I’m not doing anything per se, besides allowing him to look at and touch wherever he desires. I know how his mind works, though. I am a spectacle. A view to be enjoyed. He called me his little butterfly just now, and in a way I really am. I feel like an exotic creature, pinned into place and kept behind glass for him to hang on a wall and enjoy whenever he feels like it. He loves to observe his treasures at his leisure, and I am basically giving him free rein to do that right now. “Good,” I pant. “I want to make you happy. I want to be a good girl for you.” “If you really want to be a good girl for me, Beth, you can do something for me. You can open your mouth for me and tip your head back. All the way back.” I don’t even give it a second thought. I am so eager to please him that I think he could ask anything of me right now and I would do it. I hear the sound of more material being removed or adjusted, I can’t

tell which, and then there is a loop around my neck, and Raphael is tightening it. “Don’t worry, little one. Don’t worry. I have you. You’re safe here. Do you trust me?” Until recently, I might not have said yes to that question. Everything has changed now, though. I don’t even think I’m the same human being anymore. I’m barely even human at all. I’ve transformed into this primal creature that thinks in terms of food for energy, for fuel, to keep me from passing out in the bedroom. Sleep, so I can rest and recuperate, so that I can be ready for the next time Raph wants me. I trust him implicitly, no matter what. “Yes,” I tell him. “I trust you, I swear.” “Good.” The loop around my neck is pulled tight, and a flash of panic explodes in my head. It’s a natural response; anyone in their right mind would freak out to feel a length of material fastening around their throats. The panic dies almost immediately, though. He won’t hurt me. He’ll never hurt me. I believe that to my very core. Raphael’s mouth is on mine, then, his lips crushing up against mine, firm and insistent. His kiss is a claim, a brand, filled with fire and need. His tongue sweeps inside my mouth, probing and exploring,

tasting me, and I open myself to him, relishing the feel of his breath on my face. There’s a connection between us when he kisses me like this. Powerful. We’re two halves of a complex, confusing puzzle, snapping into place. Pieces that, when held up to the light and studied, appear as if they’d never fit together. But we do. My hands close into fists behind my back, digging my fingernails into my palms. I can feel the breaking point of my skin, and I know that if I press just a little harder, I’ll be bleeding. Raphael bites at my bottom lip, tugging at my mouth. He pulls back when I gasp, laughing under his breath again. “You belong to me,” he pants. “You’re my possession. If I tell you to open your mouth, you do it. If I tell you to suck, you do it. If I tell you to lick, you do it. If I tell you to open your legs for me, you do it. Do you understand?” “Yes. I…I under…stand.” “So open your mouth for me, Beth. Do it now. I’m gonna push myself to the back of your throat.” Just because I haven’t had a boyfriend for years, doesn’t mean I’ve had no sex drive. I’ve watched porn from time to time. I’ve always turned the sound down, though, unable to get past the cheesy

lines that come out of the actors’ mouths. The things they would say to one another in the heat of fucking like animals would always throw me. I’d find myself cringing instead of turned on. When Raphael says this to me now, though, a wave of adrenaline and excitement crashes into me. I obey him without question. Raphael must already have removed his pants. He cups the back of my neck with his hand, holding me in place, and then the tip of his cock is rubbing against my lips, hard and warm. I can taste him. When I’ve given people head before, the taste of semen has been something I’ve avoided at all costs. Salty. Musky. Enough to almost put me off going down on a guy altogether. Raphael’s cum doesn’t taste of anything, though. He smells clean, like soap and laundry detergent. As I take him into my mouth, I can feel how insanely wet I am between my legs. I’m growing more and more turned on by the second. Raphael is true to his word. He slowly pushes himself into my mouth, still holding my head in place, and he doesn’t stop until I whimper. He’s not all the way inside—he’s way too big for me to be able to take the whole thing—but the head of his erection is at the back of my throat. I close my lips around him and suck gently, and Raphael groans, a deep, low, need-filled sound that makes my head swim. His hands tangle in my hair as he slides

himself back, withdrawing, giving me a second to breathe. “Your lips look amazing wrapped around my dick, Beth,” he hisses. “Use your tongue. Massage me. Make me wet with your mouth.” These commands are non-negotiable. I do as he tells me to, working my tongue over him, swirling it around his hard flesh, teasing and flicking the tip of his cock inside my mouth. Raphael makes a satisfied, urgent sound as I swallow, sucking harder. “Yes, little butterfly. Just like that. You’re amazing. So fucking beautiful,” he whispers. “You suck me so perfectly.” He thrusts himself back into my mouth, and I draw a deep breath in through my nose. I use my tongue to lick and lave at him, to further tease him, and Raphael groans again. The sound of his pleasure is like pouring gasoline on an open flame. I work him into a frenzy, until I can feel him growing harder and harder in my mouth. If I keep going right now, he’s going to come. I know it, and so does Raphael. He pulls out of my mouth, a frustrated growl rumbling deep in his ribcage. “Bad girl,” he says, roughly rubbing the pad of his thumb against my lips. “I’m in control of when you come. You can’t make me come before I allow you, either.”’ With a flurry of motion, I suddenly feel the heat and pressure of his tongue on me…between my

legs. I gulp down air like I’m in a vacuum, fighting for each breath. If I weren’t blindfolded right now, my vision would be pitching sideways. Bright lights flash and dance in the darkness as Raphael flicks his tongue over my clit, savagely licking and sucking at me, the same way I was just licking and sucking at him. My pussy is so wet now. The chair Raphael had designed for me leaves no room for me to squirm away from him. I am locked in place, unable to really move, exposed and very vulnerable. Raphael claims my pussy with his mouth, and I can do nothing but shamelessly rock my hips, grinding myself against his face. He uses the flat of his tongue to sweep upwards in purposeful, determined strokes, and flares of pins and needles explode all over the surface of my skin. I am weak and boneless, like my body can no longer support its own weight. I writhe, my chest rising and falling rapidly, my nerve endings on fire. “Please, Raph. Please. I can’t…fucking…take it anymore.” He pauses, tutting disapprovingly. “We’re only just getting started. There’s so much more to be done here.” “ Please, Raphael. I…I need you.” Wicked laughter fills my ears. “I’m sorry. You

haven’t been good enough to warrant coming just yet. But you will be, trust me. I’m going to give you every opportunity to earn your orgasm.” I become something wild and crazed. He is a maestro with his tongue, conducting the symphony of my body, guiding it to dizzying heights and crashing, ceaseless crescendos. I gasp, I pant, and I moan, and the whole time Raphael is working his magic between my legs, I’m teetering on the brink of something consuming and powerful. I’m reaching the point of no return when Raphael draws back, saying, “You think holding your breath will disguise what’s about to happen? You think I can’t read your body like a book, Beth? You think I don’t know when you’re about to come? You’re mistaken. Your body’s fucking screaming it from the rooftops.” I’m shaking, my heart skipping all over the place. It’s no wonder he can tell. “I’m going to torture you just a little bit more now,” he says, stroking a finger down my cheek. He hums, as if he’s very pleased at what he sees. “I want you to watch me, Beth. I’m going to remove your blindfold, and I want you to watch me while I make myself rock solid for you. Are you ready?” I’m more than ready. The idea of him palming his own dick while I watch is crazy hot. I can’t tell him how badly the idea turns me on, though. I can’t get

a single word out. I nod instead, and Raphael works quickly, removing my blindfold. He stands before me, a wall of stacked muscle, beautiful and terrible all at once. His dark hair is slick with sweat, falling into his face, his high cheekbones flushed with color, his full lips parted as his chest rises and falls. His torso looks like it’s hewn out of pure, perfect marble. A deep vee has been carved out of that marble, just below his stomach, dipping down into his groin, guiding my gaze down to his hard cock. He’s huge. Seriously fucking huge. He’s also fucking perfect . Circumcised, the head of his cock is proudly on display, slick with pre-cum as he takes his erection in his hand and slowly works his fist up and down it. “Like what you see?” he asks, his voice laden with so many promises. “Yes,” I pant. “I do.” “You want me inside you?” “Yes.” “You want you want me to fuck you hard?” “Yes.”

He works his fist faster up and down the length of his cock, his eyes glazing over with lust. “You want me to make you fucking scream?” “Fuck . Yes!” “Do you want to me tease your clit with my fingers while I pound you with my dick?” “Yes .” “Do you want me to bite your nipples?” “Yes .” Faster. Faster. He speeds up, his hand pumping up and down. His mouth opens, the muscles in his shoulders and his neck straining. “Do you want to taste my cum on your tongue, Beth?” “Shit. Shit, please. Yes. I need you so badly,” I gasp. I need to touch myself, to feel my clit, slick and swollen beneath my fingers as I rub it in small circles. I can’t though. My hands are still restrained, so there’s nothing I can do but ride the exquisitely torturous waves of need and pleasure that lap at my body. “Do you want to see my favorite thing about this chair?” Raphael asks.

“Your favorite thing?” A jolt of nerves fires through me. I was intimidated enough by the mere sight of the chair. Getting into it was taxing enough. But now it does something more than restrain and bare every part of me? Raphael smirks as he steps toward me. He reaches out and places a hand on the small arm rest to my right, searching underneath it, then clicking something to the side. Suddenly, I’m falling forward, the whole chair pivoting on an axis beneath me. I drop forward a clear foot, and I can’t help but let out a cry of surprise. Before I can topple forward and go crashing to the floor, however, a mechanism below the chair catches me, jerking me to a halt. My back is now at a ninety degree angle, my face in line with the floor, my ass and my pussy up in the air, almost as if I’m on my hands and knees. Raphael growls, low in the back of his throat, the sound filled with brutal excitement. “There we are,” he snarls. “Now I can fuck you properly.” If I were going to be afraid at any point in these proceedings, now would be the time. I’m prone, restrained, and in a very weak position. Raphael is the biggest, strongest guy I’ve ever encountered, and he sounds like he’s been swept away in the moment, lost on a sea of desire and the urgent need to claim and fuck. I am not afraid, though. I know,

with just one word from me, a switch will flip in his head, and all of this will stop. He swore he’ll never hurt me, and I know he was telling the truth. Raph slowly walks around me, pacing slowly, completely naked, and every single hair on my damn body stands to attention. “What are you going to do?” I ask. I can’t see him anymore. I can only see the polished floor three feet away from my face, and the glare from the light overhead reflected in it. Raphael makes a tutting sound from behind me. “I’m going to fuck you, of course,” he muses. “I’m going to slam myself into you from behind until I’m finished with you. I’m going to touch you wherever I like. I’m going to use you however I like. And then I’m going to decide if you deserve to come or not, Beth.” It feels difficult to breathe like this, hovering over the floor, but I don’t complain. I just wait. His fingers touch me first, and not near my clit or my pussy, but near my ass. He moans a little as he traces the tips of his fingers between my ass cheeks, slowly lowering them down, until he reaches my asshole. I’ve never allowed anyone to touch me there before. I’m fairly sure no one has even looked at me there before, so the knowledge that Raphael North is staring at me, enjoying the

fact that he can stroke and tease at me, rubbing the wetness from my pussy upward so that it’s entirely covering me, is a little daunting. I’m not expecting how good it feels. I grit my teeth, expecting pain and discomfort, but Raph doesn’t push his fingers inside me right away. He strokes and he plays, until I find myself out of breath and turned on, moving against his hand. “You’re a naughty girl, Beth. You want my fingers in your ass, don’t you?” I can’t answer this. It feels wrong, dirty, to tell him that I do. I screw my eyes shut, opening my mouth as he pushes down, applying an intense pressure against me. A blisteringly hot wall of heat spreads over me, and Raphael groans. “You have no fucking idea how beautiful you are to me right now. Your ass is like a peach. I’m going to devour it. I’m going to make it mine,” he informs me. I shiver again, and Raphael takes his cock and begins to rub it against my pussy. He focuses on my clit, working the head of his dick back and forth over the small, tight bundle of nerves until I’m trembling. When he pushes himself into my pussy, it’s as if I’ve been shot through with electricity. The sensation, being stretched, being so full of him, is so intense that my vision actually flashes, my eyes blurring for a second.

“Fuck, Beth. Your pussy feels amazing.” If I’m not mistaken, Raphael sounds like he’s struggling to rein in his own pleasure, just as I’m fighting to rein in mine. He slowly slides into of me, and there’s a second where I can’t remember how to force oxygen into my lungs. He feels…he feels incredible . I moan, and it’s as if something snaps inside Raphael. “Fuck!” he hisses. “Shit, Beth. Soak me. Make my dick wet.” He slams himself home, his hands on my hips, fingers digging into my skin, and I scream, my cry ripping free from my vocal chords, making my throat raw. Raphael doesn’t go slowly. He doesn’t stop. He thrusts himself into me again, and then again, and again, grunting with the effort of fucking me so hard. “You’re so… fucking…tight ,” he rasps. He applies a little more pressure, and his finger dips inside my ass, causing me to buck against him. “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you,” he says. “I’m going to make you feel good, I promise.” Raphael North does not lie. He fucks me brutally, and I lose track of all time and self. He’s inside me; his fingers are inside me; his mouth is on my back; he’s reaching around and

kneading my breasts while he rocks his hips against mine. I love every second of it. I can feel him getting harder and harder with every thrust. It’s unbelievable. With every upward thrust of his hips, his body rubs against my clit, sending shockwaves of pleasure racing around my body, and I begin to beg. “Please, Raph. Please. Please. Please. Please let me come. I need you so fucking bad.” “How badly do you want to fall apart right now?” he asks. “So bad. So fucking bad. Please !” “Okay, I suppose you have earned it.” I’d never have thought he was holding back, but Raphael ramps up his movements a hundred fold, making my pulse race away. I can’t take this anymore. I can’t fucking do it. I bounce and I rock against him as hard as I can, and Raphael fucks me even harder. The moment rises up at me, smashing into me, making me scream loud and hard. Raphael slides his fingers deeper into my ass just as I come, and he makes a strangled, guttural, frustrated sound.

“I’m going to come, Beth. I’m gonna fucking come, too.” He releases inside me, his hips smashing into me from behind as he roars, his entire being one huge, tense mass of muscle. I scream his name, and both of us grind against one another, riding out the final ebb and flow of our climaxes. No one has ever been able to make me come like this before. No one has ever made me come alive like this. I’m still recovering from the overwhelming pleasure when Raphael pulls out of me and walks around the chair with his dick in his hand. “That felt good, little butterfly, didn’t it?” he pants. “Yes. My god…yes.” He must know it did; he heard me pleading with him to fuck me. He makes a pleased sound, then takes hold of a handful of my hair and forces my head back. The expression on his face is fierce. “I swear to you, Beth. My work. My money. My life here in New York. None of it means anything to me. From here on out, my only priority is making you feel good. The world can burn, and everyone in it can perish. So long as you’re by my side, Elizabeth Dreymon, I’m going to make sure you feel good every damn day for the rest of your life. You can count on that.”

—THE END— *** Do you want more of Beth and Raph’s story? Sign up here to get a bonus scene and be added to HEA Press’s and Callie Hart’s email lists.

Calico D id you enjoy Mr. North ? Check out the first chapter of Calico . It is available on Amazon and free in Kindle Unlimited. *** CHAPTER ONE CALLAN Callan Cross is a Cunt NOW A ttending a funeral purely so you can piss on a headstone is pretty fucked up. There are plenty other things about me that are very fucked up, but today my urge to urinate on a dead man’s freshly turned grave is hitting the top of the list. I’ve only ever been to one funeral. That’s not to say that as a twenty-nine year old man, I’ve been lucky enough to avoid loss. Not to say that acquaintances, friends and even work colleagues haven’t died before. That first funeral was just such a doozy that I vowed I would never attend another of the maudlin, bullshit events. I use my work as an excuse. National

Geographic have called me away to Nepal to take photos of snow leopards. I’ve been doing fashion shit (which I hate doing) in Paris. I’ve landed myself a huge commercial gig out in the middle of bum fuck nowhere, Idaho, taking structural shots for an architect/lawyer/pharmaceutical firm. My excuses are all interchangeable; I just will not go. I’d rather choke on my own puke. This time, though…this time, I’m making an exception. “You’re going back to South Carolina? I thought you hated it there?” Rae, the girl I’ve been fucking for the past three months, rolls onto her stomach and sparks up the joint she’s just constructed. She’s naked, and the low light from the lamp on the bedside table beside her casts shadows in the subtle slopes of her body—the hollow between her shoulder blades, the dip at the base of her spine, the pronounced curve of her buttocks. I met Rae at one of those fucking terrible fashion shoots. It was for some couture bullshit magazine, and half her face was painted turquoise. She was wearing a scrap of silk that barely covered the very curves I’m studying right now. The hair stylist on site had created a fake bird’s nest in her hair, complete with fake fucking goldfinch, the sight of which had made me seriously fucking uncomfortable. Birds in general have that affect on me.

Rae had been sitting on a chair, leaning forward, and I’d directed her to open her legs a little further so the material of her dress hung down in between. Rae had done as I’d asked and more. She’d spread her legs as wide as she could, and then she’d purposefully shifted the material of her dress out of the way entirely. She wasn’t wearing any underwear. She also didn’t seem to care that there were two other people in the studio when she gently stroked her middle finger over her pussy, either. Models have no sense of body shame. They’re so used to being naked, primped and preened over, pulled this way and that. I’ve had enough experience working with them to know that they’re not going to be shy if you need to see them naked. Rae was going for shock value, though. She was trying to get my attention, and it worked. I didn’t let her know that, naturally. I continued taking pictures, trying not to smile, while the editor of the magazine turned purple and nearly passed out. Rae blows pot smoke down her nose, and then offers me the joint. I decline. “Such a fucking baby,” she says. “You should just do it. Give in. Let go. You’d be a hell of a lot less uptight. Who died, anyway?” Rae’s never liked that I don’t drink, smoke, or do

drugs. I don’t gel very well with her lifestyle. She puts more coke up her nose than half of the Hollywood A-listers I work with. I slap her ass, growling under my breath when her flesh bounces. “A guy I used to live next door to. A guy I didn’t like very much.” Rae rolls her eyes. “Your ex-next door neighbor from a million years ago? You’re a perplexing man, Callan. I know fifteen sexual positions you could be bending me into this weekend, and you’d rather go eat cucumber sandwiches and drink stale coffee with a bunch of weird old people. I have to say, I think I’m offended.” “Be offended, sweetheart. I’m going. That’s all there is to it. I’ll be back on Tuesday. I can fuck you all you want then.” I kind of want her to leave, but I’m over the habit of kicking her out of my apartment right after we hook up. It makes her crazy, and while there are plenty of women I could be having sex with here in New York, Rae is simple. She doesn’t want a relationship. She’s not expecting me to propose at any point. She does fuck like a fiend, though, and she has the dirtiest mind on the face of the planet. I’ve grown accustomed to letting her sleep over, regardless of the fact that it pains me to share my personal space sometimes. I’m buck naked as I hop off the bed and

begin gathering up the clothes and personal effects I’m taking with me back to Port Royal. One suit. One pair of jeans. One pair of Chuck Taylors. Two t-shirts. Three pairs of boxers. Three pairs of socks. Everything else is camera gear—my Leica, and my lenses. My tripod, and my cleaning kit. Batteries. Filters. Extra lens caps. The Leica’s an old film camera. I use a digital Canon for work, purely because clients want to see the end product before they leave the building, and that’s impossible when you have to go home and develop the shots. When I’m shooting for me, though, I’ll always use the Leica. It’s so old. It was the very first camera I ever bought, back when I was just a kid. I saved for two years solid, driving my mom around and running errands before I had enough money to pick it up second hand. I dropped it back in college and my heart nearly exploded out of my chest. Thankfully it survived. Mostly. Now it has beautiful, strange light leaks that color and distort the pictures I take. It’s like it’s haunted or something. Ghosts and obscure shadows hover in the backgrounds of the self-portraits and urban landscapes I develop. Rae turns onto her back, breasts exposed, pussy exposed, and takes another long drag from her joint. Her auburn hair spills out on the mattress

around her head like a pool of blood. “Will you bring me back a souvenir?” she asks. “Something really cheesy and lame. Something I can put on my keychain maybe.” Her face is suddenly hidden behind a veil of smoke. “Probably not. Port Royal isn’t a souvenir kind of place. And I’ll forget.” “Fair enough.” This is the dynamic of our arrangement: Rae asks me something, I’m brutally honest in response, and she doesn’t get mad. Perfect. It works both ways, too. She doesn’t lie to me. Doesn’t play any weird head games. We tell each other exactly what we’re thinking, and most of the time it helps keep things ticking over smoothly. No hurt feelings. No unmet expectations. “Are you going to hook up with your old high school sweetheart when you’re in town? That’s what happens when people go home for funerals, isn’t it?” Rae asks. She pouts, but she’s not angry with me. She’s undoubtedly sad that she won’t be able to join in. She doesn’t realize that what she’s said has made me angry, though. I turn my back on her, snatching up my t-shirt from the floor and pulling it on. I grab a fresh pair of boxers and pull those on too, my skin feeling hot and prickly.

“No. No high school sweetheart fucking for me.” “Did she move away? Did you guys have a raging fight before you broke up? What was her name?” “I didn’t have a high school sweetheart. I was a virgin until I was eighteen.” I grit out the words, hoping Rae will hear how clipped and pissed off I sound so she won’t probe any deeper into the matter, but she can be a little oblivious sometimes. Either that, or she hears how pissed off I am just fine and that only makes her more curious. “But you loved someone through high school, right? You must have. Everyone had a crush on someone in high school.” “Nope. Not me.” “Liar.” She gets up off the bed and pads naked out onto the balcony. She flicks the butt of her joint over the side of the building and then leans against the wall, watching me. She crosses her arms underneath her breasts—the breasts I came all over about twenty minutes ago—and raises an eyebrow at me. “I was fucking my high school gym teacher when I was sixteen. He was my high school crush.” “Somehow, that information does not surprise me, Rae.”

“He was married. Had three kids. I was fascinated by the fact that he had back hair. All of the shitty little punks in my year were still trying to grow pubes on their balls and Mike was just covered in all this hair.” “That’s very disturbing information.” “That I used to be into hairy guys?” I throw a bunch of magazines onto the mattress— plane reading material—and then I duck down to cast an eye underneath the bed. My dress shoes are around here somewhere, I know they are. “No. The fact that you were fucking a married man with three children and you don’t seem all that bothered about it. That’s disturbing.” Damn. No shoes. Fuck. “He was the one who was cheating, Callan. He was the one lying to his wife and kids when he snuck out at night. He told them he was going bowling with friends from work when really he was meeting me in a motel so he could fuck my little sixteenyear-old pussy.” “So, he was a liar and a pedophile. Wonderful. Have you seen a pair of black leather shoes anywhere around here?” “He wasn’t a pedophile. Age of consent in

Maryland is sixteen. I was legal.” I stand up straight and look at her. “That makes it totally okay then.” “Why are you so pissed off, babe?” Rae pushes away from the balcony wall and comes back inside. She places her hands on my chest and makes the same soft purring sound she makes when I go down on her. “Are you mad that I was fucking an older guy in school and you weren’t fucking anybody at all?” “How old was he?” I ask. “Thirty-eight.” Rae announces this proudly with a toss of her hair. She looks up at me, defiance shining brightly in her crystal clear blue eyes. “That’s funny, actually,” she says. “I’ve just realized. That means that even back then, he was still nine years older than you are now.” “Yeah. That’s pretty hilarious.” But I’m not laughing. I take hold of her hands and remove them from my chest. I don’t really feel like reminiscing with her over some dirty old pervert who took advantage of her way back when. It’s kind of weird that she’s so proud of it. “You’re jealous,” she whispers, holding her hands

up to her face so she can bite down childishly on her thumbnails. “Callan, you’re maddeningly jealous. How fantastic.” I bend down so that we’re eye level with one another. “I’m not. I’m tired. And I think your moral compass is broken. That’s it. That’s all.” She gives me a wicked grin. Her lips are full and stained bright red from her lipstick, swollen from the pounding they received when I fucked her mouth not too long ago. Those lips are part of the reason why I can’t really give her up. They remind me of someone else’s. “Your moral compass is broken, too, asshole,” she tells me. “You’re no better than me.” “See, that’s where you’re wrong. My moral compass works perfectly. I just choose to ignore it. That’s something else entirely.” Rae seems to think about this. “So, who’s worse, then—me, the woman who knows no better, or you, the man who sins with full knowledge of his actions?” I return Rae’s awful smile, feeling my insides turn a shade blacker. “Me. I’m the worst. You know this.” She nods, because she does. “It even said so in

High Lite Magazine.” “High Lite?” Rae nods. “I bought a copy yesterday. Your face is plastered across the middle two pages like you’re goddamn revolutionary or something.” Her voice is peppered with something that sounds strangely akin to envy. I did an interview with a female journalist who works for High Lite about a month ago. She said she would push for an article about my work, but that I shouldn’t hold my breath. I haven’t been. In fact, I’d forgotten all about it until right here and now. “Were they awful about me?” I ask. Rae nods. “So mean. I can’t imagine what you did to deserve such a harsh editorial.” She can imagine perfectly well, though. She’s seen how I talk to people sometimes. She’s seen how abrasive I can be when rubbed the wrong way. Rae’s mouth pulls up at the corners into an impish smile. “The strap line was, ‘Callan Cross is a cunt .” “Nice. I didn’t know you could say cunt in a magazine.” Rae shrugs. “They’re sensationalists. They can do whatever they want.”

“What was the tag line?” Rae puts on her best newsreader voice, which is actually quite impressive. “He’s tall, dark and savagely handsome, and he’s America’s most vitriolic photographer. At twenty-nine, Callan Cross has already conquered the world. Now he’s planning on burning it to the ground, one brutal image at a time.” “I like the tall, dark and handsome part.” “They said you were arrogant and potentially delusional.” “Who gives a fuck what they think about me as a person? What did they say about my work?” “Incendiary. Wild. Stirring. Transcendental. There were a few other adjectives thrown around, but they got a little fantastical. I stopped reading after a while. I just looked at the pictures instead.” “They were good, right?” I gave the journo some self-portraits I took of myself last year. My profile was in silhouette, and beneath it tree branches and a cold winter sky were visible in hues of blue and purple, which I transposed onto the image. The writer had asked if I’d created the self-portraits in Photoshop and that’s where the hostilities had

begun. I’d told her, no, I had absolutely not used Photoshop. I had used an enlarger to blend the two images together, one on top of the other, and everything was done by hand. She’d looked at me blankly, like she couldn’t give two fucks, and I’d known immediately who I was dealing with: another hipster with an Instagram account, throwing a filter on a selfie and calling it art. Infuriating . “They were pretty dark and twisty,” Rae says. “Normally when you have your photo in a magazine, it’s a good idea for people to be able to see your face. You have such a nice one, after all.” “Thank you. I don’t care about people seeing my face, though. I want to be faceless altogether.” Rae scowls. She throws back the covers on the bed and climbs in, kicking my magazines onto the floor. “You are delusional,” she informs me. “I’m passing out now. I have an early call. I guess I’ll see you when you get back from your little jaunt down south.” “You will.” I don’t kiss her goodnight. That’s not the kind of people we are. I continue to search for my dress shoes, banging around, my blood inexplicably fizzing in my veins, until I realize I’m

never going to find them. Wherever they are now, they are no longer in my apartment. Once I’ve made my peace with this, I grab my keys and leave. Rae’s fast asleep, will still be asleep by the time I get back, no doubt, but I’m not even close to tired. I’m wired. Edgy. I need to know what that journalist wrote about me. I find a copy of High Lite Magazine at a bodega on 5th , and I pay for it with a crumpled ten-dollar bill. I walk around in circles, looping the block while I read it. The journo talks about my work—has very impressive things to say, which I like. She calls me a narcissist, which is a cloak I don’t mind wearing, I guess. It’s mostly true. Towards the middle of the article, she writes about my background. Starts talking about my dead mother. I pointedly did not tell her anything about my family, even though she did ask. Toward the end of the piece, she mentions the first picture I ever received recognition for, all those years ago. I’m bubbling over with anger by the time I turn the page and see that she’s printed the fucking thing. Without my consent. I’ve spent the last ten years trying to bury that image, and yet there it is in full color, monopolizing half a goddamn page of real estate in one of the countries biggest lifestyle magazines. Every time I see that

picture, it feels like I’ve swallowed razor blades and I’m slowly bleeding to death internally. It’s a picture of a girl. Her right eye is swollen and bruised, and her lip is split open. She has blood dried on her chin, and she’s crying. The girl was looking straight at me when I took the picture. She was naked, and she was hurt, and her blood and her tears were real. I should never have shared that picture. It was deeply personal. Deeply painful. It was a silent conversation shared between two damaged teenagers, who had been clinging to each other for survival. I had no right to share the picture with the world, but I did it anyway. I’ve regretted it every single day since. I really am a cunt. *** Calico on Amazon.

Also by Callie Hart R oad to Ruin Rooke Calico Between Here and the Horizon Vice Badlands C haos & Ruin Violent Things Savage Things Wicked Things D ead Man’s Ink Rebel Rogue Ransom

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