Chapter One
JADE
The worst partabout coming home to my new little apartment in the Upper East Side is never knowing whether the door is going to be open or closed.
It should be closed. And locked. And the security system engaged.
But he always seems to find a way around that, and I don’t know how.
My hands shake as I unclench my fingers from the keys they’re wrapped around, flicking through the few on the ring to find the one to my door.
I let out a wavering breath.
My heart pounds so hard against my ribs that I’m sure it’s going to find its way out of my chest.
All I ever wanted was to be independent. To be able to choose the life I want to live. To be the master of my destiny. Maybe find a boyfriend or have fun dating the wrong guys for a while before settling down with the right one and starting a family someday.
I wanted to be me, to be more than just another Lynde, my sister’s twin, my siblings’ punching bag, my family’s problem solver.
I wanted not to be a prisoner in my own home.
I wanted to have a voice. To matter. To live. To be free.
And here I am.
I got free from my family’s oppression only to be stuck in a nightmare. A whole new level of captivity.
From a gilded cage to a figurative one.
I haul open the front door to the building, waiting for the doorman to open the second one.
He gives me a warm smile and a nod, though he says nothing.
As I step into the elevator, I fidget with the keys, half trying to protect myself and half knowing that I could stab anyone who might come at me out of the apartment.
I fought so hard to move out on my own.
This house was my dream come true. But dreams aren’t always pleasant. Sometimes they turn into nightmares. And I should’ve anticipated the hell having a place of my own would bring.
The doors slide open on the top floor, and my stomach plummets to my feet.
It takes everything in me to convince myself to step off that elevator, to walk past the door to the emergency stairwell, and to turn right at the end of the hall, into the little alcove where my door is hidden.
Thankfully, it’s closed today.
I let out a deep breath and stick the key in the lock, counting to ten before twisting it, trying to prepare myself for whatever I’m going to find inside.
As the door swings open, I just know.
Something is wrong.
It’s not that there’s anything out of place, but more so the fact that the bowl that’s in the dish rack was dirty in the sink when I flew out the door this morning.
My shoes are neatly lined up in front of the hall closet.
Maybe it’s the way my throw blanket is tossed haphazardly on the couch, the pillows indented as if someone took a nap there.
I would never sleep on the couch. The massive windows that overlook Central Park are too open. Too inviting for anyone with a pair of binoculars or a half-decent camera who might want to look inside.
