I stumbled into the bathroom, knees cracking against hexagonal tiles as I gripped the marble sink. The mirror showed a stranger—even though the hair color was now correct. Kohl smeared beneath eyes that looked too young in my gaunt face. I turned the faucet hard left, cupping cold water to scrub away the remnants of mascara and poor decisions.
The shower handle squealed when I twisted it, copper pipes shuddering behind butter-yellow walls. Steam rose around the clawfoot tub as I stepped in, the handheld spray nozzle trembling in my grip. Too-hot water needled my shoulders where Harrisonhad once dug his fingers deep enough to bruise. Except those bruises faded, but the memory lingered. Now they were just phantom pains that lasted longer than any mark had a right to.
I soaped up a sea sponge, the jasmine scent of shampoo mixing with my lilac body wash. My gaze drifted across the bathroom’s crown molding, following hairline cracks in the plaster that formed constellations only I could see. This apartment, with its wedding ring quilts and butcher block counters felt more like home than the Bettencourt estate ever had. Here, the locks were brass and new;Okay the windows double-paned against the high plains wind. No one shouted through these walls.
By the time I toweled off, the digital clock on the microwave read 9:37 AM. I stared into my walk-in closet, fingertips trailing over the row of new Walmart clothes. Harrison’s voice slithered through my mind like smoke under a door.You need to lose several pounds to get into that dress, Jules. Why bother trying?My hands closed around an oversized chambray shirt, the familiar armor of hiding.
The bedroom’s hardwood floors creaked as I dressed. Through the window overlooking Pearl’s herb garden, I watched two club members lead horses toward the stables, their laughter muffled by glass. Bronc would be at the shop by now, probably elbow-deep in some Harley’s engine compartment. I imagined grease under his fingernails, the way his forearms flexed when he tightened a bolt.
“Stop it,” I muttered, buttoning my jeans. The waistband gaped—even though I’d put on a few pounds and felt healthier since coming to Dairyville, I knew I was still too thin. At twenty-five, I shouldn’t feel this brittle. Shouldn’t have to press both palms against the dresser mirror to quiet its accusations.
My reflection wavered as I leaned closer. I was at least happy with my hair. Last night’s memories rushed in. Bronc’s kisses had been manic. Wild and almost felt forbidden. It was like he couldn’t get enough of me. Until he did.
I yanked open the top drawer, hunting for socks. My pinky caught on a silk camisole I’d packed during the escape—its lace trim still smelled faintly of New York air conditioning and pretty perfume. I crushed the fabric to my face, inhaling until my lungs burned. I didn’t even hear Bronc come in. There he stood, coffee cups in hand.
He filled my bedroom doorway wearing a charcoal crewneck that made his eyes look like storm clouds over Lake Michigan—not that I’d ever seen Lake Michigan, but Harrison had vacation homes there and I’d stared at enough stock photos in his real estate portfolios to imagine.
“Figured you’d need this.” He extended the second mug, steam curling around fingers still calloused from decades of wrench work. The scent of French roast cut through my lingering tequila regrets. “Kitchen table,” I blurted, gesturing toward the small dinette where morning light shone on the pretty placemats. “For talking. Better… better lighting.”
He followed silently, combat boots scuffing hardwood in a rhythm that matched the pulse behind my left eye. By the time I sat, he’d already produced a Moleskin notebook from his back pocket and laid it flat beside his untouched coffee. Military precision in the pen’s angle against paper margins, spine straight as the canyon cottonwoods outside.
“Start with Harrison Hastings.” Okay then, right to it. Not a question. Bronc’s thumb rubbed absentmindedly over the notebook’s leather corner, wearing the hide smoother with each pass. “How’d the engagement happen?”
I traced the cardboard holder of my coffee cup. “My father brokered it during intermission at the Met.” My laugh tasted bitter. “Third tier box seats, Puccini’s Tosca. Mother said Harrison’s family owned half the Upper East Side.” The memory crystallized sharp—Harrison’s cufflinks glinting when he reached for my program, mother’s talon-grip on my wrist under the velvet curtain.
Bronc’s pen scratched across paper. “Age?”
“He was thirty-two when we met. I was twenty-two.” I watched him note the numbers, his jaw working like he was chewing through steel cable. “Daddy thought…” The words stuck behind my molars. I tried again. “Hastings needed the merger. They hadn’t had a breakthrough for a few years. My parents thought my prospects for an advantageous marriage were less than stellar. Seeing as I was flawed. No self-respecting man wants to be seen with a chubby woman, after all. So, apparently, my father bargained for me. He’d invest heavily in Hastings Pharma, but Harrison would have to be saddled with me.”
A horse whinnied outside, followed by Pearl’s muffled curse about hooves needing trimming. Bronc waited, stillness radiating from him like heat off August pavement. When I finally looked up, his face was a raging storm. Tempests and hurricanes wanting to be unleashed. But he refused to unleash his rage as he listened intently. I knew it was safe to continue.
“He proposed at Le Bernardin.” My thumb ran back and forth across the smooth wood of the dining table. “Seven courses, fourteen carats. The maître d’ filmed the whole thing for Page Six.” I remembered the weight of the ring, how the emerald-cut diamond pressed cold against my knuckle like a manacle. “I asked for a year to finish my degree.”
Bronc’s pen paused. “Which they gave?”
“In exchange for weekly brunches with Harrison’s mother.” The phantom taste of smoked salmon canapés rose in my throat. “She’d critique my weight between mimosas. Said debutantes shouldn’t weigh so much, but I had plenty of time to get down to the right size before the wedding.”
He made a noise low in his throat—not quite a growl, but close enough that the hairs on my arms stood at attention. “Your parents approve of this treatment?”
“Why would they disapprove?” My voice climbed half an octave. “They got their hedge fund merger with a promise of some new drug on the horizon. Mother stopped getting snubbedat the Greenwich Club.” The confession twisted something loose behind my ribs. “When I told her about the first time, Harrison…” I swallowed. “He threw a Lalique vase. Missed my head by three inches.”
Bronc’s knuckles went white around his pen. “What did she say?”
I studied the soapstone pendant lights above us, each glowing orb a perfect sphere of containment. “That all relationships require sacrifice.” My finger circled the cup’s rim. “That I should be grateful he wanted me despite…” The words died as Bronc’s chair legs screeched against the floorboards as I set the cup down.
He took my hands. “Look at me.” His command left no room for refusal. Up close, the silver in his stubble caught the light like chain-mail. “Not your fault. Not then, not now.”
I tried to swallow down my tears. Somewhere between the cinnamon notes of his aftershave and the warmth radiating through his sweater, the dam broke. “They sold me for a business partnership,” I whispered. “And when they learned the person to whom I had been promised was abusing me, it was like I deserved it because I was defective.”
Bronc’s hand covered mine, rough skin snagging on my chipped nail polish. “You listen good, Juliet Bettencourt.” His thumb brushed my inner wrist where the pulse fluttered wildly. “Only defective thing here’s their inability to see a treasure when it’s staring them right in the face. And as far as your weight. When you arrived here, you looked like you’d been starved. You look more beautiful and healthy with each passing day.”
I looked at my hands, so small compared to Bronc’s. He leaned back against his chair. His stillness reminded me of canyon rocks weathering storms—quiet endurance written in the fold of arms across his leather vest, the deliberate blink as I spoke.
“The first time he broke skin,” I traced the slightly scarred web between thumb and forefinger, “was our engagement party.Tripped carrying champagne flutes.” My laugh tasted bitter. “Mother told the staff to switch to plastic cups.”
Bronc’s pen hovered over his notebook. “What’d he break?”
“My collarbone.” I unbuttoned the top of my blouse, revealing only slight scarring but mostly unmarked skin where silk met shoulder. “Took four weeks in a sling. Harrison insisted I learn to…” The words clogged my throat.
