"Oh, I'm very happy." His hand is on my lower back again, and this time it doesn't stay there. It slides down, cups my ass, squeezes.
Hard.
Hard enough that I gasp. Hard enough that I know there will be bruises.
"Richard—" I start to step back, but his other hand grabs my arm, pulling me against him.
"You know," he says, his breath hot against my ear, "Katie's staying at her mother's tonight. My place is just a few blocks from here. We could continue the celebration. Just the two of us."
His hand squeezes again, fingers digging into the bruised spots, and something in me snaps. I don't think. I just react.
My hand comes up as if I’m seeing it from outside of my body and cracks across his face, the sound sharp and loud in the quietcorner. His head snaps to the side. My champagne glass falls, shattering on the floor.
For a moment, everything stops. Richard stares at me, his hand on his reddening cheek, shock and anger warring on his face. The bartender freezes mid-pour. A couple nearby turns to stare.
"Don't ever touch me again.” My voice is shaking with rage.
Then I turn and walk away, my heels crunching on broken glass, my whole body trembling with adrenaline.
I don't look back. I don't stop to get my coat from the coat check. I just push through the doors and out into the cold night air, gulping it down like I’m drowning. My hands are shaking so hard I can barely call a cab. When one finally pulls up, I climb in and give my address, then sit in the back seat staring at nothing, my heart pounding, my skin still crawling with the memory of his hands on me.
The driver says something, but I don’t hear it. I just watch the city slide past the window and try not to cry.
—
The momentI’m back in my apartment, I tear off the jewelry and throw it on the dresser, strip off my dress, and go to the bathroom, turning the water to scalding. It burns when I step into it, but I stand under the spray until my skin turns red, scrubbing with a washcloth until it hurts, trying to wash away the feeling of Richard's hands on me. The heat of his breath on my ear.
I scrub harder, violently. Soap, rinse, soap again. I wash my hair twice, and then scrub my body again until my skin is raw.
When I finally turn off the water, my bathroom is thick with steam. I wipe the mirror and stare at myself—hair plastered tomy head, eyes red, skin blotchy from the heat and the scrubbing. I turn around and look over my shoulder at my reflection, twisting to see my lower back, my ass.
The bruises are already forming, dark fingerprints on my pale skin, four on one side where he grabbed me, his thumb on the other. The evidence of his violation, written on my body in purple and blue.
I want to scream, or cry, or both. I want to go back to that auction house and hit him again, harder this time.
I wrap myself in a towel and go to sit on the edge of my bed, shivering now.
I should report him. I should call someone, file a complaint, make sure he faces consequences for what he did. But what would I say? That a client grabbed my ass at an auction? That he propositioned me? In the world I work in, that's barely worth mentioning. Men like Richard Maxwell don't face consequences. They just move on to the next young woman. The police, or anyone else I tried to tell, would give it less credence than the cops did the open window and black rose on my pillow.
I’ve already lost him as a client and possibly the commission from tonight’s sale. I’ve definitely lost his recommendation to his other wealthy friends. If I push this further, he could get me blacklisted. He already might be considering it, after I humiliated him in public.
The thought makes me sick, but it's true. This is a crossroads women face every day: speak up and lose everything, or stay silent and let it happen.
I've always stayed silent before. I’ve always deflected, extracted myself, and then moved on.
But tonight, I slapped him. I made a scene.
The realization should feel empowering. Instead, I just feel tired.
I lay back on the bed, still in my towel, and try to fall asleep. But it’s impossible. Every time I close my eyes, I feel his hands on me and hear his voice in my ear. Smell his cologne.
At three in the morning, I give up and exchange the towel for pajamas and go into the living room. I turn on the television, letting some mindless show wash over me while I stare at the screen blankly.
I must fall asleep at some point, because I wake bleary-eyed with my head aching on the couch. It’s later than usual, but I force myself up off of the couch and head into the bedroom to put on my running clothes. I’m not going to let that asshole screw up my routine more than he already has. Besides, a run is always good for clearing my head, and I need that badly right now.
I’m in such a hurry to get out of my apartment that I almost trip over the medium-sized white box sitting in front of my door.
I catch myself, and look down. It’s about the size of a basketball, but square, glossy-looking and tied with a matte black ribbon. My name is written on a card attached to the top in elegant script.
