A pawn. A possession.
“Maybe we are both caged,” I say.
He reaches up and brushes a piece of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on my jaw. “But at least now we’re in the same cage.”
I laugh, but it cracks in the middle.
He hears it. I feel it.
He pulls me into his arms, and I melt into him, curling against his chest like we’ve done a thousand times.
Maybe in another life, we did.
We talk for a long time. About nothing. About everything.
I tell him about how I used to pretend to be a spy and hide in the attic, eavesdropping on dinner parties—my childhood rebellion.
He tells me about stealing comic books from gas stations and giving fake names to mall security—his childhood survival.
He tells me he used to be angry all the time.
“What changed?” I ask, tracing small circles on his shirt.
He lifts my hand to his mouth. Kisses my knuckles.
“You,” he whispers against my skin.
My throat closes. Tears prick. But I don’t cry. Instead, I press my mouth to his shoulder, breathing him in.
For tonight. For this single, dangerous, precious sliver of time . . .
We stay right here. And for tonight, that’s enough.
17
Victoria
I waketo the sound of my mother humming.
That’s the first sign something is wrong.
The second is the garment bag hanging from the armoire.
“Happy birthday, darling,” she sings, sweeping into my room with her hair perfectly curled and her lipstick already in place.
What the hell is happening? And why is she singing?
She hates me…
I squint at her. “It’s barely nine.”
“Exactly,” she chirps, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her silk blouse. “We have a schedule.”
“Do I get a say in this schedule?” I push myself upright, letting the sheets tangle around my legs.
“Don’t be difficult, Victoria Danforth.”
That’s the third sign. Because when she uses my full name, a disaster is guaranteed.
