I’m not naive enough to think I’m the only one he’s helped. Max has a good heart, but he’s also a businessman, and I’ve made him a lot of money.
If I don’t pay Dimitri and he follows through on his threats,Beauty and Stylewill drop me. They put a morality clause in my current contract. Not as strict as some, but I can’t take illegal drugs, can’t pose nude for any reason, and can’t be charged with a crime or I’m in breach.
But that’s only part of my problem. Admitting to the world that I lied about my name? That I was once forced to sell my body so men could do disgusting things to me? That I’m in this country illegally?
I’d never work again. Immigration would deport me—if they didn’t arrest me and charge me with a crime first—and could I even access the money I’ve saved? All my accounts are under Sloane Sanders. If the world finds out that isn’t who I am, I’ll lose all of it, and I’ll be penniless. Either in jail or back in Penza with Mama and Lana.
I ache to see them again, but I’d be trapped there for the rest of my life. My two older sisters married men they don’t love just to have a roof over their heads. Food. Heat. And Lana? She’ll have to do the same unless I can spare her that fate.
Do I even have a choice? Lana deserves a future. Arealfuture. And Dimitri’s final threat? That I’ll never be pretty again? It was one of his favorites when he…ownedme. He’ll cut me. Scar me. If I cause trouble, he’ll kill me.
The photo of me from all those years ago? It mocks me from the coffee table. Even though my knee is still tender, I rummage through my bathroom cabinet until I find a canister of hairspray, then kneel in front of the fireplace.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to nineteen-year-old me in the picture. Thehissof the spray is almost comforting. Tossing the old photo into the hearth next to the crumpled drawing from earlier in the day, I grab a matchbook and stare at the now shiny photo for several long minutes, the match clutched tightly in my fingers.
The flame sparks to life, almost blinding in the semi-darkness of my curtained living room. The second it touches the picture, the skinny, broken girl disappears—along with the drawing of that dingy bathroom—and I destroy one more sliver of the woman I used to be.
I’ll survive this. I have to.
* * *
By 11:00 p.m.,I still haven’t heard from Max. His assistant sent me a text assuring me he got my message and would be in touch soon, but that only made me more anxious. I’ve spent all afternoon and evening huddled under a blanket with my phone clutched in my hand. I didn’t eat, just had cup after cup of green tea until I was so caffeinated, I could feel my body vibrating.
The crash hit hard, and now I’m struggling to stay awake, staring between my laptop and Dimitri’s letter on the coffee table. Why didn’t he leave a way to contact him?
Because this way, you can’t beg for more time.
Swallowing my sob, I pick up the computer. I don’t have a choice. But when I enter my password, the bank’s website is down for maintenance.
Der’mo!Shit. Stop it, Sloane. You’re not that girl anymore. No Russian!
The maintenance window ends in an hour. I’ll be late with the payment, but only a few minutes. Taking the laptop with me, I trudge through the dark of my bungalow, the night light in my bathroom giving the hall and my room a subtle glow as I climb into bed and pull the covers up to my chest. Mama would be so ashamed of me for giving in, and when I can’t stop my tears from falling, I bury my face in the pillow and let them come.
I’m so sorry, Mama.
* * *
A guttural snarlpulls me from the comfort of sleep. My head is wrenched violently to one side as I’m yanked from my bed, then land on the floor with a yelp. Disoriented in the semi-darkness, I flail my arms out in front of me, blinking rapidly.
A dark shadow moves in my periphery. Heavy breathing. Not mine.
Shit!
My heels burn as I dig them into the carpet, trying to put some distance between me and my attacker. Why isn’t my alarm going off?
A man’s laugh sends ice settling in my belly, but another hard blink, and I can almost make out his silhouette towering over me.
I whimper, “Please—”
His hand flies, striking me hard across the cheek, and the stinging pain brings tears to my eyes. “Shut up. I don’t want to hurt you. Not tonight. But I will if you scream.” Grabbing my chin, he forces me to look up at him.
My vision wavers from the blow, but his dark eyes—all I can see of his face—hold a frigid glint, devoid of all emotion. He’s big. Bigger than Max. And solid.
Pulling a copy of the latestBeauty and Stylead from his pocket, he holds it close to my face. “Sloane Sanders in the flesh. You’re lucky my orders are just to scare you, hot stuff.”
“Wh-what do you w-want?” I whisper, trying to inch back against my nightstand.
“Don’t play innocent with me. You read his letter. The instructions were very clear. Five hundred dollars. Before midnight.”
