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Iwoke up before the alarm because I thought I heard footsteps in the hallway. For a second I lay there frozen, sheets tangled around my legs, heart pounding like it wanted to bust out of my chest. The sound felt so real.

Leather soles on that shitty carpet, exactly how Richard walks when he is trying not to spook me. I pictured him right outside my door, hands tucked in the pockets of that fancy black coat, looking way too clean and expensive for this dump. Maybe he brought coffee, black like he always drinks it. Maybe he brought another envelope of cash because he sees when the rent notices are starting to pile up from under the ashtray.

I held my breath and listened hard. A car rolled by outside. Pipes clanged in the walls. Some door slammed on another floor. Nothing at my door. The clock glowed 10:47am. I let out a long breath and stared at the ugly water stain on the ceiling that always looked like some desperate woman reaching for shit she would never grab. Rich guys like him don’t waste their days rolling around in bed with strippers, I told myself.

My apartment was the same depressing shit-hole it had always been. It smelled like stale smoke and the cheap vanilla spray I used to mask it. The carpet was riddled with stains I had long stopped pretending I could clean. The fridge rattled like it was on its last legs, its insides holding nothing but a carton of milk going bad, a bottle of shitty wine, three eggs, and takeout containers I was too scared to open. Unopened bills towered by the sink, and my work clothes from a couple nights ago still draped over the chair, their sequins looking dull and tired in the weak light.

I flipped on the bathroom light. It buzzed and flickered. I ran hot water over my hands just to feel something warm against my skin. The cold always dragged me back to Boston—not the nice parts people liked to talk about, but the thin walls and dirty snow piled against the curb, Mom working doubles and coming home wrecked, and my stepfather waiting for any moment she wasn’t around.

I got good at making myself invisible real young. I kept quiet, listened to the floorboards squeak at night, and told myself I was imagining things until the night I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. He would come into my room after Mom passed out, slip his hand under my covers, touch me where he had no right, force my legs open and whisper that it was our secret. I told Mom because that’s what daughters are supposed to do. She called me a dramatic little bitch who wanted attention and was trying to wreck the only decent thing we had.

You’re on your own, Margaret.

So I packed my shit at eighteen and got on a Greyhound to California for a new start. I figured it would be temporary. Get a job, save up, find a place that doesn’t reek of failure. Instead I landed in the club. At first it felt like control. Men staring, men paying, men telling me I was hot. I told myself six months tops. Then a year passed. Then another. Now I’m twenty one and still here scraping by.

I splashed water on my face and caught my reflection in the cracked mirror. Messy blonde hair, blue eyes looking too hopeful for this dump. My makeup bag was open next to the little compact of coke. I stared at it. Thought about doing a quick line to shake off the fog.

I decided against it because I wanted to be clearheaded if Richard showed up. I wasn’t getting clean. I wanted him to see me pretty and awake and worth coming back for. That choice said everything about how bad I had it for him. I have known him a little over a year now and he still makes me feel like this.

He remembered my favorite drink. He actually listened when I bitched about bills. He looked at me like I was something he had been searching for.

The money was tucked in the drawer under my underwear, still in the envelope from last time. I had not blown through all of it. I counted the bills again slowly. Enough for rent, food, and the stuff I keep swearing I will buy instead of more coke. I hugged the cash to my chest, breathing in the faint smell of his cologne still on the paper. He knew I was barely hanging on. He noticed when I looked tired.

A guy like him wouldn’t do that for just any girl. It had to mean something. Richard was only twenty five but he moved like he owned the whole damn city. In my head he was my knight. The rich guy who rode in and picked me to save.

I knew exactly what he was. The Brentwood Butcher. I had seen his eyes go dead after bad nights. Heard whispers I was never meant to hear. Watched girls leave with him and vanish. I noticed blood on his shirt that wasn’t his. He killed women. That truth sat heavy in my gut. But he had never killed me. He always came back. He always left enough to keep me going. I knew it was love because what the hell else could it be.

I got dressed carefully, picking the black lace top that made my blue eyes pop and the skirt short enough to pull in tips without making me feel like total trash. I sprayed on the perfume he once said smelled good on me. I fixed my hair, did my eyes and lips. I wanted to look like the girl he would choose to come home to.

The walk to the bus stop took me past his office building even though it was out of the way. I slowed down, craning my neck to stare up at the windows, guessing which one was his. I imagined him up there in a nice suit, handling shit nobody else could, then glancing down and seeing me. Nothing happened. Just dark glass staring back. He’s probably in a meeting, I told myself. Out with clients. Busy making money. He’ll come by later.

The club hit me with the usual stink of smoke, sweat, and cheap perfume trying to hide it all. Music pounded so hard it rattled my teeth. Lights flashed across the stage like they were trying to blind you. I knew the routine. Smile pretty, move right, make every loser feel special while my mind stayed somewhere else. Tonight though I kept glancing at the door every single time it opened. Not for customers. For him.

Tina caught me at it during a slow moment. She was fixing her lipstick backstage, glitter all over her cheeks. “Waiting for Prince Charming again, Mags?”

I laughed it off. “Waiting for somebody who actually tips.”

She snorted and left me alone, but the word stuck.

Prince Charming.

It made me feel stupid how much I wanted that to be true. Because Richard was that for me. My knight. The one who saw something worth saving.

During the next dead stretch I sat backstage and let my thoughts get too real. Richard was dangerous as hell. He didn’t let women into his world for no reason. He made people disappear.

I should’ve been scared shitless. But fear never stopped me from wanting him. The club didn’t give a damn if I made it home safe. Richard was a monster, but he was my monster. He always came back. And he’s all I have.

Colin came in late, one of Richard’s friends, sipping whiskey and eyeing the room. I played it casual and asked if he had seen Richard lately.

He shrugged. “He’s been busy.”

I pressed a little. “Where has he been, Colin? Come on.”

He shrugged again. “Busy.”

My stomach twisted. “Is he with that girl? That Preston girl, Samantha?”

Colin didn’t answer. He just turned and walked away toward the stage. That silence said everything. I already knew too much anyway. I’d seen them leaving his office one day, her laughing at something he said while he kept a hand on her back. I had watched her on campus at Preston University, she was a pretty college girl with her books and her future. I had even seen Richard send his driver to pick her up from school like it was nothing.