Page 37

Dinner with Preston is the last thing I want. I refuse to allow him to hold on to the illusion that this is normal—that together we are normal. I don’t want to sit across from him and pretend I don’t know what his hands have done, what his eyes have seen.

But wanting something—or not wanting something—obviously doesn’t matter in Preston’s world. He enjoys the control; he thrives on it, really.

I think about running. Really running, not just leaving town, but disappearing completely. I’ll ditch my phone, change my name, and go totally off-grid. I will become someone else, though more importantly, I’ll become someone who’s never met Preston Grant or taken a life.

Unfortunately for me, Preston isn’t stupid; he’s far from it, actually. He’s so obsessive that he always seems to be three steps ahead of everyone around him. He probably has a tracker on my car, in my shoes, hell, in my toothbrush, for all I know. I’m sure there’s surveillance, backup plans, and contingencies I can’t even imagine.

Say what you want about Preston, but he’s thorough.

This isn’t a relationship, no matter what he thinks. His fixation on me isn’t romantic, or whatever fucked up narrative he’s created. This is war.

A battle for my autonomy.

My soul, if I still have one left to fight for.

And if this is war, I need to start thinking like a soldier.

* * *

Sure enough, ten before six, I hear the low hum of an engine outside. The sound is different from the usual cars that find themselves in my driveway. It’s smoother, quieter.

I don’t have to check to know it’s Preston’s driver. He’s nothing if not punctual. Before the knock even lands on my door, I swing it open, wrapped in my fluffiest blanket and coughing into my fist. The cool air rushing in makes me shiver for real, adding to the theatrics.

“I’m sick,” I announce, forcing a rasp that sounds impressively real. “Tell him I need to reschedule. Maybe next week when I’m feeling better.”

The driver is a man, obviously in his fifties, dressed in an all-black suit. He has the weathered face and patient eyes of someone who’s spent years dealing with wealthy people and their various eccentricities. He already knows I’m going to come up with every excuse in the book and isn’t impressed.

He holds out the sleek black garment bag, waiting for me to take it.

“Sorry, Miss. Mr. Grant says no excuses tonight; I was told to bring you one way or another.”

The way he says it makes it clear ‘another way’ wasn’t going to be pleasant for either of us.

I roll my eyes so hard they strain against their sockets. “Whatever.”

I snatch the garment bag from his hold with more force than necessary. The fabric is heavier than I expected. With my hip, I slam the door shut before he can say anything else, then lean against it for a moment. I try to summon the energy to deal with whatever fresh hell Preston has planned.

I throw the bag on my bed before moving to my vanity, dragging out my makeup collection from the drawer and dumping it on the floor in front of my stand-up mirror.

My reflection stares back at me, and once again, I feel that jarring disconnect. The cut under my eye has deepened to light purple, and a scab has started forming over the edges of it. The bruise blooming across my shoulder is in the shape of a shadow reaching for my throat. I look like I’ve been through hell and back. And I have.

I’d rather not go to dinner. Not just because I’m afraid of Preston anymore; I’m past scared, I’ve moved into territory beyond that. But I hate the idea of pretending. We’ll sit across from each other, acting as if we’re just two people enjoying a meal, having a conversation, as though nothing happened.

Still, I reach for my makeup brushes; there’s no getting out of it.

I can’t go barefaced. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me vulnerable again. On the other hand, I don’t want him to think I’m trying to look good for him and feed the delusions.

I keep it light, using concealer to cover the worst of the damage and a little mascara to brighten my eyes. A dab of lip gloss, just for me to feel good. It’s all enough to make me look… fine.

It takes a little bit of courage and internal pep talks to open the bag. I’m not sure why I waited so long because it’s stunning. Black satin, knee-length, with a slit that goes almost all the way up to the hip. Jewels of different sizes cover the thin strap, glimmering faintly in the dim light of my room. The neckline is softly draped without exposing too much.

I run my fingers along the fabric; it feels like liquid beneath my touch. It belongs on runways and magazines, not someone like me.

I hesitantly pull it up over my curves, smoothing it down over my hips. My breath stops when I see myself. It looks like it was made specifically for me; it not only fits perfectly, but the style, the color, everything about it. It hugs my body, accentuating every slope, and in this dress, my bruises and cuts act as accessories.

They fit the aesthetic. I look dangerous.

Out of habit, I check for a price tag, and when I find it tucked discreetly into a side seam, my jaw drops. The number is obscene—more than I make in an entire month. Maybe two. Carefully, I slip the dress back off.