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Afon nods grimly. “Got a name. Got a picture.”

“Show me.”

He pulls out his phone, taps the screen, and holds it up.

I look at the photo. Red hair. Freckles. A sharp, clever face.

“Her name,” says Afon, “ is Jillian Pierce.”

21

RAE

R. EVERETT — MEASUREMENTS (in):

Bust: 34 | Waist: 26 | Hips: 36

Neck: 13 | Shoulders: 14 | Arms: 22

Inseam: 32 | Rise: 10 | Thigh: 21

Self-preservation instinct: 0 (US) / 0 (EU)

A solemn-faced courier showed up this fine Saturday morning at the crack of dawn. I was still in my pajamas, hair a mess, coffee breath in full effect. He handed me a garment bag without a word and disappeared before I could even sign for it.

I laid it out on my bed and haven’t touched it since.

Now, it’s five P.M. The car will be here in an hour, assuming Lukas is a man of his word, which I think is a fair bet. Meanwhile, I haven’t done anything to prepare.

Matter of fact, I look like Oscar the Grouch. I’m standing in front of my mirror in gray sweatpants and an old college hoodie, stubbornly refusing to make eye contact with the garment bag.

This whole thing is a very bad idea. I should call in sick. Food poisoning. Migraine. Sudden onset death, incurable. Really tragic case.

Anything would be better than walking into that gala on Lukas Lazarev’s arm like his latest prize.

Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? That’s what all of it has been building toward. The job transfer. The raise. The dress. The credit card. The boutique appointment, after which a frightened-for-her-life saleswoman made me send photographic proof that I looked fuckable enough for the big boss.

I’m being collected.

Kir warned me. Natasha warned me. Hell, even Jillian warned me, and she’s the one whotoldme to go.

I pull my hoodie tighter around myself. If I just stay swaddled in institutionally gray cotton, I’ll be safe. Putting on a bright-red dress, though… that’s trouble.

A smart woman would quit. Heck, even a not-that-bright woman would have saidSayonaraseveral felonies ago.

And yet here I am.

The truth is, I don’t have a choice. I have to do this, because Gideon’s treatment costs a lot of fucking money. So does my rent, my bills, my life. Justbreathingin public in New York City comes with a hundred-dollar check.

Lukas knows all that.

Which means he knows I’m trapped.

I look at the garment bag again. Inside is red silk and dangerous promises. A version of myself I don’t recognize.

What does it mean if I put it on?

Out of nowhere, my mind flits to the day after the funeral. I stood just like this in our shabby, rent-controlled apartment, all of nineteen years old and scared shitless, wondering how the fuck I was going to keep my brother out of an early grave. I remember that clearly. The years after it? Not so much. Those are a blur of skipped meals and lonely tears. The only way I made it through was by telling myself that next month would be easier, next year would be better. That surely, eventually, I’d catch a break.