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Prologue

From the eye-stinging moment the alarm destroys my peace, through my rushed shower, tea and two bites of toast, and right up until this moment. Standing in front of my full-view mirror inspecting myself. All I can think of is how guilty I feel for hoping that my boyfriend goes to prison for a long, long time. Praying that it might give me some hope of achieving something close to a peaceful life.

Reporters could be there, the Firm will be there, I have to look the part. My long brown hair is fixed so it half covers one eye, with a gentle curl falling past my chest. Chanel sunglasses in my hair ready to hide any sins behind the concealer, of course. Cleverly applied subtle ombre lips disguise the others.

I don’t fully know what happened. I do know I slept better knowing he wasn’t coming home last night. I always thought it was like the TV show, 24 Hours in Police Custody, but apparently if they’re digging hard enough they can push it a bit longer. He’s been in a bit longer than that, and then had to wait for a remand hearing. Which is what I’m getting ready for.

I won’t pretend that I slept soundly. Or that I didn’t somewhat enjoy the idea that, knowing his temper, he’ll have upset the custody sergeant and consequently ended up sleeping on that horrible concrete bed with, at best, a rubber mattress.

Dark grey pencil skirt, maybe shorter than it should be, and a white blouse. Both cling to my slimmer-than-when-we-met frame. I may have lost weight for reasons inexplicable to friends and relatives, but thankfully I retained my curves.

I reach into my handbag and light a cigarette, giving myself a final pass in the full-length mirror in the dressing room. I say dressing room; it’s really just a spare bedroom, it is not the dressing room with the walk-in wardrobe that I fell in love with. The move was apparently necessary, and as much as they’re all a bunch of pricks, they were right. I don’t know the financials, I don’t care about them as long as they keep me kept. They said things were getting hot, and we moved into a rental. Something about the Proceeds of Crime Act and tenancies attracting less suspicion.

I’m a bag of nerves, I’ve chain-smoked my way through half a pack already this morning and my throat is starting to burn. I’ve always stayed away from the business. I didn’t mind the glitz and the glamour, the luxury and the status. Until I did.

They suckered me in good and proper. And then he sucker-punched me into a wall. After that I quickly learned the rules of being a kept lady. I don’t know if this is how we all live, but I know my role and I know I have to play it.

So many thoughts race through my head at a disturbing pace. Is he coming home tonight? What has he even been charged with? Will it stick or are they just trying to pressure him? What if he cracks under pressure, do I become the target of the police, the Firm, both, worse?

What kind of mood is he going to be in if he comes home? What is he going to be expecting of me? How should I feel, and how do I pretend to feel that way? If he goes away, what does that mean for me? Do I get some kind of equivalence of a widow’s pension? Am I looked after or discarded? Do I become a loose end?

I feel my sweat beading at my hairline above my foundation and fan myself with my hands. I don’t know if it’s the heat or the anxiety, but the room starts to pulsate again.

Deep breaths, just concentrate. It’s all going to be fine, whatever happens. I’m lying to myself again, but who doesn’t these days?

I inspect my dulling green eyes once more; I’ve done a good job with the concealer, highlight and contour. You’d never know half my face was still yellow, puffy and sore.

Precisely on time, as always, my doorbell app goes off and Harry stands in his usual attire. Three-piece suit, silver-fox hair slicked back and looking sharp. He’s a very intentional, very calm, very dangerous man. He’s Dan’s boss, and he’ll know a whole load more about what’s going on than Dan will himself. A finger in every pie, an ear in every room, a round in every chamber.

“Chop chop, Sawyer. Time to go.” He doesn’t wait at the door. He just returns to the back of the tinted Q5 and waits for me. I know better than to make him wait. Locking the door behind me, I practically jog in my heels to the car. My seatbelt isn’t even clicked in before the driver pulls away.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about. They’ll remand him, see if sitting in a cell loosens his tongue. It won’t. He won’t grass. They haven’t got enough. He’ll walk. Home for Christmas, if I had to bet,” he says so nonchalantly. Just another day in the office, eh Hazza?

He’s been here several times before. Horrible Harry. He knows the game, knows the players, and knows how these things tend to turn out, knows which strings to pull, how hard to push, when to twist the knife.

I don’t know how to react, really. Relieved that I’ve got some time. Shocked that it all happens so quickly, and that there’s so little certainty.

His cold hand sits on my bare thigh and immediately makes my hairs stand on end, and not in a good way. He looks me dead in the eye with that look, the one that would be charming if you didn’t know what kind of master manipulator this man is. My stomach drops at his touch, threatening to ruin his fancy seats. Waves of nauseating repulsion and fear sit deep within my stomach, as my skin crawls. I briefly consider whether I could survive a forty-mile-per-hour tumble out of the door onto the avenue. Any way that could go is probably preferable to sharing space with this gigantic prick of an ick.

“Don’t worry. Whatever happens, we’ll look after you.” And obviously his hand creeps its way up my thigh. Like a hairy tarantula, it freezes you with terror and disgust, while the fear of being bitten stops you from just slapping it.

It would be reassuring, if I didn’t know better. Loyalty is paid one way in this world, and it isn’t down to the people who deserve it. You need looking after, you’re still on the payroll. If you’re on the payroll, you do as you’re told. Do as you’re told, and sooner or later the law will come sniffing. That’s just the game we play. No matter how unwittingly we got drawn in. They usually try to keep us from anything serious though. We’re not as reliable as the men, apparently. And letting us too close is a liability if we get scorned by our cheating piece of shit boyfriends and husbands.

We’re dropped outside the front of the courthouse, Harry and I, and I walk two steps behind him, like I’m supposed to. And partly because I can’t stand him, especially when he’s swanning around. Through the metal detectors and the airport-esque security and past the rentacops. What even persuades a man to grow up and think, “I know, I’ll be a magistrates’ court security man with a cool navy blue jumper”?

“Pockets,” he barks at me as the detector goes off when I walk through.

“What fucking pockets?” I spit back, doing a full three-sixty. Oh yeah. My phone’s in my bra. Dickhead Sawyer, honestly. But I maintain the bravado, because fuck this guy, he didn’t have to talk to me like that. “Must be my nipple piercing, sweetheart. Wanna see it?”

When angry Scouse Melissa McCarthy rises from her straining plastic chair, I change my tune rather sharpish. “It’s my phone. Just a joke, sweetie, calm down.” With a wink, I drop my phone into the plastic tray and walk through again.

Harry raises his eyebrows at me. “What? I get bitchy when I’m nervous, fuck off,” I snap at him.

“Upsetting court staff, great low profile, Sawyer, good job. He’s got you trained well, hasn’t he? How’s your recall?”

And there it is. A glimmer of personality, stepping outside my box, even to gob off at the very people we say we hate, and boom. Sit down, be pretty, shut up, take the dick, the shit and the beatings when we tell you. There’s a good girl, Sawyer. They want the name and the frame, as long as she’s mild-mannered and tame. Unless she’s supposed to be being fun and sexy, but not too sexy. Sexy enough to make other men jealous, but not too jealous or there’ll be ructions.

The rope we walk is tighter than my fucking skirt. And I really need a nervous poo. Like really need one. A good outcome today is that Dan comes home. He’ll drink, a lot, to celebrate sticking it to the man. Then I have to deal with Drunk Dan, the Handsy Man. Or he’s remanded, and we’ve got a court case to fight. Which means I’m home alone, yay. But maybe disposable, maybe employable, maybe fuck knows. And whatever he does or doesn’t do in prison will have very real repercussions for me.