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She’s an overbearing mess who thinks I’m losing my mind. “She’s fine.”

He grabs my hand. “We should go, we’re already running late. I want to introduce you to a few people at the reception.” He leads me downstairs to the waiting limo, his hand finds the small of my back as we exit. My body stiffens as I fall into step with him down the stairs. “What’s wrong?” His breath brushes against my ear. “You seem tense.”

I crank my neck up to the window of my apartment, now shuttered tight. From this vantage point, three stories up, scaling the wall would be impossible. There’s simply no way someone could reach this height. Beth made sure of that, so how did the ribbon get in? Knowing my memories are unreliable, this ribbon could have come from anywhere. I might have bought it and simply forgotten, creating a narrative that he’s still out there.

That he still wants me.

There was never physical proof of anyone else being with me. Everyone, including my mother, believes I was alone in that bunker. Everyone except Sarah Crawley.

We’re stuck in traffic, which isn’t unusual for this city. Rain is pattering down on the windows, a heavy mist blocks the view as the sun begins its final descent into dusk. I stare out the window into the abyss as we drive into the city while Gabe chats away on the phone, waving his hands about some art event in Milan. My mind is still reeling from the phone call I had with Sarah. The unsettledness in her voice. She’s always intense, but this seems different. There was something frantic about her this time.

Gabe finally makes eye contact with me and motions for me to hold on for one second, something dancing in his eyes when he looks at me. I lean back, avoiding his gaze, and stare down at his sockless shoes. Something about him is off. He’s accustomed to girls falling all over him, yet he’s set his sights on me. Perhaps he’s annoyed that I’m not fawning over him.

After a few minutes, he finishes his phone call. He sucks in a breath and moves to the seat next to me, his hand finding my bare thigh. His teeth find his bottom lip, and I tense up.

“I’m sorry about that. You look incredible tonight, Layla. Everyone is going to be captivated by you.” His hand plays with the hem of my dress. “Especially in this outfit.”

He hasn’t bothered to ask how I’m doing, given my face is all over the news with renewed attention. Though that’s probably what’s most appealing to him.

I’m an object to him—I realize that. This is part of the game. The artist is the art. My story belongs to the world now, and I no longer belong to myself. He might have fooled my mom, but I realize my value to him. Showing up with me like we are dating is a publicity stunt. My trauma is good for his tortured poet image.

Gabe frowns when he senses my discomfort. “You’ll do great but try to relax. You’re too tense.” His hand lingers on mine, and he hands me a pill. “Here, this will help you chill out.”

I stare down at the little white pill in my hand and frown. I shouldn’t take this, I don’t have a clue what it is. This is a terrible idea. I pop it in my mouth, anyway. Anything to help with this unnerving sensation washing over as my memories slowly return.

He smirks and grabs my chin, rubbing his thumb over my lips, then he pulls up my dress a couple inches, his other thumb teasing my clit. I flinch and he pauses, but I don’t stop him. I guess this is what my mother wanted.

I’m simply obeying like I was told to.

I open my legs for him, and he unknowingly rubs his thumb along the bruise in my inner thigh. That causes a hit of pleasure to snap between my legs, causing a moan to escape me. The simple pleasure of pain.

He puffs his chest, as if he’s god’s gift to women, even though I have to drug myself to be in his company. “The buyers are going to be even more intrigued by you now that Toby died. They will be all over you, so stay by my side. I’ll watch over you.”

“Why would that intrigue them?” I ask, frowning, as if I wasn’t intriguing enough before.

He grinds his jaw. “People buy art for an emotional connection. Through you they get to experience something they can’t in their normal, pathetic lives. You can offer them that escape.”

“They want to escape by pretending to be a victim?”

He shrugs and smirks. “You’d be surprised by the things people use to escape their shitty lives. Art is fantasy, fantasy is reality. Reality is where the truth about yourself stops getting buried.”

“My art is not about their escape. It’s about my recovery—my release.”

He doesn’t move his hand from my thigh. Instead, he pushes my legs open. “I can help you release. But these buyers want tortured, Layla. Can you act tortured?”

If he only realized how tortured I am.

The numbness returns inside of me. A wooziness hits my stomach from whatever shit he just gave me. “I can act tortured,” I rasp, and his eyes fix on my lips.

He smiles and moves closer, his cologne suffocating my nose as he moves his fingers between my legs, shifting my black dress over my hips, my long legs spread out in front of me. His hand rests on my flat stomach. “I understand this world better than you do. This is how the industry is. If someone wants to talk privately, you come tell me, okay? I’ll come with you.”

Dread fills my gut. “My mother won’t approve of this.”

He chuckles. “We don’t have to tell her.”

My eyes pop open at that comment, but he pushes my head back and shoves his fingers inside my panties and slips them inside my folds. I try to relax, hoping for some sort of release. The last couple of nights have been torturous, and no matter what I do, I can’t get myself off.

I’m so desperate for it I’d even let this despicable man touch me. It’s not like I get to keep any of the money, anyway. My mom will collect it all, so I might as well get something out of it.