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I kept brushing my teeth until I’d gotten the bad taste out of my mouth, and then started in on my hair. I shampooed it three times before it felt clean.

I’d never been so wrung-out-tired in my life, but I stayed under the spray of water and washed every inch of myself, over and over. Each time I thought, this time I’ll feel clean, but it never happened.

Eventually I just sat down on the tile until the water ran cold.

A long time later I shut off the faucet and dragged myself out of the shower.

I wrapped my hair in one towel, and my body in another. I desperately wanted to avoid the bedroom, but I needed sleep, and the bathroom floor just wouldn’t do.

I was relieved to find that at some point he’d at least closed the bathroom door for me.

Hopefully it had been before I’d started throwing up.

I opened the door with dread, not wanting to face him.

I was unutterably relieved to find him gone. I walked on shaky legs over to the huge bed.

I winced when I saw the blood and other fluids staining the spot where we’d lain on the mattress, but I quickly moved on. I wrapped myself in every blanket I could find and curled up on the clean side of the bed.

I don’t even remember trying to fall asleep. My head just touched the pillow, and I was out for the count.

I had no romantic illusions when it came to my husband. Yes, he was handsome and rich, but he was no prince charming. He would never love me. He would never care about me at all.

He owned me. I was property that was expected to behave in a certain way, and if I somehow showed I was not worth what he’d paid, I was positive that he’d promptly cut his losses and walk away.

Even so, I was surprised when I woke up completely alone after our wedding night.

It didn’t register at first what that meant. I assumed he’d just slept in his own room, which had been a relief after such a stressful day.

But he hadn’t just left my room. Or even the property.

He’d left the country. I didn’t see him again for a month.

CHAPTER

FOUR

It was a busy month, which was for the best. When I wasn’t busy, my mind went back to him, and our disaster of a wedding night. I’d relived, rehashed, obsessed over every moment of it.

It was a completely useless line of thought. A waste of energy. He’d done his duty—swiftly, badly—I’d humiliated myself and he’d left without a word.

I hated that I thought about him at all, because I knew that he sure as hell wasn’t thinking about me.

He hated me on principle, and he fascinated me in spite of myself.

So I tried to keep myself active, and my mind occupied with other things. That wasn’t too hard.

Two days after the wedding I was moved into a luxurious apartment in midtown Manhattan and began modeling again.

I loved that apartment. I loved that it felt like mine.

I’m possessive. I like to feel like the things I covet belong to me. Everybody does to some extent, I think. Everyone goes I have this little café I love or you have to try my yoga studio or check out my apartment. Those phrases are a lie in cities like New York. Nothing belongs to anyone who isn’t filthy rich. Not even a little bit. Everything is shared, but now I was one of the elite few who got to share less. It was great.

Even better—my six month marriage-training hiatus didn’t seem to have done any harm to my career.

Just the opposite, in fact.

I now had more callbacks than hours in the day. My high profile wedding to the handsome son of a famous billionaire had drawn the hungry attention of the fashion world. Everyone wanted to work with the gorgeous, rich boy’s fresh new bride.