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Instead, I slip out of my dress, toss it in a corner of my closet, and tug on my favorite pair of leggings and a baggy t-shirt. I pull my hair back into a ponytail and drop down onto the sofa.
Back in my normal clothes, in my normal apartment, it’s bizarre to think tonight actually happened. It all feels so far away. So impossible.
I pull out my phone and search “Adrik Tasarov” to try to figure out the truth beneath the carefully constructed facade he shows the world.
But before I can so much as click on the first link, I hear the knob of my front door turn.
I stiffen. Am I hallucinating? I locked it. I swear I locked it.
I’m frozen solid, though. I can only watch in horror as the knob turns slowly one way and then the other.
Then I hear the sound of a key.
Maybe it’s the landlord. Or Barb. Except the landlord shouldn’t be coming into my apartment in the middle of the night and Barb doesn’t have a key.
My mind struggles for explanations as the key slides in and begins to turn.
By the time I realize I need to move, need to do something…
It’s too late.
The door opens and Malcolm Waters is standing in my living room.
"What in the—"
"Little slut made it home okay, then, I see," he snaps. "Fuck if I'd know, since you left me at the party."
Malcolm holds his liquor well. He doesn't get bloodshot eyes or ruddy cheeks. He doesn't slur or stumble.
He just gets mean.
"Malcolm, nothing happened. I didn't—"
"Didn't what?" he snarls. "Didn't leave me to explain your absence to curious people all night? I told people you weren't feeling well, but they saw you leave with him. They looked at me like, like… like they felt pity for me."
"Nothing happened," I repeat. "It was business, I swear."
His soft chin dimples as he gives me an incredulous look. "Is that the kind of business you're into now, Emery? A respectable girl like you shouldn't be whoring yourself out to scum like Tasarov."
“I didn't whore myself out to anyone!”
"Don't I know it?" he barks. "My own damn fiancée, and I've never had you.”
He's getting angry and loud. He's going to wake Isabella.
I get up, bound forward, and touch his arm gently to calm him. "Malcolm, please. Isabella is sleeping."
"Then maybe I’ll shove something in your mouth to get you to shut the fuck up.”
All at once, he is pressed against me, shoving me backward towards the couch. I shake my head as that old, familiar panic grips my chest and short-circuits my brain.
"Not—not tonight."
Not ever, really. But I can't say that now. Not without making things far worse, for me and my daughter alike.
"Did the Russian wear you out?” he scoffs. “Use you up and throw you aside like a fucking cum rag?”
"How did you even get in here?" I ask, trying to change the subject.
"Your landlord understands where power lies."
I shudder. Martin betrayed me. He doesn’t even realize how badly.
"If you want, you can crash on the couch to sleep off the booze," I offer, still struggling to keep up a veneer of calm and normality. "I'll make you some tea, and you can—"
"I don't want tea." He shoves me down on the couch and reaches for his belt buckle. "I want what’s mine."
Fear seizes me so tightly I can't move. It's like being crushed by a giant anaconda. Memories and flashbacks blend with reality.
I'm in my living room one second.
The next, I'm in the back of some unknown car, screaming.
I see Malcolm in front of me again in the shadow of my living room.
Then he's gone and a naked arm with a dark, knotted scar is wrapped around my waist.
I squeeze my eyes closed and try to fight against the nausea roiling inside of me. I have to come up with some way to get out of this. To escape.
But there's nothing.
Only darkness.
Only pain.
Only fear of the past and a helplessness that never, ever goes away.
Just as he reaches for my leggings, his phone rings.
"Fuck. It's the middle of the night. Who in the hell is—" He pulls back and answers his phone. "Who in the hell do you think you are calling me at—"
His voice cuts off. That’s when I finally pry open my eyes.
Malcolm is in front of me, the button of his pants hanging open. But all of his attention is on the phone in his hand.
"How did you get my—" he growls. " … Fine.” Malcolm pulls the phone from his ear and throws it at me. "It's for you."
I catch it up with trembling fingers. "H-hello?" I stutter.
The voice is deep. Male. Confident. "Reconsidering my offer?"
Malcolm is glaring down at me, murder in his eyes. But he isn't touching me. In fact, he backs away and glances around nervously.
He's scared.
Because Adrik Tasarov is the one on the phone.
I'm so relieved I could cry. "Yes," I admit. "Yes, I am."
"I thought you might." If it was possible to hear a smug smirk, then I hear one in Adrik's voice. "Ten minutes should be enough time."
"Enough time for what?"
"To gather your things," he says. "I'm waiting outside. Run.”
